by S D Simper
Flowridia laughed as she lifted the little skeletal creature into her arms and headed towards Casvir’s office, the only path she knew.
When she found it empty, Flowridia clutched Ana tight to her chest, realizing she was absolutely lost. Accepting the risk of treading down unfamiliar paths, Flowridia traversed a different hall and came across a staircase.
She headed downward. The hallway she appeared in looked indistinguishable from the previous floor, complete with plush carpet and black sand. Flowridia stayed at the center, wondering to which god she would have to pledge to stumble upon a kitchen.
But there were signs of life here, at least. Various servants—living De’Sindai, instead of the oft-seen hooded figures—chatted within rooms as they dusted and cleaned, and whose gossip Flowridia didn’t care to listen to.
“Did you know the Viceroy has been planning the wedding since the proposal? Oh, I hope I’m invited to Staelash—”
And another room. This time, she lingered.
“Imperator Casvir is back, they say. The girl is still with him.”
“Who is she?”
“The Grand Diplomat of Staelash, but they’re saying she has higher titles in mind.”
“You mean—”
“With Imperator Casvir?”
“He’s never shown interest in—”
The trio of servant women stopped, suddenly aware of the wide-eyed girl standing in the doorway. Flowridia smiled, hoping it served to hide how awkward she felt at the attention. “Speaking of whom,” she said stiffly, “do you know where Casvir is?”
One De’Sindai girl. with fiery magenta skin and hair braided down to her knees, nodded and pointed in the same direction Flowridia had been traveling. “Try the throne room.”
She nodded and resolved to never speak a word of what she’d overheard to Casvir.
Flowridia continued forward, when Demitri’s voice settled into her head. So, you and Casvir?
“Don’t even joke, Demitri.”
I’ll bite his face off. That’ll settle any—
“Demitri, please,” she spat, but she kept her annoyance soft. “I only want to know how a rumor like that was started.”
Even Staelash had heard the vile conspiracy.
Flowridia reached a massive set of double doors, ones that swung open at her touch. Within, her steps echoed across high ceilings and polished stone. Upon the walls were banners bearing the emblem of Nox’Kartha—rich arrays of red and black, upon which a gold coin embossed within a skull sat centered—along with all manner of trophies and weapons. Opulent and beautiful, yes, yet it radiated the slightest aura of menace. Marielle’s throne room had displayed velvet and trinkets; Casvir’s throne room matched the ruthless tyrant in grandeur.
Centered upon a pedestal of stairs was a lone throne, crafted from iron and plain cloth, bereft of finery. Beside it sat the very dragon she and Casvir had fought and subdued, utterly still though its eyes glowed an ominous purple. Its skeletal mass easily fit within the expansive room, docile as it loomed before the small crowd.
Standing tall was Casvir himself, surrounded by a gaggle of skittish De’Sindai and a lone speaker Flowridia recognized.
“. . . really is in need of an upgrade. Imagine the spectacle! Any audience would see you, Casvir, seated upon a throne of bone—”
When Casvir turned at her entrance, so did the rest, including the handsome man Flowridia had met that first night, the one who had caught her crying in the hallway. Casvir’s expression remained stoic as his red eyes bore into her, but the other man beamed, pure sunshine in every gesture. “Lady Flowridia! Your presence truly does brighten up this droll place.” He gasped, utter delight in the gesture. “And I see you found your gift! The dress suits you perfectly, you lovely thing.”
Startled at the attention, Flowridia dared to take a step forward, squeezing Ana tight to her chest. “Forgive me,” she said softly as the man approached, wary of the eyes of the servants upon her. “But I don’t know who you are.”
The man’s hand flew to his mouth. “No, no—forgive me,” he replied, stepping forward quickly now. “I hadn’t realized I’d been so rude.” He stretched his arms wide and bowed. All of his actions seemed soaked in dramatics. “I am Viceroy Murishani.”
So this was the man planning Marielle’s wedding. When he offered a hand, Flowridia accepted, noting the saccharine fruitiness of his scent and the firmness of his grip. Unsurprising, really, given that he was the second most powerful man in this castle. “A delight to meet you, Viceroy—”
He waved off her words. “What are titles among friends?” He placed a hand on her back and escorted her forward, gesturing toward the skeletal dragon. “I was just telling Casvir what a grand display it would be if we were to craft a throne of bones—dragon bones specifically. Imagine, should any attackers approach, their fear when the very seat upon which Casvir rests turns into a dragon.” He smiled, his perfectly white teeth catching the light and gleaming. “What do you think, Flowridia? You seem to be a woman of fine tastes.”
Casvir said absolutely nothing, looking unimpressed at best, and Flowridia fought the innate urge to stutter, unsure of how to answer. “I think it could be . . . something.”
Murishani withdrew his hand from the small of her back, clapping in palpable delight. “She suits this place, Casvir, just as she suits you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Flowridia whispered, ignoring the nervous rise of bile in her stomach.
“And here I thought our resident bachelor king would remain alone forever,” Murishani said, a hand upon his heart. “But look at you—as beautiful as the sunrise. Of course he’d succumb—”
“Enough,” Casvir said darkly, and Murishani promptly shut his mouth. Flowridia watched Casvir survey the room, the onlookers looking nothing less than shocked at the blatant insinuation. “Lady Flowridia is my ward and nothing more.”
Murishani’s hand rose to cover his mouth, yet Flowridia swore it only hid mischievous glee. “Was I mistaken, Cassie? Well, silly me.”
Flowridia wondered what sort of death wish one had to have to refer to Imperator Casvir as ‘Cassie,’ but behind her, she heard the faintest beginnings of boisterous conversation from the hall.
“A pity,” the viceroy said, with all the cares of a man who hadn’t sassed the resident tyrant. “I was already naming your children; what lovely things they’d be, with her doe eyes and your enormous—”
“Viceroy Murishani,” Casvir replied, and Flowridia shrunk at the palpable undercurrent of menace. “You and I will be addressing this in private—”
The doors slammed open, metal banging against stone. What Flowridia saw caused her to nearly teeter and fall. Ana jumped from her arms as they went slack; Demitri pushed against her back, keeping Flowridia upright.
Her presence filled the throne room, power in every hooved step. Flowridia swore that time slowed, the half-demon’s entrance causing her heart to stop. Blue-skinned and tattooed in brilliant silver, Khastra was unmistakable, even with the brutal gash across her mouth—evidence of The Endless Night’s onslaught. She wore no armor, and Flowridia swore it made the gargantuan woman stand even larger, every massive muscle beneath her thin shirt shifting as she walked. With sweeping horns to rival Casvir’s—she stood a head taller at least, even without them—and a tail gently following behind her powerful steps, she spoke to the men flanking her on either side as her glowing eyes scanned the room. “. . . nothing to defend the citizens beyond the walls. The defenses of this city are adequate at best, but that is no excuse for—”
Her eyes settled onto Casvir and then the skeletal mass seated obediently beside them. “Imperator, I wanted to discuss the dragon.”
Her accent held the familiar lilt, guttural yet charming, and Flowridia could only stare as Casvir nodded.
“The presence of a dragon would do well for protecting the villages beyond your city walls.”
Faced with Khastra’s back, Flowridia saw odd protrusions through the
shirt—strangely flat and certainly not muscle.
Casvir said, “Tell me.”
Khastra launched into an explanation filled with jargon Flowridia couldn’t hope to understand, knowing full well she knew little of military tactics. But the woman spoke with an assurance and bravado Flowridia hadn’t seen in Staelash. Well, bravado, yes, but only outside of official business. Many times, Flowridia had stumbled across Khastra and Etolié sharing some laugh in the recesses of the underground library, but otherwise, Flowridia knew the former Solviran General as . . . bored.
Flowridia understood, watching the supposed dead woman speak, why she was renowned. She also wondered, with all seriousness, if she’d fallen asleep in the bathtub—she couldn’t say what was more outlandish: Khastra’s apparent reappearance or Murishani’s audacity in using the pet name ‘Cassie.’
“Demitri,” she whispered, all eyes in the room on the imposing woman, “is that really . . ?
She smells like death.
Flowridia’s head grew light, disengaged until she heard a familiar voice say, “Tiny one?”
She looked up and met Khastra’s eye, unsure if she were relieved to see that jovial smile or not, even as it steadily faded into surprise.
“General, I will consider your words,” Flowridia heard Casvir say. “In the meantime, it seems you and Lady Flowridia have reason to speak.”
With a respectful nod to Casvir, Khastra beckoned for Flowridia to follow her from the throne room.
Once the door had shut, Khastra stopped in the doorway. Unable to contain her surprise any longer, Flowridia said, “Khastra, how did this—”
“What are you doing here?” Khastra interrupted, her glowing eyes narrowing. A frown tugged at her elegant face. As she spoke, she crossed her arms, and Flowridia wondered if her biceps would burst through the shirt.
Flowridia had been on the receiving end of Khastra’s scrutiny before, but an unfamiliar coldness permeated the former general’s aura that froze her to the core. Steeling her courage, she rebounded with, “I could ask you the same.”
“A story for a story, then,” Khastra said, stance relaxing. When her gaze settled onto Demitri, the hint of a smile tugged on her lip. “He has grown.” Then, she knelt on the ground and offered a hand to the skeletal fox. “A strange pet you have.”
“She’s my undead minion, as Casvir put it,” Flowridia said, nervous at the admittance. Khastra was a piece of her life in Staelash, and she wondered how this new development would be received by the rest. “Khastra, why—”
“Of all the people to have a talent for necromancy, I would not have guessed you.” Khastra seemed unbothered, and instead looked amused when Ana pressed her little skull against her finger. She returned to her feet—hooves, rather—and said, “You look half-starved, tiny one.”
Perturbed at the remark, Flowridia was prepared to object to food for sheer spite. Perhaps, with Etolié’s absence, Khastra felt the need to berate others for their eating habits instead.
Thoughts of the Celestial sobered her irritation. “I don’t actually know where the kitchen is.” Khastra beckoned for her to follow. “Are you truly dead?”
“I am. Casvir considered my death a waste.”
Perfection, this half-demon woman in undeath, with the laughter lines around her eyes and the hint of a smile gracing her lips, even with the scar marring the corner. Yet, there must have been a catch. Something to miss. Flowridia glanced back down and saw the protrusions from her shirt. Khastra’s spine had been all but severed. What held her together now?
Still, leave it to Khastra to be all but indifferent about undeath. She didn’t appear to be suffering much, neither in body or spirit. Casvir, it seemed, wanted her preserved for both her physique and her mind.
Yet . . .
Despite herself, Flowridia took Khastra’s hand, noting its rough texture and its warmth. Before the former general could comment, she pressed a finger to the woman’s wrist and frowned at what she felt—a pulse. “You aren’t dead.”
“I am dead enough, tiny one,” Khastra said, stealing back the appendage. She stared a moment at her hand, flexing her fingers as she breathed out a sigh.
Khastra breathed.
“I am dead,” Khastra repeated, as though this were some momentous truth to accept. She let her hand fall to her side. Her strides slowed, but still they walked. “A strange new adventure, but anything new is a rarity at my age. Necromancy keeps my soul and mind in my body. But my body itself, as was explained to me, is a new sort of experiment, something Imperator Casvir has never tried before. I am useful because of my age and knowledge. I will be announced as the General of the Deathless Army in due time, but my mother’s blood grants me abilities beyond what I could achieve on my own. You have seen it.”
Flowridia had. As Bringer of War, her birthright as a Daughter of Ku’Shya, Khastra held potent powers—such as the ability to turn into a monster and slaughter the God of Order.
Or, attempt to, rather, given that The Endless Night had intervened.
Flowridia shoved the raw memories aside. She simply gave a nod.
“They are working to preserve my power, which means my body must produce blood. My heart must beat. My body must continue biological function, despite remaining in stasis.”
“Given that you’re up and walking, I presume they’ve succeeded?”
Khastra remained silent a moment, lips pursed when she finally said, “I do hope so.”
Decadent smells wafted against Flowridia’s senses, and when Khastra held open the door, Flowridia stepped into a busy kitchen swarming with servants bickering left and right. “I need food for the tiny one,” Khastra called out, every bit the military leader. The array of servants spared her only a glance before nodding their assent. “No meat. No mushrooms.”
Flowridia couldn’t help but feel touched that she remembered.
As the food was prepared, Khastra leaned against the wall, arms crossed as she asked, “Why are you here?”
Khastra knew absolutely nothing, Flowridia realized, and so she launched into her tale, finding it wonderful to speak of. She started at the beginning, of her deal with Casvir, detailing his words, withholding only the offer of Ayla’s return.
Khastra might have been understandably bitter towards Flowridia’s deceased love.
Her story was interrupted by the appearance of food. Soon, Flowridia sat in the room next door, seated at a small table with a plate of steaming vegetables and some sort of foreign legume. Demitri lounged on the floor, content with his meal of freshly killed ox, while Ana pranced around him, apparently amused by the sounds of him consuming his meal. Fortunately, she made no attempt to steal any, lest she be next.
Khastra moved to the doorway. “Are you settled, tiny one?”
Flowridia nodded, her mouth full of decadent flavor.
“Then I will leave you.”
Khastra twisted the doorknob, but Flowridia forced her half-chewed food down her throat and cried, “Wait!”
The half-demon glanced back at her. “Yes?”
“Does anyone else know?”
Khastra’s hand paled against the doorframe, so tight was her grip. Her face remained ambivalent, but Flowridia knew she had crossed an unspoken line. “No, they do not.”
“Why?” Flowridia dared to press. “Has Casvir forbidden it?”
“Imperator Casvir has said little on the matter, only that we will wait to announce my position in his court until my body is stable.”
“But what of Staelash?”
Sudden snapping of wood caused Flowridia’s words to shrivel and die in her throat. The doorframe beneath Khastra’s grip bore a lengthy crack.
The half-demon released it, the tension in her body relaxing as her lips twisted into a frown. “The best way to move forward is to cast everything aside and forget the past. I will do as much for Staelash.”
Khastra left Flowridia and the broken doorframe behind. But Flowridia, shocked at the harsh words, followed. “K
hastra, they will find out you’re here.”
“They will,” Khastra said, though she did not stop walking. “I would prefer it not be by your tongue, but I cannot stop you.”
Flowridia ran to catch up. When she stopped in front of the half-demon, the line of Khastra’s mouth turned severe. But though she radiated a daunting aura, Flowridia had cried for her, had mourned for her. Her sorrow manifested as barely contained fury. “You gave your life for Staelash! How can you forget them?”
Khastra merely looked unimpressed. “You will recall I died in the Theocracy—not Staelash.”
When Khastra stepped forward, Flowridia stepped back, keeping herself in front of her. Foolish, yes, but she remembered a tear-stained Celestial who wept for her broken heart. “Were you truly so miserable that you would abandon everyone who cared about you?”
“Yes.”
Not the response she expected. “What?”
“In the time of extended peace, Emperor Malakh forgot what I am, and all of Solvira with him. I am Ku’Shya’s eldest and greatest. I served Solvira for over two thousand years, and because of me, Solvira rose to become the greatest kingdom in the world. I have led armies of hundreds of thousands, so when the emperor asked me to serve as a bodyguard to the rulers of Staelash, it was an insult. I told him no.” Behind her set jaw, Khastra breathed, and Flowridia imagined smoke escaping her nostrils. “Imperator Casvir respects my talents and my heritage. I will be serving in a position worthy of my time, and I revel in the prospect of shedding blood in his name. Nox’Kartha will rise to topple Solvira, and good riddance.”
The words sent a chill through Flowridia’s body. “But your friends—”
“When Staelash finds out of my presence in Nox’Kartha, bloodshed may be inevitable, knowing the brashness of their council. Empress Alauriel is wise and will do what she can to rein them back, but Marielle is a fool, and Etolié . . .” Khastra’s expression turned to steel, yet Flowridia saw the chink in the half-demon’s armor, the slight twitch of her lip. “For all her façade of tact, she is impulsive.”