Page 7 of Cursed Evermore
Pathetic. He wasn’t going to talk. And I was done wasting my time here. “The Nightblade Family used to have the River Clan Fae’s allegiance.”Wasted words.
The rebel lifted his head, just high enough so his desolate eyes met mine. “I will tell you nothing. You…are death, Lord Nightblade.Death.”
All this time, he’d been in here experiencing the most agonizing pain imaginable in all four corners of Vaelthorne, and those piercing words were the only ones he’d uttered. ThatIwas death.
I inched away a fraction and instinctively glanced at Bastian, perhaps because he was my closest friend. Alaric was my younger brother, but I’d come to rely more on Bastian in times like these.
Like the others he was clad in the silver armor that marked him as a senior knight in the King's Guard. He wore his black hair in a severe undercut, the top plaited into a thick warrior's braid adorned with leather cords that spoke of battles won. He looked every inch the hardened soldier. Yet he gazed back at me not as a warrior in arms, but a lifelong friend.
The shift in his eyes from the usual hardness I relied on to something that resembled pity twisted my gut. Seeing such an emotion on a Galaythian warrior’s face reminded me of how far I’d fallen and that everything, even the kingdom, was slipping away from me.
The rebelwasright. IwasDeath.
I became Death the moment my father was murdered and the Ring of Kings was stolen from his lifeless body.
The ring was always to be worn by the King, passing to the firstborn son upon death. If it fell into the wrong hands, the rightful heir to the throne was cursed until it was retrieved.
Until the ring was found and placed upon my hand, I would remain cursed to continue my days on this earth as a Deathwalker. A being no different from a wraith.
But while wraiths existed in shadowy forms that harnessed darkness, I still looked Fae.When I wanted to.And where wraiths drained souls, I shattered them with just one look. One mere look and that was it.Death.
The pity in Bastian’s eyes displayed the depth of his worry for my ruin. We both knew what it would cost me eventually the longer I remained cursed. My ensuing demise accelerated every time I used those dark powers of death that were forbidden in all lands.But fuck it.
No one knew what it was like to be me. Onlyme.
I was the Lord Commander of the Kings Guard. The firstborn son of the great Lysander Nightblade. Bonded to the most powerful of the ancient dragons.
And yet, I was not the king.
My personal favorite of my fucked-up situation was having to watch my uncle sit on the Galaythian throne as acting king in his stewardship and givemeorders.
At least being Death still gave me some control.Like now.
I turned away from Bastian and looked back to the rebel. It was time to show him my true face. It seemed fitting that he should see what Death looked like before he drew his last breath.
My lips twisted into a mirthless grin, all predator and no warmth, enriched with malice and everything that was supposed to make the blood run cold. It was a dark promise. The last thing many had seen before they met their end at my hands.
“Tell me, rebel, what do you think Death will look like when he comes for you?” I taunted, my smile widening. “Food for thought; I enjoy punishing murderers and rapists.” I was going to make him feel the same pain the handmaidens felt, but so much worse.
“My… Lord?” His voice was a garbled stutter of labored, useless words.
I didn’t answer. The time for talking was over.
Darkness from the depths of my core had already begun bleeding into my eyes, swallowing the silvery-blue color I inherited from my mother.
As the shadows shrouded me like a cape, covering even my armor, Bastian and the others stepped back, away from me.
The darkness spread over my face, leaving behind a skeletal frame that made the rebel piss and shit himself. The putrid smell instantly mixed with the fear clinging to the air.
“No… please. Don’t… kill me. Please.” Finally, the begging began. But it was too late.
Demented laughter rumbled in my chest, and I allowed my canines to lengthen like a vampyre’s, amplifying the horrific vision of Death.
The curse may have stolen my chance to rule the kingdom, but at times like these, I savored the dark power that enticed me to drift between the realms of life and death.
True to the Nightblade name, I could already command shadows and bend smoke to my will, turning them into weapons. But the curse amplified these gifts into something far more lethal.
I lifted a hand. Twines of black smoke-like threads flowed from me to the rebel, weaving into his soul like fine needles. Terror widened his eyes faster than a heart could beat. So much so that tears of silver streamed down his cheeks.
