Page 29 of Obsession

I blink, surprised by the turn in conversation. “I saw your society’s photos. A whole bunch of you don’t age.”

“And did we ask for that, or was it a deal badly made?” Patience turns to pity. “Mary, why would anyone want to live forever?”

I stare at him, unsure whether I should keep listening, unsure if I should believe it. Jaegen tricked Silva?

“When you were imprisoned by the mages, the Grand Mage propositioned you and my Lord, asking for the service of Aris,” Silva continues. “For, as scared as the mages were of Aris, as much as they abhor everything my Lord stands for, they were willing to work with him. Why do you think that is?”

It’s a question that’s bugged me for months. The catalyst to all of this, and I never understood it. But what Silva is implying…

“They wanted to use Aris to fight Jaegen?”

His smug, responding look is my answer, and I say nothing for a few moments, digesting this revelation.

No. It doesn’t make sense. Either Silva is lying, or he misunderstands.

I shake my head, coming to a decision. “The mages hated Aris,” I say “He represents chaos—he is chaos. They would never choose him over Jaegen.”

“You see destruction and chaos as wrong—as evil even, but it is what it says it is. There is no deception in it. Pain is the beginning; it is the end. It is honest.”

I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. No deception? “All Aris has ever done is lie to me.”

Silva looks back at me. Sees me. “Has he?” he asks.

Again, I laugh, but it’s my nerves driving the sound this time. I’ve no idea how to respond to this line of questioning, and there’s no use in entertaining it. So I laugh again, this time more firmly, and leave the room.

But I feel his gaze on me long after, every gory portrait I pass full of eyes that are silver and cold.

Chapter eight

His words ring as I continue down the hall, too worked up now to return to my room. Is Jaegen untrustworthy? Not just that, but bad?

I think of Jaegen’s anger. I think of my pulsing headaches and how he made my nose bleed and my heart stop. I think of him calling humans ants. I think of him burning me.

With clenched teeth, I force myself to move on. Aris is worse. Aris is much worse, and that is that.

I cycle through the other information Silva gave, trying to tell myself that our conversation wasn’t entirely useless: Aris used Henry to let the mages in and Dominachion is dead. The latter is… a shock.

It’s impossible to picture Dominachion, such an enigmatic and commanding man, gone from this world forever. I’ve been dreading our next encounter, and it doesn’t even matter.

If Silva is to be believed, he is the only surviving leader of the Following of the Forewarned. He and Aris. It should be a relief to have one less enemy to worry about, but this is just another reminder of how dangerous and random this world is. One could be a leader for hundreds of years and be dethroned in a moment.

I consider my position in this mess. Here, my safety is subject to Aris’ whims. So long as I’m in his favor, I live, but I have no idea where his interest comes from or how I can prevent losing it. I don’t know how to protect myself. And should his interest stray, I’ll be facing the wrath of a different god.

A god who might actually be more dangerous than Aris.

My mind races as I walk on. I pass a few grandfather clocks, whose gears and hands tell me it’s nearing midnight. Then again, the faces are so intricate that it could be four in the morning, for all I know. Either way, I can’t sleep; my mind is completely awake.

Going in circles in my head and circles around the house, I eventually end up somewhere on the ground level. This is where the grandest rooms are, the cursed ballroom where I was stabbed just a few turns away.

Though I’ve encountered a few individuals in the halls, I’m still surprised to hear chatter from a few rooms away. Light pours from the cracks between two doors, the brightest light I’ve seen tonight. I walk closer, curious, and peek inside.

Atop a dais, on an actual throne, lounges Aris. Unlike the skeletal chair described in the mage’s history book, this is less of an eldritch terror and more a marvel of metalwork. Made of gaudy, precious stones, with a cushion of the finest upholstery, he sits against a six-foot frame of fine stone. The legs supporting the heavy features are just as fantastical—humongous, carved, personalized.

The rest of the room is baroque in design, with columns, red drapes, and chandeliers made of silver and sparkling crystals. The ceiling is carved marble, the floor composed of dark tiles forming a mosaic of an ambiguous rune. The walls are draped in detailed tapestries depicting Aris committing vile acts, and black busts and statues peak out between the grotesque scenes—carvings of people gaping and screaming.

My eyes return to Aris. He is so devastatingly, grimly beautiful. Like a demon created to beguile and trick, this is a face to be followed. Adored. He’s changed out of his suit from earlier and replaced it with something similar, just without bullet holes. Cheek in palm, he frowns while drumming his fingers on his armrest. Gaze far-off. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about.

Suddenly, he sits up, eyes zeroing in on me through the sliver of the door’s opening. I still, watching a smile form on his face.

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