Page 31 of Fated to the Wicked King

Rabb did remember. He remembered his life before he was crowned king. He remembered having been with me. He remembered us.

I gathered my hair up to fix it and slipped my hairpin back on.

The next conundrum to tackle being then—why was Rabb acting this way? Was my theory correct? Was something or someone simply compelling him to act like a monster? Was he desperately trying to fight off another evil spell?

I would be more than willing to unravel the mystery and help him find a solution. I was sure I could do it.

It was odd that I hadn’t been summoned at all this morning. There must not have been any interrogations planned.

I peeked through the crack in my door at the dim hallways—empty, as usual. But I was glad to be free to wander around the castle during the day for once.

Strange that the hallways were about as dark as they were at night, even in the day.

The castle décor was remarkably sparse. Aside from the few torches lining the walls, one or two tapestries of lions lazing amidst meadows, the only other things of note were the several framed paintings.

One particular worn, gilded frame cradled a portrait of a king, a queen, and their young prince, all dressed in their finery, their smiles serene and untouched. But the longer I looked, the more the light seemed wrong, their joy dimmed by an unseen grief creeping backward through time, staining the image with the memory of what was to come.

The painting shimmered in a hazy distortion. I narrowed my eyes, as for a moment, the entire wall before me seemed to bend and fold. “What…”

When I blinked again, the wall righted itself. The painting hung still. Not even a subtle breeze blew through the halls. I looked around the hallway. No doubt the eerie castle was playing tricks with my eyes.

I spun around to walk away. Turning a corner, I found myself in the western wing, shadowed by towering windows and black stone arches. The torches burned low in their iron brackets, their flames wavering as if uncertain whether they wished to stay.

I hadn’t been in this part of the castle before.

My ears pricked at muffled sounds from the end of the hall. Wailing cries, arguing voices, the scrape of something heavy against stone echoed beyond the next bend.

My curiosity immediately overruled my better judgment. My boots echoed softly against the polished floor as I approached.

The corridor ended at a heavy oak door. It stood slightly ajar, a thin slice of flickering light spilling into the hall.

Because I had clearly learned absolutely nothing about avoiding danger in magical tyrant castles, I leaned forward and peered through the crack.

The air was thick with the stale, dusty scent of neglect amidst the cold stone of the room. Broken furniture lay strewn like forgotten bones beneath torn drapery and claw-scarred walls. Candlesticks, brassware, weapons, and leather were scattered across a wooden table, with one lone lantern casting uneven light across the space.

The Wicked King stood with his back partially to the door, tall and rigid, his dark coat almost blending into the sweep of shadows at his feet.

A man hung in his grip. Literally.

He had the man by the collar of his ragged tunic, one hand fisted in the fabric at his throat, lifting him so high that his boots dangled several inches above the floor.

The elderly man’s hair was streaked with grey and plastered damply against his forehead. Dirt and bruises marked his face. Blood darkened the corner of his mouth, even as he whimpered, “Please—please, Your Majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.”

The king’s retort was mocking. “Mercy? Hasn’t the entire kingdom learned yet that I possess no such thing?”

He certainly didn’t bother mincing words. Terror gripped my entire body from the pure menace in his unforgiving tone, the unfathomable void in his dark eyes. I almost couldn’t even catch my breath.

The king shook the man. “Tell me who sent you.”

The man’s livid eyes sharpened for a moment. He gave a hacking cough. “This will not end with me. We are the weeds in your kingdom’s soil—tear us out, burn us, salt the earth, and still we will return, rooting ourselves in cracks you cannot see. We will make sure you and your witch pay for everything you have done.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying him with a cold, thoughtful expression. “Perhaps.” His fingers tightened. The man’s breath hitched as the king lifted him a little higher, his boots kicking uselessly in the air. Then he released his grip. A puppet with its strings cut.

The man barely had time to suck in a breath before the entire room flooded with darkness for the blink of an eye. The Wicked King’s shadows, like swift whispering blades, ripped through the man, followed by dull thumps as hunks of flesh fell to the floor.

A waft of putrid stench nearly made me retch. I slapped my hand over my mouth, but I couldn’t seem to close my eyes against the horror.

His Royal Majesty stood over the bloody mess, his face hard and unreadable, before turning toward the door. Our eyes met through the narrow opening. The shock that jolted through me must have shown plainly on my face. He didn’t look surprised to see me.