Page 10 of Nocturn

I-I killed him.

I could not move, not even to escape. Death wasn’t new to me, but I had never killed someone. What had I done?

My vision swam and pinpricks spread up my arms.

Thundering, floor-shaking steps approached. The Warlord entered, his head slightly cocked, taking in the officers, me, and settling on the dead body.

“Speak,” he ordered, his voice silky.

“My lord, she murdered one of the Guard,” the wiry man blurted, keeping his head lowered.

“And why are you here with the Vessel?”

His mouth opened and closed.

Instead of pushing the wiry man, the Warlord strode to the dead body. He stood over it and cocked his head.

“The dead do not keep secrets from me.”

The deceased body undulated, and his veins bulged, neck straining. I watched in awe. I’d heard of his gift: necromancy.

Black lines traveled through the visible parts of the corpse’s body, running through his veins. He suddenly sputtered, his chest arching on the spike impaling him. Coughing sent fits of blood spraying from his mouth.

“Why are you with the Vessel?”

“She harmed one of our women. Tried to choke her. We were simply teaching her a lesson⁠—”

It all spilled out of him, but he did not have the chance to finish.

The Warlord slammed his thick boot down on his head. Brains burst under his foot. I cupped my mouth to stop my scream.

The Warlord looked at the officer standing over me, the look so fixed it sent terror churning inside me. He slowly approached, keeping his focus steady. The smell of urine stung my nose, followed by liquid dribbling onto the front of the officer’s boots.

“Her body must not be irreparably harmed,” he whispered, voice terrifyingly low. His large, meaty hand lashed out. The high-ranking officer went flying against the wall, hitting with a wet thud, then slid to the ground, no sign of avarice on his slack face.

In the aftermath of silence, my harsh breathing infiltrated the chamber. The moon was in the process of completing its turn. Soon the birds’ chorus would begin.

Boris dropped to his knees, head bowed.

“My lord,” he wheedled.

The Warlord was already before him with a few large strides, then cupped the sides of his head and twisted. Bones popped and skin stretched. As gruesome as the sight was, I could not turn away. The Warlord yanked, and flesh snapped, blood spattering with the detached head. Gory insides flew and splattered against my cheek. The headless, kneeling body twitched and toppled back. He tossed the head beside it, the wet smack rousing a gag.

By the grace of the Saints, I did not vomit again.

As soon as his body stopped seizing, the silence was eerie. He turned toward me, sending my heart to my throat. I could not think or move under his unnerving gaze, with red and gold pulsing, yet never mingling.

“Stand up.” Another thrum of my heart. “Now,” he bit out, in a silky, dangerous voice. I jolted as if the order struck me like a spear through my gut.

I tried with everything in me to stand, settling my hand on the floor. A throb took hold of my tailbone, and I groaned, my focus following the bloodshed.

Mother’s body ripped in half, Father’s torso—just his torso right next to her, while Arik lay, his throat ripped out. All of it flooded my head, slamming against my nerves and locking me in place.

The Warlord stared down at me, his expressionless features melting into anger.

“I cannot move. I-I am sorry,” I croaked.

He hissed a breath out between his teeth, flashing two long fangs sharpened at the tips. Then he hoisted me up into his arms so quickly I could only brace myself on his chest. My hand collided with blood absorbed by his linen tunic, the slick sensation coming away on my fingertips.