King of monsters
1033 Words
Chapter Four :
Sarayah did not remember being lifted from the floor.
She only remembered the cold leaving her body.
One moment she was kneeling on stone, her hands numb, her heart splintered into too many pieces to count—and the next, she was moving. Floating. Or falling. She couldn’t tell which.
Sorren carried her as though she weighed nothing.
Not cradled. Not gently.
Just… claimed.
His arm was iron around her waist, his grip unyielding as he strode through Grimmoon’s corridors. The walls blurred past her vision—black stone carved with ancient runes, violet fire licking at metal sconces, shadows stretching and recoiling like living things.
Sarayah squeezed her eyes shut.
Lucia. Crystal. Her father—blood on the floor, her mother’s scream still echoing in her skull.
Her chest hitched violently.
“Crying already?” Sorren’s voice came from above her, calm and faintly amused. “You’ll need thicker skin than that.”
She forced her eyes open.
Up close, he was worse.
His presence pressed down on her like gravity itself—suffocating, unavoidable. His face was sharp in a way that felt carved rather than born. Silver eyes glinted in the firelight, cold and ancient, as if he had watched empires rise just to enjoy their collapse.
“You killed my father,” she whispered.
Sorren stopped walking.
The sudden stillness made her breath stutter.
Slowly, he looked down at her—not with anger. Not even with irritation.
With boredom.
“No,” he corrected. “Rhett did. I allowed it.”
Her nails dug into her own palms. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it law.”
He resumed walking.
Sarayah’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “You said I was… eligible,” she said, the word tasting like poison. “Eligible for what?”
Sorren didn’t answer immediately.
He pushed open a massive iron door with one hand. It groaned low and deep, like the city itself was warning her to run.
Too late.
The room beyond was enormous—far larger than any chamber in Blacklily Palace. The ceiling disappeared into shadow. A throne of obsidian and bone sat elevated at the far end, carved with symbols that made Sarayah’s head ache when she looked at them too long.
This was not a room.
It was a den.
Sorren set her down roughly on her feet.
She swayed but didn’t fall.
“Grimmoon is not ruled by crowns and ceremonies,” he said, circling her slowly. “We rule by power. By bond. By blood.”
Her pulse throbbed painfully in her ears. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
He stopped in front of her.
Too close.
His fingers lifted her chin without permission, forcing her to meet his gaze. Sarayah tried to pull back, but his grip tightened just enough to warn her not to try again.
“An eighteenth princess from a consecrated bloodline,” he continued calmly, “is a key.”
“A key to what?” she demanded, fear sharpening into something dangerously close to anger.
Sorren’s lips curved—not a smile, but something darker.
“To the throne.”
Her breath left her in a rush. “I don’t want your throne. I don’t want this city. I don’t want you.”
“That,” he said softly, “has never mattered to Grimmoon.”
He released her abruptly.
Sarayah stumbled back, her legs burning as she caught herself against a pillar. Rage, terror, grief—everything tangled inside her until she felt like she might tear apart from the inside.
“What about my sisters?” she asked, her voice breaking despite her effort. “Where are they?”
Sorren turned away, already losing interest.
“The second princess belongs to Kyran now. He enjoys breaking strong things.”
Sarayah’s stomach dropped.
“And the third?” she whispered.
A pause.
“Rhett,” Sorren replied. “Which means she won’t scream for long.”
The words shattered something in her.
“No,” Sarayah choked. “Please. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just—just don’t hurt them.”
Sorren looked back at her then.
Really looked.
For the first time since he’d entered the Blacklily hall, something flickered in his eyes. Not pity. Not mercy.
Curiosity.
“You’re offering yourself already?” he asked quietly. “Interesting.”
She straightened despite the tears spilling down her cheeks. “If that’s what it takes.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Sorren walked toward her again, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
He stopped inches from her face.
“You misunderstand, little princess,” he murmured. “You were never a bargaining chip.”
His hand rose, fingers brushing the side of her neck—not tender, not cruel. Possessive.
“You are the prize.”
Her knees weakened.
“I won’t break you,” he continued softly, his breath ghosting across her skin. “Not yet.”
He leaned closer, his lips near her ear.
“But Grimmoon will.”
He straightened and stepped back, the moment severed like a snapped thread.
“Take her to the east wing,” he ordered to the guards who had silently appeared. “Lock every door. Triple the wards.”
One guard hesitated. “My king… alone?”
Sorren’s gaze turned lethal.
“She is mine.”
The guards bowed instantly.
Hands seized Sarayah’s arms, pulling her away as panic surged anew.
“Sorren!” she cried out, hating herself for saying his name. “You promised—”
“I promised nothing,” he replied coldly, turning his back on her. “Sleep if you can, Princess Sarayah. Tomorrow, Grimmoon begins teaching you what you truly are.”
The doors slammed shut behind her.
And for the first time since her birthday began, Sarayah screamed.
Not for help.
Not for mercy.
But for strength—because she knew, deep in her bones, that survival here would cost her everything.
And Sorren Ole, King of Grimmoon, was watching closely to see if she would survive… or shatter.
- Writer
