The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXX | A WIZARD'S INDEBTEDNESS

       SHE AWOKE SHAKING, with dewdrops of perspiration dampening her clothing and clinging to every bit of bare skin. The nightmares—they had possessed Maarit's mind once more. Tonight, they had conjured up the worst kinds of horrors imaginable: Keion Valence's hands violating her, his body slamming into hers while she screamed for help, and the King of Bonvalet finding them and dragging a sword over Keion's throat.

The hot, viscous blood pouring from the incision in his neck and onto her hands was as vivid to her as the weight of his head falling on her shoulder. In the dream, he had died in her arms at the hand of Theodoracius.

Maarit shuddered as though the thought was a memory rather than a dream. She reminded herself that her friend would never have done such a thing and felt disgusted with herself that of all possible nightmares, this was the one she'd had. She knew it was just a compilation of some of the worries she had been having over the past few weeks.

But there was one truth the dream had told: the king had murdered Keion.

In a disconcerted daze, she bathed and got dressed, forever a captive to her own bruised mind and body.

Those were the two things she could never escape.

From the window in her room overlooking the castle grounds, she could see that the sun was out once more. At last, it had set fire to the clouds and tainted the sky with rays the colour of an inferno. The cerulean of the sky and orange of the sun battled for dominance over the clouds, making way for a new dawn.

Sighing softly, Maarit tore herself away from the sealed window and turned to the door. Her hand grappled for the doorknob, dread for the day that lay ahead making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. When she finally swung the door open, immense relief filled her at the sight of Alexander—and not a row of guardsmen—waiting for her. The tall man was clutching onto a stack of books with his pale hands—his slender face disappeared behind the stack with the exception of his protuberant eyes. Upon landing on her, they grew even wider.

"Hello, Maarit," he said, lowering the stack slightly so that more of his face was discernible. "I, um—I was wondering if we could have a little chat. May I come in?"

"Oh! Of course, Xander," she responded, hoping that it had nothing to do with the events of two days prior. She didn't want to talk about it at all.

Stepping aside, she allowed him to enter.

He walked over to her bed and threw the pile of books down onto it. There had to be at least eight. They were all leather-bound. Maarit opened one; beneath her fingertips, she felt its yellowing pages. The texture alone told her that it was quite ancient.

"What are these?" she asked, referring to the books, her interest piqued. She quirked an eyebrow in inquisition, but he did not answer.

Instead, he turned his attention to her and his gaze fell to her neck. "W-would you like me to fix it?" he offered, tearing his eyes away from her and to the floor. "The bruises—I can fix them."

Maarit sighed. "Sure," she responded after a moment's hesitation, grimacing. "I mean, I'd much rather be able to fix them myself, but I know any attempt to get you to remove this bracelet would be futile."

He cast her a sympathetic look before whispering a single healing spell; a warmth spread through Maarit's body, coating her skin and filling her veins. It was the most pleasant and soothing sensation she had ever experienced, and when it left her, she felt cold.