Chương 104: The Princess and the Calamity

Elyra understood very quickly that walking with Zayn was different from walking ahead of a prisoner. A prisoner looked for a weakness. An enemy looked for an opportunity. Zayn, however, walked like someone who had already decided that the road, the guards, the orders, and the borders were only temporary details between him and a throat to crush. The path along the dead coast climbed between twisted pines toward an old road that no longer appeared on ordinary maps. The stones were cracked.

Roots pushed above the ground like clenched fingers. In some places, the air bent slightly, distorting the silhouettes of the elven guards. The spirits did not like this path. Lumeï did not like it either. The little fox of light walked almost pressed against Elyra's shoulder, but every time Zayn turned his head, he became smaller.

"Your spirit hates me," Zayn said. Elyra did not slow down.

"He has taste." The visible mouth beneath Zayn's half-mask curved into a smile.

"That means he finds me interesting."

"No. It means he's afraid."

"Fear is a form of honest attention." Lumeï murmured:"I prefer indifference." The armored guard, Maëlin, tightened her fingers around the hilt of her sword.

"Princess, he speaks too freely." Zayn turned his masked face toward her.

"You can try to make me speak less freely." Maëlin stopped for half a second. The two stone spirits at her side tightened, ready to form a wall around her. Elyra raised her hand.

"Not here." Zayn kept walking.

"Wise."

"That wasn't to protect you," Elyra said.

"I know."

"It was for her." Zayn gave a low laugh.

"Even better." The old elf with the roots, Saeral, had been observing Zayn from a few paces behind. His spirit wound around his arm, a knotted root with slow eyes. He had hardly spoken since they had left the coast. Zayn noticed him.

"You, you feel things." Saeral did not answer right away.

"I feel roots."

"Even the ones that have been torn out?" The old elf paled slightly. Elyra looked at Zayn.

"What do you mean?" He gestured toward the ground with his chin.

"This road was abandoned, but not forgotten. Do elves do that often?" Saeral finally answered:"We do not abandon places lightly."

"No one ever says they abandon them lightly." Zayn pressed a hand against an old blackened trunk.

"Men say they protect. Demons say they invest. Elves say they preserve. In the end, there is always a place where someone left the dead behind a pretty phrase." The silence that followed was harder than stone. Elyra did not answer. Because part of her already knew that Elvarin Soreth was precisely that kind of phrase.

"Unclaimed materials."

"Post-mortem research."

"Preservation of contracts." Beautiful words. And dead sold. Zayn resumed walking.

"Where are you taking me?" Elyra answered:"To Caelith-Thorn."

"A prison?"

"An old spiritual quarantine post."

"So a prison with elven vocabulary." Lumeï muttered:"He's not wrong." Elyra shot him a look. The little spirit pretended he had said nothing. Maëlin, however, did not appreciate the humor.

"Caelith-Thorn is a sealed place. You will not reach the capital from there."

"And yet Elvarin is in the capital."

"Yes." Zayn stopped. All the guards stopped as well. The air changed immediately. Not much. Enough for Maëlin's stone spirits to take full shape, two squat figures with broad shoulders covered in silver cracks. The black mark on Zayn's left forearm seemed to move beneath his sleeve. The scythe did not appear. Not yet. And yet Elyra felt its presence. Like an invisible skull smiling in the shadow of his hand.

"You're leading me away from him," Zayn said.

"I'm leading you to a place where we can speak without risking panic in a city full of civilians."

"Civilians." The word came out softly. Too softly. Elyra did not step back.

"Yes."

"I saw civilians burn while your dead carried bows." Maëlin took a step forward.

"They were not 'our'—""Maëlin," Elyra said. The guard fell silent. Zayn tilted his head slightly.

"She wanted to say: those were not your orders." Elyra inhaled.

"Yes."

"I don't care." The sentence fell without visible anger. That was almost worse.

"Your dead killed. Your signatures spoke. Your bodies were used. Your researcher sold. Your kingdom left enough holes for demons to push their arms through up to the shoulders." He took one step toward her. The guards drew their bows tight.

"So don't speak to me of civilians as if the word becomes clean again because it is spoken here." Elyra stayed still. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Her heart was beating too fast. But she did not look away.

"If you think that, why not kill me now?" Lumeï froze. Maëlin exhaled:"Princess…" Zayn looked at Elyra for several seconds. Then his smile returned, faint and cruel.

"Because you just gave me a name."

"Elvarin."

"Yes."

"And so I'm useful."

"For now." She nodded slowly.

"Then we understand each other." This time, Zayn almost seemed amused.

"Not yet." He resumed walking. Elyra felt her legs start moving again one second too late. She understood then why her father had chosen not to sink the ship. Not because Zayn was reasonable. Not because he could be negotiated with in the ordinary sense. But because he still had an internal hierarchy of value. Answer before murder. Name before massacre. The guilty before the kingdom. As long as that hierarchy held, there was a narrow passage between catastrophe and total war.

The problem was that Elyra had no idea what would happen once he finally got his answer. Caelith-Thorn stood inside a ring of dead white trees. An ancient elven fort, built from pale stone and sealed roots, halfway between the dead coast and the first living roads of Aelvaris. Quarantine runes covered the walls. Bells without clappers hung at the corners of the roof. At the center, a circular courtyard allowed spiritual contaminations to be isolated without immediately killing those who carried them.

Zayn studied the place.

"Charming." Maëlin replied coldly:"This place saved hundreds of elves during the Coastal Pact Rupture."

"How many died here?" She did not answer.

"There." The doors opened without a creak. Inside, elves were waiting. Twelve guards. Three seal mages. A pact magistrate. Two spiritual healers. And on an upper gallery, Arelion Voss, the coastal captain, bow in hand. Zayn lifted his head toward him.

"You hide less well up close." Arelion did not answer. His wind spirit, Shaël, murmured something that only the nearby elves heard. Elyra entered first. Zayn followed. The moment he crossed the threshold, the runes on the floor lit up. A white pressure descended around him. Not an attack. A measurement. The three seal mages stiffened almost at once. One of them started bleeding from the nose. Another stepped back. The third whispered:"Impossible…" Zayn stopped at the center of the courtyard.

"I hear that word often." The pact magistrate raised a silver tablet.

"Spiritual detection unstable. Demonic presence confirmed. Human presence confirmed. Multiple foreign presences…" He hesitated.

"Multiple?" Elyra asked. The magistrate looked at Zayn with contained horror.

"Traces of assimilated flesh. Residual breaths not integrated. Rage-energy linked to a conscious weapon. Mark of organic hunger. Mark of soul absorption." Zayn's clavicle pulsed. For one second, a system window appeared before him, cold, almost discreet. [Sin of Envy: active.] [Current Soul Strength: 84.] [Absorption yield reduced against low-density souls.] Then it vanished. Zayn smiled without joy. Even the system seemed intent on reminding him that massacres were no longer enough. He needed heavier souls.

Or something other than simple deaths. The magistrate continued, paler than before:"He also carries remnants of broken contracts that do not belong to him." Lumeï nearly squeaked. Elyra understood. The beastmen. The raptors. The river clans. Perhaps even elven fragments encountered along the way. Zayn was not merely a contaminated man. He had become an archive of profanations. Zayn lifted his eyes to the gallery.

"Have you finished inventorying me?" The magistrate answered:"We have not even begun." The scythe appeared. Not fully. Only one piece at first. The black skull formed in his left hand, without the full shaft, eye sockets smoking, jaw half-open. All the guards drew their blades. The skull spoke before Zayn did:"Inventory quickly." Elyra lifted her hand.

"Stop." The runes on the floor intensified. The scythe crackled. The black skull turned its smoking sockets toward the princess.

"Brave little light." Lumeï vanished literally behind Elyra's neck. Zayn looked at his own hand. Then at the skull.

"Not now." The scythe laughed.

"You're less fun on this island."

"And you're louder." The skull clicked its teeth. Then vanished. The elves remained tense. The magistrate looked on the verge of fainting with dignity. Elyra took control before someone decided to save the kingdom's honor with a poorly placed arrow.

"Zayn Veylor." He turned his face toward her.

"You are going to remain here under watch."

"No."

"Then you won't get Elvarin." Silence. Very thin. The right string. Not enough to control him. Enough to stop him. Zayn did not move. Elyra continued:"My father is arriving in Sylvarune. Elvarin is under guard. If he is guilty, he will be interrogated. If you want to hear his answers, you must stay alive and avoid turning every elf you meet into another reason to put you down." Maëlin looked at her as though she had just played with a torch in a room full of oil. Zayn, on the other hand, smiled.

"You learn quickly."

"You are predictable on certain points." The courtyard went very silent. Zayn took one step toward her. The guards tightened.

"Be careful, princess." Elyra felt her fear rise. She spoke anyway.

"You want Elvarin more than you want to kill the guards in front of you."

"For now."

"Yes. For now. So long as that 'for now' exists, I can speak." Zayn stared at her for a long time. Then he stepped back.

"Until nightfall."

"For what?"

"To give me proof that Elvarin isn't going to vanish into a palace, a prison, or a royal excuse." Elyra nodded.

"I'll give you more than proof."

"What?" She knew her father might reproach her for this. But she had already crossed too many lines to pretend she could calmly wait behind them.

"I'll give you a remote audience with him." Maëlin turned sharply toward her.

"Princess!" Arelion, from the gallery, lowered his bow by a centimeter. Even the magistrate forgot to breathe. Zayn remained still.

"At a distance?"

"Through a sealed spirit basin. You won't be able to kill him. He won't be able to reach you. But you will hear his voice." The mark of Wrath calmed slightly beneath Zayn's skin. Not out of peace. Out of concentration.

"Tonight."

"If the king allows it." Zayn's smile vanished. The temperature seemed to drop.

"Tonight." Elyra corrected herself:"I will do everything I can to make it tonight."

"Bad nuance."

"True nuance." Zayn stepped until he was two paces from her. Lumeï was trembling so hard that his light quivered on Elyra's dress.

"If you lie…"

"I will kill someone."

"No." He leaned slightly closer.

"I'll choose someone you tried to protect." The sentence entered her like a cold blade. She understood then that he did not threaten at random. He was already learning her weak points. Just as she was learning his. Elyra answered in a calmer voice than she felt:"Then don't give me a reason to lie to you." For the first time, Zayn did not answer immediately. Then he gave a small laugh.

"Fine." He stepped back.

"Show me your cage." In Sylvarune, Elvarin was brought before the king at sunset. Not in the great throne hall. In the Chamber of Broken Pacts. That was worse. The floor was black, crossed with silver lines. The walls bore the names of spirits and elves who had betrayed an ancient pact. No name was erased. Among the elves, some shames were kept not to punish the dead, but to prevent the living from thinking themselves cleaner than they were. King Aelthir waited at the center. Without a visible crown.

Without guards nearby. His spirits floated around him, more silent than stars. Elvarin knelt. Not out of respect. Because his legs could no longer hold him. Iriël floated near his shoulder, so weak he looked like a drowned ember. The king spoke.

"Elvarin Soreth." The researcher bowed his head.

"Your Majesty." Aelthir did not shout. That was almost worse.

"You took tissues and spiritual remains from the dead entrusted to institutions of Aelvaris." Elvarin closed his eyes.

"Yes."

"You falsified their claim status."

"Yes."

"You delivered them to foreign intermediaries." The debt-ring burned. Elvarin smothered a groan. The king saw the movement. His eyes narrowed.

"You are under contract." Elvarin trembled.

"I…" The ring tightened. The voice entered his mind: Not yet. The king took one step forward. The spiritual pressure in the chamber increased. Not violently. Totally. As though several ancient spirits had just turned their gaze upon a single tiny soul.

"You used my samples to create false elven proofs on the beastman continent." Elvarin felt tears rise. He wanted to say he had not known. He had already said it. It no longer mattered. Aelthir went on:"Villages burned. Clans were massacred. Children received visions in their flesh carried by our dead." Iriël made a small sound. A complaint. The king stopped before Elvarin.

"And now the man forged by that chain of faults stands on our soil." Elvarin finally raised his eyes.

"I did not forge him." The sentence came out before he could stop it. Aelthir looked at him.

"No." The king stepped even closer.

"You only sold dry wood to those looking for a fire." The phrase was more unbearable than an insult. Because it was exact. Elvarin trembled.

"I can help."

"Yes." A miserable hope appeared on his face. The king destroyed it immediately.

"By speaking." The ring turned ice-cold. Do not speak. Aelthir raised a hand. A spirit of light appeared behind him. Not Lumeï. Older. Purer. A white flame that burned only lies.

"You will give the names of the intermediaries. The transfer locations. The contract clauses. The seals used. The identities, even partial ones. Everything." Elvarin felt his finger split beneath the ring.

"I can't." The king answered:"You can."

"They'll kill me."

"Probably." The hope died a second time. Aelthir continued:"But if you do not speak, I will condemn you for treason against the dead of Aelvaris, complicity in spiritual profanation, and endangering the entire island." Elvarin stammered:"Your Majesty—""The sentence is death." The chamber seemed to move away from him. Death. Not disgrace. Not exile. Not academic erasure. Death. The ring pulsed. Now. Elvarin felt the Thorn of Derangement against his forearm, hidden inside his sleeve. The demonic artifact. Black.

Small. Impossible. The voice in the ring whispered: He will kill you. He too. Like the others. Use it. Open him. Turn his greatness into a weapon against them. Iriël understood. The little blue flame threw itself against Elvarin's sleeve.

"No!" The king saw the movement. Too late. Elvarin raised his hand. The black needle slid out of the red glass capsule like a tooth. Aelthir summoned a barrier of light. But the Thorn did not aim for his body. It aimed for his shadow. The needle pierced the black floor and entered the king's reflection. The Chamber of Broken Pacts screamed. All of Aelthir's spirits flared at once. Not in harmony. In panic. The king stepped back. His eyes turned entirely gold. Elvarin fell backward, his forearm burned to the bone.

Iriël was screaming. Aelthir pressed one hand to his chest.

"What have you…" His voice broke. Around him, his spirits warped. The golden flame turned white, then black at the edges. The suspended water began to boil. The pale breeze twisted into a blade. The ancient root burrowed into his skin like a chain. The king clenched his teeth. For one second, he resisted. His vast soul tried to reclaim every contract, every spirit, every fragment of power. Then the Thorn opened something in him. Not a physical wound. A door. All of the king's protective instincts were reversed.

Each spirit bound to him received a single impulse: Destroy what threatens Aelvaris. But the demonic artifact had removed the definition of the word threat. Elvarin crawled backward.

"Your Majesty…" Aelthir lifted his head. He was no longer looking at Elvarin. He was looking at everything. As if every living thing in the chamber had become a possible target. His body cracked slightly at the neck. A red line appeared beneath the skin. Then another. Too much power was moving through a structure now forced to strike without discernment. The chamber doors opened. Two guards stepped in.

"Your Majesty?" The king turned his head. The pale breeze became an invisible blade. The two guards were cut down before they understood. Elvarin began to cry. Not from remorse. From pure terror. Aelthir took one step toward him. Then stopped. As if some remaining part of the king still recognized the guilty one, but no longer knew whether killing him would be enough. In a spirit basin located at Caelith-Thorn, the image intended for the audience suddenly opened without authorization. Elyra saw her father.

Zayn did too. For one second, no one in the quarantine court spoke. Then the king of Aelvaris turned his cracked face toward the basin, as though he sensed the half-masked man through the image. His golden eyes met Zayn's. The spirits around him screamed. Lumeï flattened himself to the floor. Elyra whispered:"Father…" Zayn, meanwhile, smiled slowly. Not in joy. Not in mockery. Something darker.

"There," he said. The scythe appeared in his hand. The black skull opened its smoking eye sockets wide.

"A king who bleeds." In the basin, Aelthir raised his hand. The Chamber of Broken Pacts exploded in light. The image cut out. A terrified silence fell over Caelith-Thorn. Elyra did not move. Zayn slowly turned his half-mask toward her.

"It seems your father has just become interesting." And for the first time since she had met him, Elyra was truly afraid that Zayn might not be the worst thing to happen to Aelvaris that night.