The Unmarked Orphan

Chapter Three

Briston

I didn’t bother knocking. I pushed into Persephone’s chamber to assess the severity of her condition.

The royal sorcerer was bent over the bed, waving his hands in useless patterns, muttering spells that hadn't worked since the illness began. Yet, the king still demanded his presence every time she fell asleep. We all knew he was wasting his time and magic.

King George was pacing the floor but stopped when I entered, his attention snapped from his dying daughter to me. He looked wrecked, exhausted, and desperate. Desperation made men malleable, and that was something I loved.

"Your Majesty," I said.

George nodded and then looked back at the sorcerer, waiting for a result that wasn't coming.

I walked up to him. I didn’t whisper, but I kept my voice low enough that the fool chanting over the bed wouldn't overhear. "I can stop this. Please, allow me to save her."

George turned fully toward me. "No, Briston. You left that life long ago. You told me you were done with the dark arts."

"I told you what you needed to hear to let me serve the crown," I replied. "But a sorcerer doesn’t just stop being what he is. The power is still there, I’ve just been waiting for a reason to use it."

George looked at Persephone and then back at me. "Then tell me how, how do we break it?"

"Balance," I whispered, ensuring the sorcerer wasn’t eavesdropping. "To fix something this broken, you have to break something else. I need to perform a ritual, Sire, a high-level extraction."

"What does that require?"

"A sacrifice," I said bluntly. "I need a life or an act of such intentional evil that it generates the power I need to rip the disease out of her." I held his gaze. "And in exchange for dirtying my hands with that kind of black magic, I want her hand in marriage."

George flinched. "You’re proposing murder? You want me to sanction killing an innocent?"

"No, Sire. Look at it this way: I’m proposing a trade. One life for the future Queen of Valoria."

"That is... monstrous."

"Is it?" I challenged him. "Look at her, Sire. She might never wake up; she falls asleep and stays that way for days. The kingdom might soon notice, and your lineage would be over, there would be no heir. They need a ruler after you, Sire, not a patient. Do you want to bury her or do you want to save her?"

He rubbed his face, turning away from me. I could see the wheels turning. He was a moral man, which was his biggest weakness, but he was also a father.

"You say this is the only way?" he asked.

"If there were another way, the clown over there would have found it by now," I replied, jerking my chin toward the other sorcerer. "I am your last option, don’t let it slip, Sire."

George stayed silent for a long time. He didn’t say a word, and I didn’t push him either; I allowed the silence to do the work.

"I will think about it," he said finally. "Give me time."

"Take all the time you need," I smiled. "But she might not have much time left."

I turned and walked out.

I needed to clear my head, so I left the palace and headed toward the grounds. I needed a plan. George was on edge; he needed a push, and I needed a victim. Killing a random servant wouldn’t generate nearly enough power. I needed something significant, something grievous and evil.

I walked toward the lake, the only place on the grounds where people rarely went. I wanted to be alone to think through the logistics of the ritual.

As I rounded the corner of the path, I spotted Brightley. She was in the water, facing the opposite direction, rinsing her hair; she didn’t hear me approach.

I watched her for a second, annoyed that my solitude was interrupted, until she moved. As she turned slightly, I saw a unique ancient mark on her back.

"This isn’t just any blessing," I murmured under my breath. It was the mark of a rare goddess, no, the rare goddess.

My mind raced. As far as I knew, she had no marks. I can't forget that because she made it her whole personality. She stayed pure, never ate any forbidden food, never cursed because she be pious enough to gain the attention of the gods. The fact that she missed a mark, not just with any last mark but the mark from the goddess of the phoenix, which only appeared once in a thousand years.

A dark thrill shot through me. "This is it; it has to be it."

If I sacrificed a normal person, I’d get enough power, sure. But if I sacrificed her? If I killed the girl with the goddess’s favor? That was a betrayal so profound, an act so wicked, it would grant me god-like power. It would secure the throne and maybe more than that.

She was the key, so I backed away before she could spot me. I needed her in my study to control the environment.

I hurried back to the palace, already constructing the trap. I sat at my desk and sent a guard to get her, waiting anxiously, satisfied that I was about to become a god.

Brightley walked in. She looked confused, innocent, and worried.

"You sent for me, Father?" she asked.

I stood up, masking my happiness with cold disappointment.

"I am ashamed of you, Brightley."

She blinked, taken aback. "What? What have I done?"

"You walk around this palace like you don’t have a care in the world," I began, letting my voice sharpen. "Persephone is dying, the kingdom is in mourning, and you are out frolicking."

"That's not true," she replied, raising her voice in defense. "I visit her every day since the ritual; I sit with her and try as much as possible to do everything I can."

"You do nothing," I snapped. "You sit there and watch her rot. You call yourself her friend, but you haven't offered any real help. You’re useless."

"I'm not Marked!" she argued. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You’re supposed to sacrifice," I said. "That is what friends do."

She went quiet; I could see the guilt in her face. It was working; I was slowly getting to her.

"What do you mean?" she asked softly.

I walked around the desk and stood in front of her. "There is a way to save her. I’ve found a ritual, but I can't do it alone. I need a vessel."

"A vessel?"

"I can transfer the illness," I lied. "I can pull the sickness out of Persephone and put it into someone else, someone strong and resilient."

I watched her eyes widen. "You want me to take it?" she whispered.

"You have a strength she doesn't," I said. "Persephone is frail; you are not, Brightley. You survived war. If I move the illness to you, your body can fight it. You can beat it; she can't."

"But... what if I can't?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "Father, that sounds dangerous. What if it kills me?"

"Are you a coward?" I asked.

She flinched. "No."

"Then prove it. You say you love her; you say you want to help. This is the only way. Unless you want her blood on your hands."

"I don't want her to die," she said.

"Then take her place for a while. Carry the burden; it is the least you can do after everything the royal family has given us."

Brightley looked down, terrified. But she was also loyal to a fault. She had been raised to be good, to be selfless. And that was exactly what was going to get her killed.

"Will it hurt?" she asked.

"It will be necessary," I evaded. "You will be saving the future queen, and you’ll be a hero, Brightley. I will make sure to heal you."

She took a deep breath and looked up at me, her eyes full of trust.

"Okay, I'll do it. For Persephone."

"Good," I replied.

I didn't smile because I couldn’t let her see the victory. "Go to your room and prepare yourself. We’ll begin tonight, hopefully, after I speak to the king."

She nodded and left.

I watched the door close. She thought she was agreeing to a medical procedure. She had no idea she had just agreed to be slaughtered.

I sat back down. It was perfect. By tomorrow, Persephone would be awake, Brightley would be dead, and I would be on my way to being king.