Page 130 of Vasmora

Pressing on, Kazhimyr slipped through the lower bailey, the gatehouse, and the courtyard, completely conspicuous for anyone who might try to attack him. Until, at last, he reached the main entrance.

He pushed through the cracked doors, noting the temperature shift from dry Solassion heat to air so cold, his breath arrived as white puffs. The plink of something wet drew his attention to shimmering webs overhead, and a drop splashed on his forehead. He wiped it away, studying the icy strands that stretched from one end of the massive foyer to the next.

Kazhimyr kept on, down corridors and a winding staircase to the king’s hold. If King Jeret were still present in the castle, it would’ve been the safest place to hide during attack. He approached the inner keep, where webs crisscrossed over the door. To the right of him sat three white sacs, spun in gleaming silk.

Cocoons, just like those he’d seen in the mortal lands.

One of them twitched and rippled as a protrusion moved beneath the thick weaving. A body trapped inside, no doubt.

Whispers bled through the door, and Kazhimyr stepped closer. Listening.

He knocked, and only the sound of whimpering answered. The Letalisz pounded harder against the thick wood and the whimpers heightened to a cry. “Open the door!”

No answer.

He raised his boot and kicked at the panel. Once. Twice. Still, it failed to give.

He stood back and raised his hand, sending a white mist over the wood that settled into the cracks and ridges, turning the door a frosty white. Stepping back again, he hammered his boot into the surface, and like thin glass, it shattered, opening onto a dark chamber on the other side.

Kazhimyr trailed his gaze over the room and found King Jeret huddled in a corner beside an ornate armoire, whispering to himself as he rocked back and forth. Kazhimyr crossed the room, stopping alongside a table where a mostly-empty bottle lay uncorked, a black substance with silver streaks dripping from its rim. Lifting the bottle, he frowned, recognizing the ancient script etched into the wax seal encircling it. Nearly a century he’d spent in the mines, paying for the crime of attempting to steal it.

The mortucrux.

“I … I couldn’t save them. I wanted to, but … there wasn’t enough.” The king’s face, shadowed with fear, crumpled to a sob as he rested his head against the wall of the armoire. “Wasn’t my fault.” Palms pressed to his ears, he rocked harder. “All night. They fed on them. All of them.”

Frowning, Kazhimyr closed the space between them and swatted the king’s arm to free his ear. “Where is Dorjan?”

“They’re all gone. All eaten. The beast … it consumes. It swallows. All of them. Gone. Not my fault.” A string of nonsense rambled out of him, and Kazhimyr groaned, giving the room one more scan.

As he strode toward the door, King Jeret called out, “Wait! Take me with you!”

Kazhimyr snorted and shook his head, ignoring him. He kept on, but Jeret jumped to his feet.

“As your king, I demand you take me with you!”

“You’re no king of mine.” Kazhimyr exited to the corridor and turned to see one of the cocoons, the largest, had split open and was empty inside, bar the black fluids seeping along its wound. Kazhimyr flexed his hand around his dagger, twisting to find both ends of the corridor empty.

The sound of stuttering breaths had him turning around.

Jeret cowered behind him. “It wasn’t my fault,” he whispered.

“Quiet,” Kazhimyr ordered and turned back to the path.

A wet drop fell against his cheek, and he wiped his finger over it, finding a black substance smeared over his skin. He slowly lifted his gaze toward the ceiling, where the Queen of Solassios stared down at him, her head completely spun around, body mutated with long spidery legs that skittered over a web. Over the ghostly hue of her skin clung a thick, white substance.

King Jeret whimpered at his back.

She opened her mouth and a pale golden fluid shot out, just missing Kazhimyr when he jumped to the side to avoid it. It struck the wall next to Jeret, hardening into a golden shell. Curls of smoke rose up from the surface where it chewed away the stones there.

Acid.

“You … let us … die!” the queen rasped, her black, lifeless eyes angled toward Jeret.

“No, no, no!” King Jeret darted around Kazhimyr, down the corridor, and the spider scampered across the ceiling after him. Jeret didn’t get far before she leapt from the ceiling on top of him.

Perhaps Kazhimyr should’ve helped him.

Instead, he made his way to the door across from the king’s keep, peering in on what looked to be a servant’s quarters.