Chapter 3
1322 Words
He remembered the taste of blood, too.
Not the kind that burst from a prey's throat. His mother's blood.
Hot. Scalding.
It dripped from the stake and fell onto his upturned face like silent rain. Each drop burned. Each drop sank deeper. Until the heat carved itself into his bones.
He was ten, the first time he understood hatred.
Not hatred for enemies.
Hatred for fate.
For something unseen, untouchable, yet wrapped around his family's throats like chains. Tightening. Suffocating. Inevitable.
“Don't look.”
A hand covered his eyes.
Large. Pale. Cold.
Elegant fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. The kind of refinement only pure blood nobles possessed. The bones beneath the skin were sharp, almost like carved marble.
Elder Claudius.
The same hand that had ruled the council for three thousand years. The same hand that had just signed his mother's death sentence.
But the hand could not block the fire.
And it could not block her eyes.
She was looking at him.
Across the roaring flames. Across the nobles screaming, “Burn her.” Across the smoke and ash choking the sky.
Her gaze cut through everything.
And found him.
Her eyes burned like stars at the moment before they died. Bright. Fierce. Unyielding.
She did not cry.
She did not beg.
She was not afraid.
Her lips moved.
Three words.
He could not hear them.
The fire was too loud. The crowd was too loud. His heartbeat was too loud.
But he understood.
He read her lips.
“Live.”
The word pierced through everything.
Through fire. Through smoke. Through distance.
Straight into his heart.
Not because it was sharp.
But because it had always belonged there.
As if the blade had been waiting for him since the moment he was born.
The flames swallowed her face.
Gone.
Behind him, something fell.
Heavy.
Final.
He turned.
His father lay on the steps.
Blood spread beneath him, dark and thick, sliding down the stone like something alive. A silver dagger was buried in his chest. The mark of the pureblood faction.
The same dagger used in every coup.
A tradition.
Cruel. Precise. Repeated.
His father's eyes were still open.
Still looking toward the flames.
Toward her.
He was already dead.
But he had still crawled there.
From the dungeon. To the foot of the throne.
Three hundred seventy-two steps.
He had bled across every one of them.
At the final step, he stopped.
One hand stretched forward.
Reaching for something he would never touch.
The hand over Cain's eyes moved.
It settled on his shoulder.
Firm. Cold.
Like chains tightening.
The chill seeped through his thin mourning clothes, pressing into his skin.
Snake-cold.
His mother’s voice echoed faintly in his memory.
Purebloods have no hearts. Their blood runs cold.
“Do you see?” Claudius whispered.
Only for him.
Soft. Low.
Like something slithering through sand.
“This is the price of fate.”
A pause.
“If you love, your entire clan dies.”
Ten-year-old Cain stood there.
And watched everything.
Ash drifted down.
White. Soft.
Almost like snow.
But not snow.
Because when it touched his skin, it was still warm.
Still carried the faint sweetness of burned flesh.
He watched his father’s body being dragged away.
One guard holding each leg.
Like garbage.
Like something disposable.
He watched the nobles.
The same ones who had screamed for her death.
They turned. Straightened their clothes. Wiped their faces.
And bowed.
Perfectly.
“Long live the King.”
Their voices were loud. Uniform. Practiced.
Like a choir.
Cain stood on the steps.
Looking down at them.
Bent backs. Lowered heads. Carefully arranged loyalty.
He did not cry.
From that day on, he never cried again.
Not because he was strong.
Because he locked everything away.
Every tear. Every weakness.
Buried it deep inside himself.
And swallowed the key.
In a single day, a ten-year-old boy lost everything.
His parents. His childhood. His trust in the world.
All that remained was a crown.
A throne.
And a cursed life that could not afford weakness.
Twelve hundred years later.
Cain stood before his throne, looking down at the messenger kneeling below.
The Eternal Night had no day.
But the throne hall still followed time. Ancient magic shaped the light. Thousands of luminous stones painted the illusion of a sky.
Now they glowed dim violet.
Dusk.
The hour he ruled.
The messenger knelt low, forehead nearly touching the ground. His shoulders trembled.
Not from cold.
From fear.
Everyone feared Cain.
That was enough.
He did not need love.
He did not need closeness.
Only fear.
“The human king has sent a letter,” the messenger said, voice tight with restraint.
“It concerns the fated mate.”
Silence.
The nobles exchanged glances.
Some hopeful. Some cautious. Most watching him.
Waiting.
Cain did not move.
Did not look at the letter.
“Fated mate.”
The words meant nothing.
For twelve hundred years, he had heard them countless times.
At councils. At banquets. From nobles eager to bind him.
Each time, he gave the same answer.
Silence.
Then absence.
Those who insisted did not live long.
He had crushed rebellions.
At two hundred, he hung a rebel leader’s head on the city wall for a year.
At five hundred, he purged the council.
Seventeen heads. Lined along the road.
A warning written in blood.
He had executed three pureblood leaders himself.
The last one was Marcus.
His only friend.
Marcus begged.
Looked at him like before.
Like they were still boys.
Cain said one word.
“Kill.”
His hands were stained with blood.
Enemies. Allies. Even his own.
Every night, he cut his wrist.
Not for pain.
For memory.
You are king.
You need no love.
Only power.
Only fear.
“Burn it.”
He turned.
His black robe brushed the floor.
Unchanged for twelve hundred years.
A reminder.
Weakness leads to death.
“Your Majesty…”
“I said. Burn it.”
Quiet.
Cold.
Final.
No one spoke again.
Midnight.
Cain stood by the window.
The kingdom stretched below.
Endless.
Silent.
Dead.
The sky remained gray-purple.
The moon unmoving.
Watching.
Always watching.
For twelve hundred years.
He had seen everything.
Too much.
And yet, every night, he remembered.
Not his mother.
His brother.
A child.
Three years old.
Dying in his arms.
His blood was warm.
Too warm.
Hot enough to burn.
Hot enough to teach him what helplessness meant.
He closed his eyes.
Fire. Blood. Loss.
He opened them.
Nothing.
Only silence.
Only loneliness.
“Your Majesty.”
Drake’s voice came from the door.
“Enter.”
Drake stepped in.
Holding the letter.
Untouched.
Cain looked at him.
A quiet glance.
Sharp enough to cut.
“I thought I was clear.”
“You were.”
Drake did not step back.
Eight hundred years beside him.
He knew.
“This, you need to read.”
Silence.
Then.
“The human king says he has found your fated mate.”
A breath.
“She is already on her way.”
Another.
“She will arrive in three days.”
Silence pressed down.
“And…”
Drake hesitated.
Rare.
“She is a descendant of witches.”
Cain's fingers stilled.
Barely.
But enough.
The curse.
The origin.
“And her blood…”
Drake's voice lowered.
“…will make you addicted.”
Cain took the letter.
Read it.
Slowly.
Then burned it.
Watched it turn to ash.
Disappear.
“Let her come.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“I will let her live.”
A pause.
“I will not touch her.”
Another.
“I will not love her.”
Ash slipped through his fingers.
“She is only a tool.”
Drake said nothing.
Because he knew.
This king believed in nothing but control.
Nothing but fear.
Nothing but survival.
But some things cannot be controlled.
And some curses do not care whether you believe in them or not.
- Writer
