Page 19 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)

18

Bellmare

A month had passed since the Royal Army troops had deployed across Lên Rājya with clear instructions to find the cursed princesses, even if it meant tearing down everything in their path.

Ward wasn’t surprised by the way the citizens avoided his gaze and shrank in his presence. He’d made a name for himself, and as the Commander of Death, he would descend upon anyone who dared challenge him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to save the kingdom from the cursed fate that loomed nearby, poised to devour them all.

The screech of a hawk echoed above his head. Ward turned his gaze away from the fighting arena, where two of his soldiers trained, and strode through the forest toward the cages of his messenger birds. There, Soldier Edgerton stretched out his arm, reaching for the bag hanging from the hawk’s leg, but Orion nipped his hand for his audacity. The rest of the soldiers laughed at such a foolish decision.

The army’s hawks had been trained to fly tirelessly, regardless of long distances and harsh weather conditions. Ward had grown up alongside these magnificent birds, the noblest and most loyal of species. Together with his general, Harg Koller, they’d trained this particular hawk to ensure they could communicate discreetly, without anyone else intercepting their messages.

The Chaser’s silence had begun to worry him, but the hawk’s arrival could only mean good news.

Or what could be called good news, given the circumstances.

Ward stroked the bird’s feathers, before untying the rope from its leg and taking the bag in his hands. The first thing he pulled out was a short note with explanations about the object that lay inside.

“Any news from the Chaser, Commander?” a soldier asked as he swept a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it back from his eyes.

“The Chaser is always effective at his job.” Ward grinned with satisfaction. “Learn and perhaps, in a century, you can be half the dryad he is.”

“What is that?” someone asked.

The commander picked up the small object in his hand. “The answer to all our questions.”

It was a compass, crafted from gold and adorned with red rubies arranged in a circular pattern. The needle spun endlessly, restless in its motion.

Another soldier, Jacke Pyre, made his way among his comrades to examine the compass. Years before being recruited into the Royal Army, he’d been an apprentice to a powerful wizard in Camdenn, where he acquired experience with artifacts of dark magic.

The commander handed him the compass without hesitation and Jacke’s lips parted in amazement as he registered the light weight of the device.

According to Harg’s letter, a ruthless general had sought a way to drain the immortality from the daimonas, rendering them as vulnerable as the dryadalis. By summoning the goddess of preservation through ancient runes and blood rites, the general deceived Gimmera into revealing that the answers to his questions lay within the souls of the daimonas. However, during that time, the citizens of Ro’i Rājya hid from their enemies, making it nearly impossible to find them. In response, the goddess created an object capable of detecting the presence of a daimon and guiding him to them.

And now, the compass was the only object that could help them find the princesses that threatened to destroy their world.

“I don’t want to disappoint you, Commander, but it seems to be broken,” Eames warned, noticing that the compass needle was still moving uncontrollably.

“It’s not broken.”

“The commander is right,” Jacke Pyre confirmed. “The needle will stabilize when it senses the presence of dark magic and will light up upon encountering a daimon.”

One of the soldiers folded his arms. “It will take us days, if not weeks, to scour the lands of Bellmare and rule out every citizen.”

Ward knew that, but he had to make the most of every advantage they had if he wished to return to the capital before the curse claimed Princess Davinia’s life. When she had shown the first symptoms of the disease, he’d shared his suspicions with the king, which turned out to be correct. Apparently, the curse attacked in a specific order, starting with the youngest heir and moving up to the firstborn son.

It would kill them all if they didn’t get rid of those bloody princesses in time.

“I want eyes on every corner of Bellmare. Any suspicious activity will be questioned until proven innocent,” Ward declared and his soldiers stepped toward him, attentive to his new orders. “Don’t go easy on them either. Who knows what information we can get if we push hard enough to break them.”

“What about the rebels, Commander?”

“If we haven’t rid the city of them already, I don’t want you to show even a shred of mercy to those damned wretches. If their treason to the Crown is an undeniable truth, take them to the gallows,” he replied without a hint of doubt in his decision. “Let their rotting bodies be a reminder of what happens to traitors.”

“That will make any Bellmarian who knows of the princesses’ whereabouts step forward.” Fawke gave his commander a knowing smile. “Information in exchange for their lives. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

Some of the soldiers nodded in agreement.

“Jacke, is there anything else I should know about this compass?” Ward asked.

“Actually, yes, sir. Although it’s a fairly accurate object, it may pose a problem since it will also stop in the presence of Two Bloods.”

That complicated things a great deal, since Two Bloods were far more common than one wished. Apparently, torrid romances between dryadalis and daimonas could give rise to half-breeds with strange magic. By that reckoning, many of the Bellmarians could feel devoted to the cursed princesses.

“We’ll manage. We need to end this nightmare at once.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“Stay alert,” Ward said. “The daimonas don’t have control over their powers like we do. They are strident and unpredictable, so it’s very likely that the Dark Twins don’t know how to wield them at will. I want to be the first to know about any suspicious activity.”

Because it would be the commander who would rip the heart out of their chests and put a stop to this madness.

“We’ll pay special attention to the young women, sir,” Leonel assured him, who had been quieter since he’d heard about what had happened in Madame Dimond’s brothel.

The Commander of Death nodded. “Don’t let me down.”

The new wounds adorning Naithea’s back had begun to heal two nights after Madame Dimond had given her a lesson for believing she could deceive her. Yet her punishment wasn’t over.

The first part of it had been to break the vial she’d bought Tanea to soothe her nightmares, thus resuming her cries of anguish and for them to echo throughout the brothel. The madam also forced Naithea to do all the chores by herself: from waxing the brothel floors and tending the beds in which her companions had slept next to their customers, to cleaning their undergarments.

Naithea stifled a grimace as she pulled down the silky fabric of her gown to expose her shoulder blade, where the cut from the belt throbbed beneath the unsightly scab. Her owner hadn’t allowed her to use any kind of ointment or resort to the healers to prevent the wound from scarring horribly.

Her boreal gaze focused on the oval mirror resting on the dressing table to take a better look at it. Soon, Naithea would have to join her sisters in the city streets, adorned with torches and flags in various shades of blue, to celebrate the Night of the Tides—a commemorative feast honoring the fourth heir to the throne, Gideon Allencort, and his water powers. Considering that Bellmare had been built next to the ocean, it was one of the most anticipated nights for its citizens.

Yet it wasn’t her scar the reason she sat in front of the mirror, but the overgrown golden roots of her hair. Naithea had started coloring her hair upon selling her body at the brothel, wishing to hide her past and preserve the innocence of the child she once was.

Because she felt dirty .

Naithea took the broad brush and dipped it into the black mixture Jehanne and Larka had prepared for her before leaving for work. She took a deep breath and began to drench the scalp as she reminisced about the nights her mother had braided her golden mane before embracing her until she fell into a deep sleep.

She kept her eyes on her reflection, making sure the dye covered every inch of her hair, even those she couldn’t quite see at the back of her head. Usually, one of her sisters would offer to color it for her and the rest of them would join in to whisper about the men they’d slept with the night before, the profits they’d made, and their dreams for an uncertain future. But that night, Naithea had wanted to be left alone with her thoughts.

She waited twenty minutes as she watched the bustling, brightly lit city. Near the harbor, people were dancing in cerulean garments to the sound of fiddles and drums, tasting all kinds of seafood and wine.

The borealis stone on her necklace warmed against her skin; a warning that unveiled a dark and evil presence. She let out a low grunt of pain, grabbing the chain between her fingers to separate the pendant from her now burnt skin. It was then that she noticed the hues of light that rose from the pendant, cutting the air toward the window and beyond . . .

Naithea took a step forward, setting her gaze on the darkest streets of the city. Among the shadows, two abyss-black eyes grinned at her with the patient longing of the hunt, enjoying the uneasy feeling of unsafety he’d provoked in her.

She focused her eyes on the male figure, trying to discern him.

And Fawke Biceus looked back at her.

The commander remained in his tent for the rest of the afternoon, devising different plans to lure the princesses in and hung their heads on his horse’s saddle before returning to Camdenn.

When the dark colors of night tinted the sky, the soldiers—like every loyal Bellmarian—changed their armor for blue attires in honor of Prince Gideon. As they made their way to the main streets and divided into smaller groups, it was Ward’s turn to join the hunt, the compass firmly in the palm of his hand.

Yet that wasn’t his only weapon, for he was armed with knowledge. He’d uncovered valuable information in the library that could prove to be of great significance.

Centuries ago, magical artifacts had been created. Some of them by the goddesses, others by powerful people. hough those chosen to guard them had perished during the wars, the books that spoke of their existence still remained. In them, Ward had discovered that those artifacts had been bestowed with protective wards.

Wards that could make the visible invisible.

Wards that could hide two sought-after souls.

Whoever had taken the heiresses of Ro’i Rājya before they were turned to stone had been clever enough to use the artifacts to hide them from even the best scouts in the Royal Army. But now that Commander Ward had discovered it, all that remained was to determine who had been a part of such treachery.

Fortunately for him, there were only two wizards in Bellmare, and if dark magic coursed through their veins, the compass would lead him to them.

Four soldiers walked beside him. When they reached the center of the celebration, they split up and slipped into the shadows in search of suspicious activity. Ward made his way through the darker streets, weaving through citizens rushing toward the lively music of fiddles and drums until he arrived at the small store.

He kept his gaze on the small windows, where the flame of a candle faintly illuminated the interior. The needle of the compass in his hand came to a halt, revealing a deep crimson glow from the gems.

The commander smirked as he raised his boot to kick the door. The sound of the lock breaking from the hinges was music to his ears. One by one, the soldiers stepped inside with swords drawn, ready for whatever awaited them.

They crept through the store, careful not to touch anything. Ward inspected the objects, accompanied only by the sound of their weights creaking against the wooden floor. At the end of the dark hall, a dim light caught his attention. He motioned toward his soldiers to guard his back as they ventured forth.

The room was plunged into darkness, save for the three flames that, along with the stars, provided Ward with all the light he needed to see the old man. His one good eye glowed red, and his burnt eyelashes fluttered wildly, as if he were possessed by one of the demons from the tales meant to scare children into staying home at night.

What in the Akhirat is . . .

The question in the commander’s mind disappeared upon realizing what was before him.

Three blood-red candles.

An offering for each goddess.

As the wizard’s body lifted off the ground, Fawke Biceus lunged at him, shattering the altar of candles, gemstones and herbs to pieces. The small room was soon plunged into an eerie darkness, yet the light streaming from the compass allowed Ward to see his soldier wrapping his arm around the man’s before aiming for that throbbing spot with the sharp blade of his dagger.

“W-What’s . . .” the old man stammered as he emerged from his trance.

Ward ignored him and focused on his soldier instead. With an unspoken command, Fawke pulled the wizard upwards from his clothes and dragged him out of the store to interrogate him in one of the desolate alleys, away from the magic he could use against them.

After stowing the compass in his pants pocket, the commander followed them, with the other three soldiers at his heels. In the shadows of the alley, Fawke’s fist collided with the disoriented man’s face, the force of the blow instantly breaking his nose.

“What’s your name?” Ward asked in a cold voice.

“Dyron Selmi, sir,” he answered agitatedly, spitting saliva and blood on the cobblestone floor.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next, Dyron Selmi. You will answer my questions and, in return, you get to live. If you refuse, my soldier here will finish what he started.”

“I will,” Fawke grinned, his face covered with drops of blood.

Ward took a step forward. “Now, what kind of witchcraft were you practicing?”

“It was nothing, I swear!” he assured him, stammering. Dyron shook his head in despair. “Just an innocent trick.”

“No trick involving the goddesses is innocent.”

“I’m sure you are an expert in the labors that make up your duties, but none of my actions pose any threat to you or the kingdom, Commander.”

“No, you know more than you admit.” Ward paced around him. “There’s certain information I need, and something tells me you will know the answers to my questions. Who bought them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I would never dare to deceive you or conspire against the Almighty King.”

Fawke Biceus smashed his fist into Dyron’s stomach, causing him to fold in half.

“I’m sure you’re aware of our mission,” the commander proceeded.

“The Dark Twins . . .”

“Indeed.” He nodded with his hands behind his back. “It’s odd that despite our best efforts, we still haven’t found them, wouldn’t you say? I can only find one reason for that.” He halted in front of the wizard. “Dark magic.”

“I wasn’t involved! I swear by the Triad.”

“Save your lies, we know what you sell and hide in your store. I’m going to ask you one more time, and you’re going to tell me the truth or my second-in-command here will see to it that you can’t use your hands again,” Ward warned him, and the soldier obeyed immediately. Fawke closed his hand over Dyron’s until the sound of bones snapping mixed with his grunts reached the commander’s ears. “Who bought the protection devices and how can I neutralize their magic?”

“I know nothing about such an audacious buyer!” Dyron grunted painfully. “Nor do I have the spell that could nullify the wards. It may not even exist . . . Magic as ancient as that can only be found in the Desertic Lands.”

Fawke Biceus’ black eyes focused on his commander, who provided a short nod in response. That single gesture was enough for him to strike the man again and his sobs rose like a muffled melody.

Ward didn’t know how much longer would Dyrion Selmi resist before falling to his knees and succumbing to a darkness far more fearsome than that of dreams. Torturing people had been the first thing he’d learnt at a young age, and getting information out of his victims was a close second. He was a weapon with little time to save the princess’s life, and he couldn’t— wouldn’t —fail.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

The commander had begun to grow impatient. Despite one of his soldier’s insistence that he mustn’t have any information that would favor them in their quest, Ward could feel the bitter lie in the wizard’s lips as if he had rehearsed it for years.

So the torture continued, the sound of moaning and beating being drowned out by the lively music and the clattering of citizens dancing in the square.

Until an enraged voice commanded, “Enough! Let him go!”

Dyrion let out a hiss of gratitude through his broken lips before spitting blood.

A female figure ran toward them, and Ward’s jaw tightened upon recognizing her.

Naithea.

A grimace contorted her face from the pain that tugged at her skin with her movement, but she didn’t stop. She wore a beautiful blue dress that revealed her cleavage, the corset accentuating her waist and falling into a long skirt that blew backward in the autumn breeze, slashed on either side to reveal her legs.

Ward swallowed the lump in his throat, gazing at her slender legs, the skin intact and smooth except for that one place the belt had struck her.

The goddesses hated him for bringing such an exquisite distraction.

She’d messed with his head ever since he’d left the brothel, haunting him even when she was nowhere near. Day and night, Ward’s thoughts were consumed by her. By the rawness of her screams as the leather belt cracked down on her already scarred skin. By the torment in her face as he had uttered words that cut just as deep. And when the stars crept into the sky, when the weight of command slipped from his shoulders, he allowed himself to think of her.

Naithea’s eyes were panic-stricken as she took in Dyrion’s condition, the blood on his body and the crimson pool beneath his feet. She closed the distance and stood in front of the man with her head held high despite the five soldiers that could make her disappear without anyone noticing.

It was Fawke Biceus, though, who growled under his breath, “Do you know him?”

“Everyone knows him. He’s a merchant, like most people here in Bellmare,” Naithea replied without a hint of fear in her voice. “And an innocent man!”

“He’s hiding something,” Ward spoke, unsure why he was explaining himself to her. “Something that may be relevant to the Crown.”

“Everyone has secrets, and as far as I know, that’s not a crime.”

The commander took a step toward her. “It is if they jeopardize our mission.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Not only in what you think you know, but in your ways,” she spatted, locking her boreal eyes in the commander’s defiant gaze. “Both you and your army have done nothing but spread threats, instead of giving the people a chance to help you willingly. Were you aware of the plague that ravaged the city for years, leaving an ocean of bodies and decay? Or do our lives not matter because we have no wealth and no titles?”

“Don’t you dare speak that way to the Commander of Death, filthy whore,” Fawke growled in warning, poised to punish the hetaira for her audacity.

Ward raised a hand to stop him. “Let her, Biceus.”

He listened to Naithea’s erratic heartbeat; an unspoken defiance that showed no fear for her life. She was a hetaira who not only sold her body, but who had caged the rest of her immortal life to her owner. Ward had seen what Madame Dimond was capable of if lied to, and he was sure that hadn’t been the first time she’d punished Naithea.

She’d survived being silenced and stripped bare.

Used and discarded.

Tortured and enslaved.

And because of that, she had nothing left to lose.

“The plague took the lives of his wife and daughters,” Naithea said. “He has no information that could be useful to your mission. I swear it.”

“Is that true, wizard?”

Between tears and rivers of blood, Dyron nodded. “Yes, Commander. Summoning the goddesses has helped me ease my sorrows.”

“Release him, then.”

“What?” Fawke questioned him.

“You heard me. Release him and escort him to the healers,” he ordered.

One of the soldiers nodded and lifted Dyron from the ground before the commander could change his mind. Fawke, on the other hand, resisted slightly, but followed his comrades when Ward stared at him in warning. All four of them disappeared into the darkness of the night, leaving a trail of blood behind them.

When Ward lost sight of them, he turned to face Naithea. To apologize. If his father knew he’d stooped so low as to justify his actions to a woman, he would beat him unconscious.

That wasn’t the monster he’d created. The monster that had uttered those hurtful words in the brothel while she lay on the floor, wounded and bleeding.

I would never sleep with a whore.

Ward called out for her as she walked away, “Wait!”

“I thought you didn’t want to associate with whores like me,” she spat, ignoring his gaze.

“Ausra . . .”

Naithea quickly turned on her heels. “Why do you keep calling me that when you know my real name?” she demanded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Stain it once and for all! We both know you want to.”

“It’s the name you introduced yourself with when we first met. That doesn’t have to change,” he replied, holding back his thoughts.

Naithea let out a sarcastic laugh that froze the commander’s heart as her eyes sought his; both a coalition of skies and stars. “It costs you nothing to belittle me like everyone else has. Don’t pretend to care now.”

The commander caught her small wrist before she could run from him. For some reason, he couldn’t bear the sight of her leaving without at least trying to explain why he’d said those things when his actions in the brothel had proven something different.

But why? What kind of feeling stirred in his chest when it came to her?

None, he tried to convince himself.

Yet the words that left his lips were ones he’d been thinking of for two long nights.

“If I hadn’t played her game, Madame Dimond would have kept punishing you and I . . .” he admitted aloud, unable to speak aloud the rest of his confession. He was a monster, a weapon. Ward’s veins tightened with disappointment of himself as he said instead, “I didn’t want to cause you any more trouble than you were already in.”

“You mean cause you trouble,” Naithea corrected him. “Ruin your image as the Commander of Death. Let me make it easier for you.”

Naithea broke free from his grip, resuming her march and leaving Ward confused, with the sole and cold company of darkness.