A Kiss of Crimson

I have never seen such a vibrant shade of red in my lifetime.

The blood moon casts its light through my window, bathing the chamber in a crimson glow that displaces the familiar silver of the moon. Ordinarily, its pale light would settle in a heap upon my carpet, gentle and undisturbed. Tonight, it spills across my legs, which peek out from beneath the velvet sheets.

People always speak of blood moons with a certain reverence. I suppose I ought to be worried. Yet, it is not the strange color of the sky that unsettles me, but the faint whispers drifting through the corridors beyond my chamber.

“It must be the maids,” I murmur, turning in my sheets.

Celeste, in particular, has a habit of wandering through the castle long after the household has retired. I can’t blame her. The castle possesses a peculiar beauty at night, when its grand halls stand empty and the candlelight dances against the ancient walls. Had it not been for the unpleasant business awaiting me tomorrow morning, I might’ve joined her.

The thought alone is enough to draw an irritated sigh from my lips.

Court meetings are a dreadful affair. Hours spent beneath gilded ceilings, listening to men dress their empty promises in eloquent words, only to forget them by morning. The king, unfortunately, has found a way to make them considerably worse.

He knows me well. Too well, if I dare to admit it.

My disdain for the court has never been particularly subtle, though I hardly intended to make it memorable enough to earn a place in the king’s thoughts. And yet, he has remembered it well enough to make my attendance a punishment for my failure to infiltrate the Kingdom of Veymora.

The Luthernian River is surrounded by countless enchantments, each woven into the next with a precision no mortal can hope to overcome. Crossing it was impossible from the beginning. But the king has never possessed much patience for impossibility, particularly when it concerns his own expectations.

A familiar ache stirs along my back. I grimace, shifting beneath the velvet sheets. My gaze eventually wanders toward the window.

The streets below lie deserted, their usual clamor swallowed by an unfamiliar stillness. Not even the distant clatter of carriage wheels disturbs the silence. It is strange. Usually, I would hear the bright sound of laughter by now.

The unsettling feeling that has deprived me of sleep floats to the surface, causing me to sit upright. The whispers grow louder.

“... the East Wing,” a low voice says.

A chill runs down my spine. That is no ordinary man. By instinct, I reach for Calystra, my sword that has saved me countless times. The cold touch of the diamond embedded in its hilt sinks into the calluses on my palm. The familiarity almost makes me smile. Almost.

I swing my legs over the bed, wasting no time before slowly opening my chamber door. The hinges creak, causing me to wince.

“I should’ve oiled them,” I chide to myself before taking a vigilant step outside.

The cold of the marble floor seeps into the bare soles of my feet, yet I barely feel it. The dread stirring in my stomach keeps me well occupied. My head snaps to the right as the sound of boots against marble echoes through the empty halls. A draft brushes against my bare legs, raising goosebumps across my skin. The nightgown does nothing to shield me from the cold.

Voices emerge, their words laced with an unmistakable charm.

“That is an order, soldier,” a male voice says. “I’d hate to force you to comply.”

His voice carries a quiet warning, yet there is something so composed about it that I find myself straightening my spine. He sounds as though he were someone of great importance, one whose word is law. Hurried footsteps echo against the marble, quick enough to suggest that someone is moving, yet quiet enough to make me question whether I’ve imagined them.

I run down the staircase, my feet pattering soundlessly against the floor as I turn the corner. My pulse hammers against my throat, cold and frantic. The thrill of the hunt usually turns my blood to ice, but tonight my stomach drops. A raw, unfamiliar panic I haven’t felt in years consumes me.

Their voices sound from the lower levels of the castle. It couldn’t be possible. There are hundreds of guards stationed along those lines. After all, it was I who had suggested the idea. My steps quicken as I follow the sound, my eyes widening as I realize where it is taking me.

The Sequndera Chambers.

I have never even dared to venture here. A thick layer of dust clings to my feet as I take a step toward the door. It is said to be locked for a good reason. According to Celeste, the chambers have remained locked ever since the last heir to the throne was murdered. I can’t help but shiver as I notice that the door lies unlocked, an ominous shadow lurking beneath it.

Despite never believing in ghosts, I find myself placing a hand over my heart.

“Valeat Vaelith deus mortuorum me protegat a spiritibus errantibus in hoc regno,” I whisper.

I place my hand on the handle. It is cool to the touch, as though kissed by death himself. The door opens silently.

Men. There must be at least twenty of them.

All bear the unmistakable crest of Veymora, the silver insignia upon their chests catching the crimson moonlight. Built as though they were made for combat, they gather around the coffin.

“Open the coffin,” a man orders. My eyes widen as two men lift the metal lid, dust floating into the air. They peer inside gingerly, as though the sight of a corpse would reduce them to ashes. I lean further into the shadow of the doorframe, my jaw tightening as their broad shoulders block my line of sight.

There has to be another way. Perhaps if there were only a couple of them, I might be able to take them down. My eyes dart to the two soldiers holding up the casket. Those two, I could take down. The one standing in the middle, however, is another matter. There is something unnerving about a man who stands in the center of a room, hands tucked into his pockets, entirely composed. It makes me wonder whether his indifference is merely a facade.

I have no intention of walking blindly into whatever trap he has laid.

Candlelight falls upon the coffin, casting an ethereal glow across its metal surface. A smile creeps onto my face as I stare up at the flames. A rush of adrenaline courses through me, one I never thought I would feel tonight, as I reach for the lever outside the door. One by one, the candles wink off into the darkness.

Red. The room is bathed in red.

The deep red glow is dark enough for me to slip into the shadows, my smile only growing as I watch the soldiers look around in alarm. Their expressions change within seconds, settling into something far harder to read. They draw their swords in unison, their silver blades of Atherium glinting beneath the crimson light.

The casket slams shut as the soldiers drop it, causing the man in the middle to raise a hand.

“Did I tell you to close the casket?” he asks, his voice echoing throughout the room. It is far deeper than I had heard before. His words are laced with warning, and I can see the soldier’s face pale before he lifts the coffin lid once more.

“No, Your Highness,” he mutters before turning away.

The prince.

As enticing as the thought of killing twenty men and emerging victorious seems, it doesn’t take someone gifted to realize that the chances of that happening are slim. Far too slim for me to take the risk. I take another step into the shadows, circling the outer rim of the room. Their formation is closely knit, so uniform that it seems almost deliberate.

The thought stops me in my tracks. I’m beside the window, hidden from the glow of the moon. My smile fades slightly as I glance at the distance between me and the nearest soldier. As fate will have it, he happens to be the one holding up the casket lid.

No.

I can’t make it.

Even if I do manage to take him down, his hand will drop the casket, revealing my location. I inhale sharply. There must be a way. My hands snake up to my hair, pulling out a dagger that has been lying there since last night. I exhale before tightening my grip on the knife. It is an expendable weapon, one I had never intended to keep for long.

An Atheri stands beside the casket, close enough to be in my range, yet far enough away that his fall won’t disturb the silence. I know that if I leave the room without killing any of them, regret will consume me for a lifetime. Yet, if I do, I might as well be signing my death warrant. The unsuspecting Atheri shifts his weight, almost looking as though he were bored.

Perfect.

One of them will have to suffice, I suppose. Before I can reconsider my decision, I send the knife flying toward him, landing in the vein of his vocal cord. He crumples to the ground without a sound. The other Atheri turn towards him before they look at the prince.

Despite the commotion, the prince straightens, as though he has sensed something unusual and seems almost fascinated. A shiver runs down my spine, but I ignore the sensation.

“Soldiers, leave us alone.”

The words are soft, almost intimate, were it not for the dark undertone lacing each syllable. As though he has used his charm on them, the soldiers walk toward the door, their faces impassive. My feet thrum with anticipation as the door closes with a gentle click. My eyes dart to the coffin, the body I had once wanted to see now concealed beneath its thick, embroidered lid.

I can almost hear him thinking.

“Your breathing is quite loud,” he says coolly, as though he were discussing something as ordinary as the weather.

My limbs lock in place. I don’t dare make a sound. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I should’ve never come down here. For the first time in twelve years, the dormant pit of fear in my stomach begins to stir.

He turns around.

All I can see is silver. His eyes. They are filled with an unmistakable hunger, glowing with a luminous intensity. I watch as his irises dilate in surprise. The faint moment of hesitation is enough.

I lunge for the knife impaled in one of his soldiers before flinging it at him.