The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XLI | THE DAM

       THEODORACIUS RANGELOV WAS a culmination of every piece of art that had ever been consumed by Maarit's hungry eyes. He was a drawing, made from smudged charcoal and steady lines on yellow parchment. He was a painting, all meticulous brush strokes and clashing colours, red for blood and blue for bruises and white for scars that mapped out galaxies. He was a sculpture, forged by careful hands that shaped malleable clay that crumbled when dry. He was sublime—an exquisite and terrible sight, with glassy eyes and raw pain.

Maarit could not say what had possessed her to do it. Perhaps it was remembering the existence of the wretched onyx thing coiled around her wrist, immovable as a serpent that had sunk its fangs into velvety flesh. Perhaps it was the fact that he had been looming over her, and for a moment his countenance had distorted in her mind, becoming that of her assailant—the one who had raped her many nights prior. Perhaps it was just him; just the fact that she had long since vowed to kill him, but had lost herself.

Maarit didn't doubt the fact that he was genuine in his affection for her. It was everything else that she doubted. She didn't know if she was strong for overpowering him, or weak for getting distracted by blind lust that she had never been meant to behold. She didn't know if she wanted him dead or craved him in every way imaginable, mind and body and soul. She didn't even know if she had meant to do it at all, or if, in a moment of passion, her subconscious had acted all on its own. All she knew was what was in front of her. The king, finally where she had been wanting him to be: falling.

       It was horrifying how rapidly everything could change. How one single twist of fate could distort the entire course of history.

       Maarit was aware that deep down, at the core of her soul, she was ruled by courage and fear—not one or the other, but a heady amalgamation of the two, and she could not figure out which had taken hold of the reins when she had plunged the dagger into him.

       One moment, the dagger had been in the weapons room, lying innocently among the other weapons with which she had used during her training sessions with the king, and the next, it was in her curled fist.

       With bated breath, Maarit trailed her gaze to his face. She had never wanted to hurt him, but now she was just like Tevenot. Theodoracius was choking on blood, a red froth falling from the beautiful lips that had been hot against her skin.

       She had seen this scene before. A vision.

       As he began to slip away, Maarit felt it.

       A jolt of power spread through her. It boiled her blood, anchored itself in the marrow of her bones, rejuvenated her after having been dormant for so long. She tore her eyes away from Theodoracius's paling face and bleeding abdomen, her eyes forced upwards to the ceiling, as though the gods had taken hold of her. A searing pain went through her cuffed wrist; when she raised her arm to eye level, she watched the Sorcerer's Tenebrium burn off of her, leaving behind nothing but a sting, raw skin and the smell of burnt flesh.

       And suddenly—suddenly, a dam was broken in her head. A rush of visions came pouring out, pounding against her skull. The deleterious effects of the dagger of trust shall both cleanse the Infernal King of and damn him for his transgressions. She could see again, and all she saw was rivers of blood, and all she heard was the clash of blade on blade, and none of it was because of him. Theodoracius. The broken man who killed and killed and killed and loved. The Infernal Prince shall reign over Bonvalet, and the country shall plunge into a desolate peril. He was the Infernal King, but he was not the cause of such peril. In the prophecy, he had never been mentioned explicitly as the cause—he had only been tied to it, for it merely followed him. Maarit was mistaken, and this mistake was lethal, and her heart was pounding with the weight of the realization.

       Her blade had done more than kiss his flesh, and because of it, he was bleeding out. Her love was bleeding because of her, his crimson pain coating her quavering hands. Tears were streaming and the universe was screaming at her, wailing, No, no, this was not how it was supposed to be, and now you've done it, now you've begun the ruin and destruction; but it was inescapable anyway, wasn't it? For cruel fate is set in stone, and it was always meant to be.

       The final thing her eyes perceived before she was completely immersed by a sea of visions was a dozen mauve roses strewn across the nightstand that had, thus far, gone unnoticed.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This had to be short. It's mostly just Maarit screaming internally lmao.

Some flashbacks are coming, so you'll get to see more of Theo in earlier years as well as his POV during previous scenes of the book.

Do you get it though? That there's no real link between the king and the prophecy? It was wrong interpretation? I hope I conveyed that well.