The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXI | DE MONTFORT CASTLE

       THE THRONE ROOM was untouched, unaltered, and just as it had been on Maarit's first night at the castle. It looked slightly more beautiful and impressive in the daylight; all of the dark colours appeared to be saturated with sunlight. The gold embellishments on the walls reflected light magnificently, and the view from the window was one for the ages.

She had noticed the king's throne during her first night, but in her frightened delirium, she had not seen the queen's vacant throne.

It sat slightly to the left of that of the king and had not been occupied for nearly twelve years.

Seeing it all through her alert eyes made the hair on the back of Maarit's neck stand on end. She followed Picard deeper into the room, delving into its regal charm. Her legs moved of their own accord and she was unable to stop them. The throne room and everything within had an allure too strong to resist.

The last time she had seen the room was through a blurry daze, so she had not noted many of the minor details. In the corner of the room, there was a sword and shield collection, all possessing the Rangelov family emblem: a lion standing on its hind legs, mid-roar, with a sword protruding from its chest.

Immediately, Maarit crossed the room for the sole purpose of running her fingers over the gleaming, ruby-encrusted swords. Mesmerized by the way they gleamed as though they had never touched blood before, she ran her fingers over the blades until they touched the cold silver of the largest one. It reminded her of the prophecy she had recited and the visions she had seen.

She turned around, only to see the jittery warlock watching her, his mouth open slightly to show he was debating whether or not to protest.

"Yes, Alexander?" she asked, pursing her lips and daring him to tell her she could not touch them.

"Madam—Maarit," he corrected himself as she shot him a stern look, "be very careful with those."

She laughed and the sound danced across the red-painted walls. "Do not fret, Xander, I am not some little girl. Far from it, actually. I can handle a sword."

"Have you used one before?"

She pretended to contemplate this. "No. But one doesn't need to have touched a sword before to be able to handle it. What exactly is it that you're afraid of? That I'll slip and accidentally slit my own throat? Please."

She turned back to the sword collection and placed her hands on the hilt and pointed it to the ceiling. With such a weapon in her grasp, she felt a surge of power and turned it over in her hands, admiration glazing her eyes. She had longings of might buried in the ivory bones that lay beneath her bronze skin.

Slowly, carefully, her index finger slid over the sharpest part of the blade; she heard Picard suck in a sharp breath.

Then, a thought, ephemeral as any other, dawned on her.

This blade was very, very sharp—surely, if she tried, she would be able to cut her left hand clean off in one swift movement.

Her pulse quickened and for a moment, she really thought she would do it. She stared at the Sorcerer's Tenebrium bracelet, which she had tried to manually pry off too many times to count, and thought she would finally be rid of it.

But reality came forcefully clawing its way into her mind and she understood that it was not the time to escape. If she tried, Picard would stop her and afterwards, she would be watched extra closely, never getting another opportunity to abscond again. Patience—all she required was patience.