CHAPTER 132: ONE HUNDRED & THIRTY TWO

Valka

The pitcher smashes into the wall, shattering against the marble. Rafael staggers, his clothes rumpled, his eyes bruised purple from sleepless nights, the grey of them blown so wide they’re almost black. "You all laugh at me!" he bellows, spinning in a wild circle, pointing at the trembling faces of his court. "All of you! You’ve all betrayed me!"

Lilith casts a sharp glance at the crowd. "The King has had too much to drink and must retire to his chambers to rest. You’re all dismissed--"

"No!" Rafael snarls, seizing the massive vase beside his throne. He hurls it across the hall.

Lilith barely dodges as it explodes against the pillar behind her, shards flying. Her command might have sent the courtiers scattering, but fear finishes the job. They flee, tripping over gowns and chairs, desperate to escape the path of the next thing he throws.

Still, Lilith lunges forward, catching him by his torso before he hits the ground.

He pushes her off him. "Don’t touch me." His gaze flicks wildly, unfocused, searching for something or someone. "Valka will do it." His eyes land on me, but he somehow doesn’t see me. A distressed growl slips from him. "Where is she?"

They say madness is a slow rot, that it creeps in like mildew, soft and damp, until you forget what it used to feel like to wade through clarity.

But watching Rafael fall apart, I learn that madness can also be a detonation. A single spark, and the whole thing burns.

Perhaps, it was the blood on the walls.

Or maybe it was the fact that the King was unnervingly close enough to make such a dastard display. Or maybe it was the fact that Rafael couldn’t stand not having things go his way.

But he began to spiral.

At first, it’s the unrelenting pacing. The finger stuck to his chin as he muttered, stared too long at nothing, then whispered, conversations with ghosts no one else could see. And then, it was the distrust of every one around him. Someone must have betrayed him. Someone had to have sold him out to the enemy. It was worsened yet when word reached that Voss had pulled out of the fight.

His Council advised that he sent his men to join the army at the Velyric, because without Voss, it was a lost battle.

Paranoia drove him into refusing. The people were now so frightened, they rarely ever left their homes. And those who remained at court were those who were stuck when Lucien’s berserking began. They couldn’t leave, not when new bodies hung up the walls every day. So naturally, when the king started to seem more concerned with his own safety, putting into play the very soldiers derived from all the houses in Silvermoor to protect himself only, the Council began to rebel.

And Rafael Draemir began killing them.

On what terms? Treachery. Treason. Mockery.

The servants who hesitated too long. The guards whose jaws ticked at his orders. The heralds who were unfortunate to deliver the bad news. Council members who dared to express their displeasure.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

The throne room reeks of fresh blood that hasn’t had time to dry. No one dares breathe too loudly. No one dares oppose him.

And every morning, he looks thinner. The bags beneath his eyes sink deeper, purple as bruises. He still dresses like a king, but the crown keeps slipping.

His hair is tangled, his beard unkempt, his clothes a ruin of silk and wine stains.

And still, he laughs sometimes, softly, to himself. Like he knows a secret none of us do.

I step out from where the rest of the women are, my skirts lifted by my hands, and I ignore Lilith’s narrowed gaze as I hedge my arm under his shoulder and take on the most of his weight. "Here," I say softly as he leans against me. "I’m here."

He is a mess of garbled gibberish as I follow the hallways leading up to his chambers.

"No. Take me to yours," he slurs. "It’s... cold. Always... been..."

My fingertips tighten on his arm as I turn around the corner, leading him to my bedroom instead. He says nothing, his weight near crushing, his breaths slow and steady as he shifts in and out of unconsciousness, forcing us into lethal staggers that nearly sends us over the railings.

But when eventually reach my chambers and he slumps hard in the center of my bed, his eyes shutting almost immediately as he groans. My fingers tighten on my skirts and I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure what to do. I’ve wanted to kill him for so long, when the opportunity finally presents itself, I find myself freezing.

Perhaps it is because I have never killed a disarmed man before.

"I--I’ll get you some tea for the hangover," I say swiftly, needing a moment to grow a spine and articulate my thoughts, but he catches my wrist before I can retreat even a step backward and yanks me down atop him.

My limbs turn to lead and I brace my arms against his chest, fighting him off, but his grip tightens around my waist. "Please," he whispers, breath hot with the stench of alcohol. "Just for tonight. Stay here with me, Valka."

His eyes are still closed. His hands don’t stray from my waist. He doesn’t seem inclined to touch me tonight, and the plea in his tone makes it seem like he just doesn’t want to be alone. Even if he doesn’t deserve my company, I peer into his hollow, tired face and force myself to relax. "Alright."

He lets me go and I sit by his side, feeling my body stiffen again when he sets his head on my thighs, grasping my fingers softly and pushing them through the coppery strands like a child starved of affection.

"He’ll kill me," he murmurs as I continue stroking his scalp like he wants me to. "Won’t he?"

No point in lying to a dead man. "Yes."

He laughs softly, arms curling tighter around me and he snuggles deeper. "I suppose surrendering wouldn’t change a thing."

"It wouldn’t."

His long fingers tease the tips of my hair cascading down my back and his voice is fainter, muffled against my skin as he asks, "Would you scream for me like you did that day? Do you think you could pretend for even a moment that I mattered to you? I think I’d die a little content if I thought I mattered to someone enough that they’d weep for me."

My fingers pause in his hair. "If you want someone to mourn you, you best begin staring in the mirror a little longer everyday. Mourn yourself, the man you could’ve been if you hand chosen a different path. Mourn your decisions and those who have died from it. Because I will not." I continue stroking his hair. "I will hand him the blade and help him stab you to death."

Another soft laugh, and he grips me tighter still. He says nothing for a while and just when I think he’s fallen asleep, he whispers again, "Do you think if we had more time, you could have learned to love me? Even a little?"

"No," I say without missing a single heartbeat.

A says nothing else after that, and after a few minutes, his hold on me loosens, a soft snore parting his lips. I watch his slumber deepen for another hour, feeling the weight of the knife I’d stolen from the revelry strapped to my inner thigh as intimately as the breath that leaves my nostrils.

Very slowly, I take it out.

The metal bites into my palm as I lift it, holding my breath in tightly. My fingers tremble slightly as I hold it over his left eye. Kill him, my mind tells me. End it now. Even his people will thank me for it. He deserves to die. He deserves worse for everything he’s done.

I bring it down and it is one inch away from his left eye when he begins sobbing in his sleep.

I stiffen. He twists, fingers curling around the hem of my dress. His dark brows pull together and tears roll down his cheek. "Stop. Please. Stop." The sobs come harder, silent still, like he’s been taught to keep it quiet.

His head tilts roughly, his hair fallen over his cheek and for the first time, I see something behind his ear. At first sight, I think it is a tattoo, almost faded with time, but my hand lowers when I see the word branded into the back of his ear.

"Mongrel."

I stare into Rafael Draemir’s face and realize it is both possible to despise a person and feel sorry for them. How old was he? Twenty-nine? Younger? No one his age had any business dealing with this level of psychosis.

And it was no surprise he went mad, if he was himself, experimented on.

I drop the knife.

Lyra would have done it, regardless. But Valka wouldn’t kill a man who was as tortured in his waking moments as he was in his sleep. In doing so, I grant him one more day, thinking him no different from those still stuck under the castle in those dungeons. Thinking him a child who had lost his way.

And maybe he was.

But gods, do I regret my decision very quickly.