Page 41 of The Kingdom of Flames

“Come to me,” Vermilion hissed. “Come, little bride.”

He used to call me that.

The sharp stones of the ruined castle cut the back of her legs. Vermilion was not gentle. He did not care about damaging her. She was in his hands, fighting, struggling, until he dragged her atop the stone table.

Hands like claws, so incredibly strong and sharp, tore at her. Vermilion ripped her dress apart, rending her flesh, cutting her.

Celestine screamed, helpless, pinned atop the table as her bodice was shredded, then her gown. Vermilion cackled and raked a claw across her chest to her right breast, drawing blood in four deep lines.

He loves this. He loves my torment.

The Scarlet Lord held her struggling legs apart, driving his waist into her pelvis, pinning her as he licked and feasted on the blood seeping from her chest. Animalistic groans came from his feral mouth.

“Encarmine!” Celestine cried out. It was all she could do. Again she saw the glimmer of a mirror nearby, but it was just the blow to her head.

Vermilion rumbled a deep chortle as he fed upon her, drinking her blood, his long tongue slathering around her exposed chest.

Encarmine rose, tearing the rest of her clothes away, eyes fully black and staring at his captured prey. He held her skull and kissed her. She bit at him deeply, but his tongue slithered into her mouth, a foul and thickening protrusion. When she tasted his saliva, a terrible euphoric feeling pulsed in her body for the briefest of moments. Like sleeping in a beautiful meadow.

He withdrew his tongue, and it felt like the sun faded away. The meadow became one of rot. She saw flashes of decaying animals, of skulls screeching in silence. Celestine yelled and tried to escape his grip, but Vermilion was a Lord of Season. Nothing mortal could escape his domination.

Vermilion grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head down.

“Look upon your despoilment, Final Bride. Your cunt will quiver in scarlet.”

Vermilion freed his manhood. His flesh was pale, spidered with purple veins. Thick and ready, his prerelease glistening like the venom of a parasitic predator.

“No!” Celestine shouted.

This isn’t happening.

When his cock slid against the top of her quim, teasing her torment, it felt like ice. Like dying.

“I’m going to fuck you until you die.” Vermilion stroked himself, showing her the implement of her ruin.

Thus, I end, thus the seasons will ever be at war.

The coldness of his massive flesh, the depravity of her exposed, frozen, abused body, was too much. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Give me your crest,” Vermilion ordered, never letting her look away as he drew back.

A sound like a thousand storms shook the air. So strong, even Vermilion looked up. Celestine turned, struggling against the grip of her hair in his massive hand.

The horizon glowed red. No. It burned. As if the sun was rising on the hottest day of summer. Horns blared by the dozens, and the ground shook with thunder.

“He comes,” Vermilion’s eyes were wild. Was it fear? Was it elation? He left her, a broken toy upon the altar of her anguish.

Celestine turned, her body a throbbing bruise.

From the battlement, she saw the host. She saw the forces of the Red Banner in mass. Hundreds of men and women at arms. Cavalry, infantry. Horns blared again. They raced from the horizon.

“Silas!” Vermilion cursed from the battlements.

Celestine stood. The sky split—clouds parting as if sliced by a blade of sunlight. Grey clouds burned apart from the onslaught of a scorching sun. A flash of red and black burned on the plain, moving so fast and sure, straight at Vermilion’s scarlet host.

Encarmine came.

Celestine’s mouth was open. She walked towards the edge of the battlement, mesmerized.

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