Page 35 of Return of the Darkness
A shadow moved now and then before the fireplace, but it was not her own shadows, a sign she was truly awake. Sallos had returned to his shadowed form. Elisara sighed, blinking back the dryness in her eyes. She did not know how long she had slept. Who guided the lords or Vala’s people in her absence? How was the state of the wider kingdom since she fled? Truthfully, she did not care. Responsibility was an expectation she no longer wished to bear. Did that make her selfish? Perhaps. Or it simply made her human.
Elisara dragged her hands down her face before clasping them together, her arms brushing something rough against her chest. She ran her hand along it, feeling raised scars in swirling patterns, like the ship in the crook of her elbow and the vines wrapped around her forearm. Only a symbol of the fire realm was left to mark her skin. Elisara pulled her hand away, and still, dirt layered her palm. It struck her all at once—how many days she had worn the same clothes and marks of war.
Pushing herself up onto the bed, Elisara spared a quick glance at Sallos, who was perched on the edge of the desk. Only darkness met her gaze, yet she sensed his head was tilted, resting on his palm, while his elbow rested on his wide-planted knees. Elisara stumbled over the stone, ignoring him, then through the narrow hallway and the waterfall, into the throne room. The water was no longer black; in fact, the water appeared welcoming, reflecting the setting sun in the opening above.I have slept at least a day or two then, she realised.
The ascending stairway to the lake outside was empty; she debated venturing to bathe in the waters yet felt safer in the cave’s darkness. With a single command, the soldiers in the throne room turned to face the walls to offer privacy. She tilted her head at the resistance in her mind somewhere, and realised the room was filledwith far less shadowed soldiers than before. She sighed, pleased by their absence. Perhaps they wandered outside by the lake, through the woods, or on the sparkling black beach. Turning, Elisara saw Sallos in the entrance to the hallway, the waterfall parting on either side of him from where she had previously wielded the water to step through. He did not turn. She felt his intrigue reach her, but what was he intrigued about? The fact she had finally risen from bed? The notion she cared enough to bathe? Or maybe he was simply intrigued to see her body?
Elisara glared and directed her own threads of shadow to drift across the floor and form a wall before him. While the dark power twisting out of her was light, acting graceful with its movements, it weighed heavily on her skin. She wished to retract the darkness, but that was the one command they ignored.
Elisara felt nothing, not even the piercing cold of the water as she stripped off her clothes and carefully placed them at the edge of the small pool created by the waterfall. She glanced at the shadow wall behind it, blocking Sallos, and waited, ensuring he would not attempt to push through. When he did not, she submerged herself beneath the water’s shower, drowning her feelings beneath the weight of it, and focusing on the way it bruised her skin. As the water washed the blood and dirt of war away, she realised Kazaar’s touch went with it. Salty teardrops tumbled down her cheeks, mingling with the water cascading down her back and shoulders. A sob wracked her chest as she tilted her head to soak her hair. Pushing from the water’s temporary relief, Elisara fell forward and glanced at the clothing outside the pool. She should wash them too but could not bring herself to remove his scent from the fabrics. Rising from the water, she summoned her shadows from Sallos to wrap around her body until it appeared as though she was wearing a gown of unending nightfall.
Water dripped from her hair onto the checkerboard floor. She strode back into the dark hallway, ignoring and pushing past Sallos, whose cold shadows brushed her skin. Elisara halted as she enteredher room. Someone had moved the mirror from the room of statues and propped it beside the fireplace. She immediately tore her gaze from her reflection, refusing to face who she had become at the hand of Sitara’s meddling and Kazaar’s death.
“Move it,” Elisara commanded silently. Why had Sallos brought it here in the first place? She sensed his hesitation as he raised his arm but stopped. “Move it!” she commanded, sliding beneath the blanket on the bed while the shadows drifted from her body. She swallowed a sigh of relief as the weight of them fell onto the bed while Sallos moved the mirror into the hallway toward the throne room. Elisara was wasting her days away by sleeping, but sleep erased all thoughts and pain about Kazaar. But now, she feared sleep, dreading Sallos awaited in her dreams, seeking something from her. Tugging the blanket further up and over herself, she ignored Sallos's reemerging presence and closed her eyes, hoping for silence.
Hamzah Fasaar had lived a humble and quiet life as a simple foot guard along the city walls. That was until he met the Princess of Carvyre. Now, he stood atop that same towering five-hundred-foot wall dividing the city from the border and prepared to jump, to take his own life, and end this all. The echo of steel on steel clashed behind him in the city, where the war raged on. Yet his eyeline focused on the calmness of sand dunes and a burning sky. If he squinted, he could spot the green forests in the distance. Perhaps someone stood atop a tree in the same place miles away, watching this very wall. Hamzah took a deep breath in and rested his brown forearms atop the stone, turning over the engagement ring in his hand. Flames licked his hands as he considered melting it.
The wall had long been breached by the Princess’s army; no soldiers would be patrolling the wall now, which meant he could live his final moments in peace. Would he have done it all differently had he known the outcome would be war, loss, heartache? Perhaps he never should have volunteered to escort the new King of Q’Ohar to Carvyre. Had he not, he never would have met the princess, the king’s newly betrothed. Hamzah would not have caught hereye and become her guard in the city or been the one to comfort her during moments of pain at the king’s hand. If Hamzah had never joined that trip, he would not have fallen in love with a princess or been caught with her, and thus started a war. The king would not have threatened to kill Hamzah, and the princess would not have retaliated by calling her army to aid the day before the wedding.
If Hamzah had stayed but a simple foot guard, he never would have helped the princess to awaken old power in her veins to win a war, the same power appearing to manifest within his own blood. Hamzah clenched his fists, sensing something recoil in his arm, yearning to be released—he did not know what. But Hamzah was no longer a simple foot guard. He had caused a war and was the reason his love had lost herself to power, intent on taking the entirety of Q’Ohar down with her. The solution? Severing the tie between them, weakening her in the process. Glancing down, he saw nothing but the distant speck of guards below. If the princess was powerless, she may still win Q’Ohar’s capital, but she would not destroy the rest of its land. Though, even that might not be enough to save the people Hamzah loved in the city. There was only one other option, one he knew deep down would be the outcome.
A door from the turret stairs opened, and Hamzah knew it was her, forewarned by whatever tied them together.
“We are going to win, Hamzah,” she said gleefully. Hamzah no longer recognised the woman before him. Whatever light had once existed in her soul had been snuffed out until she was a shell of her former self. Her once luminous silver hair was limp and dull. Darkness had overcome the glistening specks of white in her purple eyes, matching the shadows within his veins. With a trembling hand, she tucked a strand of her hair behind a pointed ear laden in jewels. Her body did that often—shaking without warning, as if something within her yearned to break free.
“You might, Varlena, but I will not be here to see it,” Hamzah said, throwing the engagement ring in her direction. Her face faltered with a glimpse of sorrow, aglimpse of the true Varlena before fury won.
“You believe you can abandon a princess, soon to be the queen of not one buttwogreat lands?” she sneered and strode towards him in black leathers, showing the speed and strength of her legs. The purple gauze over each shoulder fluttered with her steps, secured by a silver jewel-encrusted belt that matched the ones on her crown. Hamzah expected her every move as he climbed atop the wall, and Varlena followed. She would never let him leave.
“This was never the plan, Varlena,” Hazmah murmured, reaching for her cheek. Her features softened.
“It was, Hamzah. It was never meant to be the king; it was always meant to be you.” She placed a hand on his still beating heart as he leant forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. She thought she had won him over with such simple words when she flashed a winning smile, one that almost had him believe she was the same girl he had first met years ago. He had been counting on her unwavering belief in their love, and he had been right to, for Varlena did not expect the dagger Hamzah slid from his waistband to stab the love of his life in the abdomen.
Varlena gasped and tried to pull back, but Hamzah clutched the back of her neck, forcing himself to look at the light that would soon fade in her eyes before they fell from the wall together. Taking her down with him was the only way to truly save the state. Panic widened her glistening purple irises as she clutched the dagger, blood gushing from it.
“The baby,” she murmured. A chill ran up Hamzah’s spine. She was with child. His children were in her womb. In a flash decision, Hamzah altered the course of history. Rather than dragging them both to their deaths to guarantee the end of a great power, he shoved Varlena back towards the turret before flinging himself backward towards the sands below.
As Hamzah fell, Varlena’s scream shattered the sky.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nyzaia
The fall of Nyzaia’s boots as she strode from the bathing pool was the only sound amid the silence. She quickened her pace towards the chamber door. No voice called for Nyzaia to wait, no water splashed within the pool, no wolf howled or chains clinked. With a deep breath, Nyzaia refrained from turning to check Soren did as she had asked: exit the bath, dress, and prepare to leave. Soren—the woman who killed Kazaar. Why did a pang of emotion pain Nyzaia’s chest when she sensed Soren’s disappointment as she withdrew from her side?
When Nyzaia dropped the cleaned braids from her hands, it was like something jolted her awake, reminding her of the person sitting before her. Oh, how easy it would have been to take a braid, wrap it around the fallen queen’s neck, and pull. A quick justice for her brother’s death. Rubbing her forehead, Nyzaia did not turn around and instead made the final few steps to the curved hallway door.Perhaps your inner conflict is what Soren suffers with daily.The Queen of Keres tried not to dwell on the image of a terrified, thirteen-year-old Soren, unknowingly sacrificing her life and sanity for her sister. Did Sadira realise the extent of Soren’s state of mind and manipulation? The future Queen of Garridon had a right to know, but would such information prompt Sadira to request her sister’s return? Nyzaia would lose her prisoner and her chance to avenge Kazaar.
Nyzaia paused, her hand hovering over the brass doorknob. Still, no sound came from the bath. She hesitated for only a moment before opening the door, rushing through, and slamming it shut.Nyzaia huffed at her mind’s consideration of Soren’s feelings. The sound of the door clattering in its frame was loud enough to hide any other sound, including the soft footsteps on Nyzaia’s right as she turned left.
With a decade of training behind her, Nyzaia seized her dagger in her right hand while flames blazed in her left. She stared down at the dead guard slumped against the wall. Nyzaia did not even know his name, just one guard left at the door whilst Farid left to check on Jabir. Their celestial tie lessened the need for other guards; they easily sensed when one another was in danger. Nyzaia focused on that feeling now and tried to sense Farid, though he was likely far across the city. The queen had only stared at the body for a matter of seconds, analysing the slash across his neck and the symbol of a circle and cross carved into his forehead—it was a second too long. Air shifted behind Nyzaia as a hand clamped her mouth and another reached for the dagger.
Someone shoved a scented rag against her face, and the acidic smell was overwhelming. The edge caught fire in an instant as she engulfed herself in flames. With a grunt, the attacker held the burning rag for a second too long before shoving Nyzaia away. She rolled as she fell, a move usually enabling her to turn quickly onto her knees and crouch, pulling another dagger from her thigh. Instead, she coughed and stumbled, struggling to keep upright. The mosaic tiles beneath her hands felt far colder than usual, the spectrum of colours blurring together. She blinked repeatedly. Drugged. Burning the cloth had been a quick way to remove the liquid-drenched rag from her face, but it was not quick enough. The scent was one she knew well, having used it to drug and transport prisoners of the Red Stones. She knew what came next.
Heaviness overcame Nyzaia’s head and body as she dragged herself forward. Brown hands frantically beat at the flames igniting beige robes before darkness came, and her head collided with the floor.
***
Smoke. The acrid stench of burning entered Nyzaia’s senses. She opened her eyes immediately, a glaring fiery amber against the ashy darkness. As usual, her limbs felt light and nimble, and her head and vision were clear; her focus was as sharp as ever—not a usual reaction after being drugged. Nyzaia moved into a crouch and looked at where the tiles had been to see nothing but swirling smoke. It was the exact same smoke swirling all around her now, littered with glowing embers and ash. The queen was not in her chambers. Slowly, Nyzaia breathed in, assessing the fog to discern what was burning. The smell shifted, replacing the bitter sharpness with only a light smoke, concealing the scent of palm trees trying to break through. Nyzaia reached forward to stroke the surrounding smoke. When she reached for an ember to ignite it further, no power reached her fingertips.
