Season 1 of The Gilded Throne
After the war, the Elven Queen rose to power by declaring peace. Centuries later, an ancient magic emerged. Now Izogie and her friends must race to the north to reveal the truth behind the Mysterious War.
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The Arca...
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IZOGIE
Today, the boy will die.
The evening quickly approached as his soft rattles permeated the cobblestone walls in fear. His presence resonated through the dark halls of the prison. Illiterate laughter and hurrahs erupted outside the palace walls, rejoicing over the coming of a new age. The blithe of the Netherborne filled the room with restlessness. Their joyful screams nearly masked the putrid stench of rotting flesh mixed with sulfur.
The plague had already transformed Nikolai's sandy skin into the color of an albino wolf. His right hand managed to hold the enchanted sword with an iron grip, but violent tremors still consumed him. It was like electricity erupted inside him, but instead of giving life, it drained hundreds of years from him.
Katara wrung the moist handkerchief over a bowl of hot water, pressing it against his forehead. Nikolai was born a Dragmus—one of the twelve noble families of the Valerian Court and the sole heir of the crown. He should have been preparing for his coronation, not exchanging bravery and valor for countless lives.
If he didn't live to be crowned the Next High King, then the pain he experienced would pale in comparison to what was waiting for them. Grabbing a sponge, Izogie dipped her hands inside the water until his blood turned the translucent liquid into a pool of darkness. She scrubbed the palm of her hand until the water splashed onto the frigid limestone floor.
No matter how hard she cleaned the black tar from her skin, it didn't wash away, and the last thing she needed was a constant reminder of death. Not when the memory of another child's cries whispered into her heart until the light faded out of their eyes. She was tired of burying children. She refused to shut their eyes and send them away in silence. Their lives were worth more than secret gatherings and forgotten traditions.
The two Purifiers steadied their cross swords against Katara's neck, forcing their blades an inch into her skin. She fumed against the cold steel as Izogie carefully cleaned his wound. She kneeled on the ground, observing Izogie as she fought to stay awake.
Her chest moved rhythmically, pacing herself she was mindful of the golden mask covering most of her face. All prisoners of war must be marked; they didn't have a choice but to hide their faces behind demonic masks. The cheekbones were closely molded to fit the overall appearance of the ghoul helm, a ferocious skeleton.
The metal from the mask was seared so close into Izogie's skin that it pressed her nostrils shut, smashing her lips against her teeth. She fought like hell to take every breath she was given behind the demon, but she couldn't over-exert herself. The Ghoul Helm was the cost of penance, a bitter reminder to humans to never forget they were the savage beasts.
Katara shifted her weight to the right side of her body, wincing at another reminder of justice. Izogie remembered her breathing technique as she coated her finger in the paste they had prepared earlier. She smeared small circles of the herbs into his flesh until the strange liquid stopped oozing from his wound.
