Soft, small but soft. That is the first thing he feels on his hand. Her scent, subtle and elegant, drifts into his lungs, a fragile bloom tainted by his dirty mind.
Her skin is smooth, a stark contrast to the recent grit and gore, almost making him forget the sticky warmth coating his fingers, but the flash of memory, him in that courtyard once more, makes his stomach churn.
His arms slowly and unknowingly goes around her small frame while her gentle light settles on his wounds. The gashes seam themselves together, vanishing as if they were never there.
Only the dark stain spreading on his shirt and the red drying on his hand remain as silent witnesses.
She looks up into his eyes, their blue colours igniting a feeling she thought long gone. A familiarity.
"Wow, you move quick," Emmet's voice slices through the quiet, pulling Kane's head around. Emmet, Braga and several fairies emerge into the clearing, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above them.
Emilia's eyes widen at the sight of the hue soaked slit on the gut of his shirt, "What happened?" She springs forward toward them.
Lady Bramble's soft lights dissipate, dying down to a more eye-friendly hue.
"The Lady of Nirvana was just helping me control my ability. I teleported," his voice gravelly, and his eyes seem changed, the usual light dimmed by whatever he witnessed. Darkened.
Lady Bramble steps back, her hand slightly brushing his now-intact belly, "You seem completely healed,".
"What happened?" Emilia repeats.
Kane's gaze sweeps across the faces gathered. It lingers on Emilia's worried expression, slides past Emmet's strangely blank stare and finally settles on Braga, whose lips curve into a line of quiet curiosity.
"I went to Grimstone. I saw those bastards," he says, his face grim and his voice low, louder than a whisper. His jaw tightens, his eyes fixed on something distant and grim. Something etched in memory that he doesn't reveal to them.
Lady Bramble notices a familiar streak of emotion across his companions' features, "Grimstone is a place of bad memories for you all, isn't it?" Her voice remains as gentle as a breeze.
"Not all bad but yes, a place of bad memories," the seven footer looks down and then up, taking in a deep breath, "It is in our past now," he says.
"Fuck Grimstone," Emmet snaps, his voice sharp, his gaze piercing. "The most important question right now should be, can you control it now?"
Kane looks down at his hand and shakes his head, a disappointed sigh escapes his lips, "I'm not sure,".
"But, you are better," Braga's voice carries some positivity in them, "Improvement doesn't come overnight my friend," words of wisdom, strange from his lips and yet true.
"You should rest," Emilia murmurs, taking a step closer. Suddenly, her legs give way and she pitches forward into Kane's arms.
"Emilia!" her body burns hot against his skin, he places his hand over her head.
She shivers violently, her vision blurring, a sharp, searing pain climbing her spine. Worry etches lines on their faces as they surround her.
"What is wrong with her?" They gather around.
Lady Bramble places a hand on her head and then her chest, "The magic she has been wielding, it is taking a toll on her," she faces Braga, "Bring her. She needs to complete her ritual as a priestess of the gods or the pain will persist. But first, she needs rest" the fairy's voice is firm despite its softness.
Emmet's brows bend inwards as he clenches his fists, "The gods again," he mumbles as he helps lift Emilia before handing her over to Braga.
*******************************************************************************************************************************************************
In her darkened chambers, illuminated only by an opened window, a welcomed passage to faint breeze that blows the silk curtain softly while the winds whisper ambitions of madness to her.
The stone walls hang a portrait of her husband, draped in full royal regalia.
She traces patterns on her fingers, her eyes fixed on the painted image. Her head snaps sideways, her ear twitching at the faintest sound. A heartbeat, "Willow,".
The witch detaches herself from the deeper shadows, head bowed, her presence as quiet and unsettling as a slithering serpent.
"Tell me, what has become of Freya? What do my son and the royal council say behind my back?" Gwendolyn asks, twisting a strand of her long hair around her finger, her voice a low hiss.
"The council is filled with confusion, some wish for Freya's investigation but none wish her dead. And the prince, he let her leave this morning,".
The words mortify her, "What?!" She turns and a terrible wind throws Willow across the room. Gwendolyn's voice rises, thick with venom and the low rumble of thunder.
Crimson light flares in her eyes as claws, sharp and long, extend from her finger tips, raking lines down the stone wall.
"They dare undermine my word. I saw her kill those guards," her voice reaches a shriek, vibrating with such force that her husband's portrait rattles on the wall.
She storms out of the room, gathering the hem of her gown slightly above the floor. Fury propels her, her brows furrowed so deeply they seem carved from stone. Her teeth grind audibly as she strides toward the throne room.
She shoves the massive doors inward to find Alaric standing before the throne, three council members flanking him.
"How dare you let her go?" Her voice is thunderous as it cuts through the air. Alaric tries to maintain his gaze, but slightly looks away before composing himself. His plan seems to be falling apart already.
"She is a criminal. A killer, why is she not dead?" her voice echoes through the council hall, her teeth grinding against each other, "You insult me, son".
Alaric takes a deep breath, brows furrowed, he looks up at his mother, "Allow me to pass judgement as I see fit," "You are not passing judgement, I am." She snarls, pacing back and forth, her eyes fixed on him with vicious intensity.
"I am still the Queen of HighTown,".
"And he is future King of High Town. I believe that trumps Queen," Lord Jaxriel interjects, stroking his beards while a smirk crosses his lips.
Gwendolyn glares at the council member, with a wave of her hand a powerful force throws him across the room, "You are not king yet, boy" she spits.
"Open your eyes, demon! I'm not a boy. And I am the one who steers this kingdom, not a woman corrupted by evil", he roars back, anger crawling up his throat.
"How dare you?" Gwendolyn's voice drops, laced with pure menace.
"You may be Queen. You may have the authority of that title," Alaric concedes, taking a crucial breath.
"But father taught me something about power and authority. It resides where the people believe it resides," he says, taking a pause of breath, "And right now… mother… that is not with you".
Lord Lionsbeard and Lord Callisto watch intently, sweat dripping down the side of their face as they sense something akin to danger fill the room.
The Queen begins to laugh hysterically. She laps her forehead and sweeps her hair backwards, "Authority and power? You amuse me. Can you not see, son? I hold the power here," her voice is now dangerously cold, stripped bare of warmth.
In a blink, she stands directly before them. With terrifying speed, she lashes out, sending Rowan and Vorlag sprawling across the floor.
She seizes Alaric by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off his feet.
"I have been patient with you, my son. I hoped you would come to see things my way, but you have clearly showed me that I was delusional.
You have chosen that criminal over me, your own mother." her grip tightens as she speaks.
Alaric kicks and struggles to remove her unrelenting grip.
Vorlag lets a roar rip the air, scrambling to his feet. "Take your hands off him," he says and the queen glares at him. She throws Alaric on the floor, leaving him coughing and gasping for air.
She walks, eyes filled with dark intent as thin claws drop from her fingers.
"You raise your voice against your Queen," "You are not yourself, Your Majesty. Calm yourself," Vorlag tries to reason, holding up his hands. In a flash she appears before him and slashes his chest.
"Stop!" Rowan's voice echoes through the room.
He whips out a crooked wand and points it at the Queen, stopping her in her tracks, "Guards!" He summons.
Two guards enter the room and suddenly the doors shut tightly behind them.
Rowan begins to groan as he feels his spell wane, "Protect the prince!" He orders as Alaric struggles to his feet.
Gwendolyn begins to move slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixing on the elf with lethal intent.
"You are dead!" She screams, her eyes turn red with fury. Crimson beams suddenly blast through her eyes toward the elf who is forced to duck, breaking his hold on the Queen.
She charges forward but Vorlag follows from behind, he grabs her but she throws him off.
"Mother, stop it!" Alaric raises his voice but his words fall on deaf ears.
She closes on Rowan, seizing his wand hand before he can cast again. Bone grinds under her grip as she crushes his hand.
His screams become a solemn melody in her ears.
She spins him around with terrifying swiftness and, in one swift, brutal motion, sinks impossibly long fangs deep into his neck, her other hand tightening its vise-like grip around his throat.
The councilman struggles but nothing, he is weak under her strength. His vision tunnels, the light dimming as life slips away.