Page 11 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

Melody

I follow him back to the main road where a car is waiting for us. Reluctantly, I climb in, pulling my legs up close to me. Riven turns on the heat as soon as we drive off, as if he can hear my chattering teeth. We don’t exchange another word, though I find myself glancing at him from time to time. At those delicate, strange ears. Those big, yet elegant, white hands with gold and gems heavy on his fingers. I watch him from behind my curtain of long, dark hair. His surreal long eyelashes. The way they almost touch his cheeks as he glances down the shimmering road.

We spend half the night speeding back over rain-wet asphalt, way too fast, but I’d hardly mind if we hit a tree. That we don’t is probably down to his fae reflexes.

The first gray of morning stretches over the horizon when we finally arrive at Lyrian’s house. As soon as we do, I sit up straight, trying to brace myself for whatever horror comes next.

The High Lord of Darkness, Riven said. Whatever the fuck that means.

The lights are on in the huge mansion when we pull up in the driveway and stop in front of the massive stone fountain with two ugly putti pouring water from jugs.

Riven frowns at them. “Grotesque,” is all he says before he kills the engine and gets out .

I follow suit. The morning air is cold, sobering, but I hardly feel anything anyway. I stare at the huge doors as if they will swing open by magic. Riven steps up next to me, his eyes holding the same warmth they held when he touched me in the woods.

Involuntarily, I look down to my naked feet.

“I promised,” he whispers one more time and again holds out his hand.

I surprise myself when I take it. Feeling his warm fingers around mine is strangely soothing. Reassuring. Together we approach the house. We enter through the front door, which is normally locked, but now is not . Weird. Part of me expects the bloodhounds to come cutting around a corner, guns at the ready, but they’re nowhere to be seen either.

Instead, the massive, winged doors to the living room are closed. Riven pauses there, letting go of my hand before looking me up and down.

I promised , his eyes seem to say once more.

Instead, he asks, “Ready?”

Hell no!

But I nod once. If not over, then through, right? He gives me one more second to gather myself before he pushes open the door. Lyrian never allowed me access to this room, but now we stroll into the opulent living room as if it’s ours.

Lyrian is standing in front of the fireplace, the fire crackling there the only source of light. He is still in his evening attire—an embroidered silk coat of azure and mantis-green that reaches down to his boots with oddly pointed ends that bend slightly upward at the tip. He’s holding a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, and by the gleam in his eyes, I can tell it isn’t his first.

Those pale, cruel eyes widen ever so slightly when they settle on the stranger next to me, then on me in tow.

It is only then, standing in the middle of the room, my gaze trained on Lyrian, that I notice two other men standing in the shadows, motionless as statues. Not Kayne or Hunter—there is still no trace of them—but two other men clad all in black with combat boots on their feet. They are as tall as Riven. A third figure sits in Lyrian’s armchair, his face hidden in the shadows.

The last one breaks the silence. “Finally. It took a while.”

His voice is deep, sensual, and somber. It sends a ripple all over my skin. I feel the sudden need to see his face, to step closer, as if his voice is, in truth, calling to me, to my very blood.

I swallow against this strange sensation.

Riven straightens involuntarily as if he too has felt that irresistible pull of… power. He answers casually, “She made it quite far.”

The man in the chair still doesn’t look our way as he says with a negligent wave of his hand, “You may go upstairs with her. This might take a moment longer.”

The High Lord of Darkness… that must be him… the way he speaks. The way the ripples of power come flowing off him with every word. Despite his disinterested tone, I can feel the latent impatience underneath. From the look in Lyrian’s eyes, I know he can feel it too. They glide to mine, as if to plead for help.

I would laugh at that if I wasn’t so terrified myself.

Would spit into his face, asking, Really? Me? Are you fucking kidding me?

Instead, I look away and follow Riven upstairs to my room. He pauses in front of the door, letting me enter first before I hear his steps behind me.

I try not to notice how his huge, powerful stature towers in the room. I keep my head down, not wanting to witness the way he takes in my bed, my easel, my paintings that lean everywhere, against walls and cabinets, covering every free space. The only things that bring color in here.

“You might want to gather the things you would like to take with you,” he says too gently.

We’re leaving, that’s what he’s telling me. I look around the room, my bedroom, but whatever I thought I would feel is not here. No relief that I’m finally leaving. No terror of what the future might hold. No, I feel nothing at all .

Mechanically, I grab a bag—the same bag I once packed for my escape, before I discovered it slowed me down—and start to fold my clothes inside… all black. I’ve never worn anything other than black in my life.

When I’m done, Riven is still standing, unmoved, but his eyes are resting on one picture leaning against the wall. Of two people. Arm in arm. Smiling.

“My parents. Or what I think my parents might have looked like. I never met them, but I needed a picture in my mind, so I made one.”

Made one and placed it here so I could imagine them watching me at night.

I don’t know why I’m telling him this.

To my surprise, he retorts, “They didn’t look like that. Your father, well, you’re quite close, but your mother didn’t look like that.”

More questions start to form, but before I can ask them, an inhuman scream cuts through the air. Lyrian.

“Melody, don’t!” Riven says, reaching for me, but I’m already out the door.

I storm downstairs, pushing the double-winged door open. I don’t know why. But I need to know what made Lyrian scream that way. I need to know what fate awaits me once they take me.

What I see freezes the blood in my veins.

Lyrian is suspended several feet off the ground, held up by the outstretched arm of the man who’d been sitting in the armchair before. His hand is closed around Lyrian’s throat.

There is a lot of blood. It’s dripping from Lyrian’s neck, seeping into his fine tunic, the carpet. Blood that drips from the Dark Lord’s chin. From his fangs.

At the sight of me, Lyrian starts pleading. “Take her! Take her! You can see in my blood that I spoke the truth! I kept her for you, my lord. Your Highness. I hid her away, for all these years, just for you when the time was ripe! I’ll give her to you in exchange for my life. One life debt for another.”

There is little human in the snarl the Dark Lord lets out when he says, “Liar. ”

Rage leashes his aura, and I swear the room is darkening with shadows.

“We can’t lie, my lord—you know—”

“Do not tempt me, Lyrian. Benignity is not a virtue I am known to have. Your breed has been allowed to thrive for too long.”

“Please, my king. You know the prophecy. The curse if you kill me—” Lyrian starts again, cut off once more by another growl that makes my insides turn cold.

“I don’t care as much about curses as you might have heard. I’ll claim her, but you—if you ever once so much as interact with any other fae, I will personally skin you alive, Lyrian. You have already been banned from the fae lands, but I hereby strip you of any belongings, any rights and declare you an outlaw. Prey for anyone who seeks bloodshed, or redemption.”

Lyrian falls utterly silent. The Dark Lord loosens his grip around his neck, and Lyrian tumbles inelegantly to the ground, clutching his sore throat, fumbling for a necklace that is no longer there but in the hand of the Dark Lord.

I watch, spellbound, as he crumbles the object of gems and gold in his fingers, as if it is a piece of paper, until nothing but ash sifts down.

The effect is instant.

The Lyrian at his feet is no longer the Lyrian I know, but an aged, shrunken version of himself. His cheeks are gaunt and sunken, his sharp features even more distinct, with hollow eyes and pointed ears.

The necklace was a glamour. And Lyrian… is an elf too.

After this, the Dark Lord’s head turns to me.

My heart stops for a few precious seconds.

Raven-black hair offsets his pale, almost entirely white skin, those cruel cheekbones, his chiseled chin. He is even more beautiful than Riven, if that is possible. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

But his eyes…

His eyes are even more extraordinary than his face .

They are all black, save for his irises, which gleam an undiluted, deep red. But the color isn’t static like in everyone else’s eyes. No. The pigment in those eyes seems to move, almost like the waves of an ocean at sunset, bundled into two marbles.

They are frightening and at the same time utterly, indescribably beautiful.

I can’t help but stare. Mesmerized.

Until a cutting voice startles me. “Lower your eyes, slave, for this is the High Lord of Darkness you’re looking at. You’re never to look one of us in the eyes unless called upon to do so.”

Slave. I flinch at the word. At the harsh tone. My head snaps to the other huge man, who’s stepped up to me so quietly I didn’t hear him coming. Handsome. Blond hair that reaches down to his shoulders, striking green eyes, and sharp, hard features glower at me.

Again, fangs flash where his canines should be. He has them bared at me. An animalistic hiss emanates from his throat when I don’t obey. “Lower your eyes or I’ll teach you manners, girl.”

“I’m no one’s slave,” I reply as coldly as I can, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin, not willing to show any of them how scared I truly am, although they definitely can hear my wildly thundering heartbeat.

The hateful grimace on his face stays as he declares, “You are now, since Lyrian Elderberg has just sold you off. So lower your eyes or you’ll regret it. This is the last time I’ll tell you.”

I barely hear the last part. Sold you off.

My eyes flit to Lyrian, who is still cowering at the Dark Lord’s feet, his expression so rattled and shaken I wonder whether he understands any of what’s happening here. He doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by their fangs, by just having been bitten. No. If anything at all, he just looks broken.

Maybe it should satisfy me on a deep, dark level to see Lyrian like this, but all it does is stir my diffuse fear, confusion, and rage.

It’s this rage that makes me step forward, up to him, looking down on him for maybe the first time in my life. He flinches slightly, as if he’s afraid I’ll strike him and crawls backward. I clench my fingers into a fist. Maybe I should.

Instead, I ask, “You sold me? You fucking sold me as if I was your fucking property? After all I did for you? After all you’ve made me do?”

Fury makes my voice tremble. I should have known. Riven warned me. Told me that Lyrian kept me for this sole reason. I have been nothing but a life insurance. I don’t know why it matters so much. It shouldn’t. I know it shouldn’t.

My eyes fill up with tears of rage and shame and helplessness nonetheless. I try to swallow them down. I can’t start crying in front of Lyrian, in front of them , but the indignity of being sold like a thing ...

“My, my, Lyrian. I must say you have withered.” Riven’s voice is a silken purr. He saunters over to my side, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, looking down at Lyrian with a cruel smile on his lips. “But I suppose staying holed up in an area like this for more than a century takes its toll.”

He clicks his tongue as he surveys the room. “But you could have renovated. It smells like a grave in here.”

“Please,” Lyrian says. He is trembling with fear, I realize. “The Dark Lord spared me.”

In a flash of motion, Riven’s hand closes around Lyrian’s thin throat, his teeth dangerously close to his face. Despite myself, I marvel at the grace of his immortal strength, the movement smooth as silk. I envy it, how easily he manages to scare someone like Lyrian. Another part of me is frozen in terror at the undiluted rage in his voice.

“Spared you? Oh no—he condemned you, Lyrian. Do not make me ponder what that means.”

“Please, my lord. I’ll do anything.” Lyrian’s gone stiff as a stick.

As quickly as Riven came, he withdraws his hand and straightens, casual and careless again. His voice is almost gentle as he says, “Please what?”

“Don’t kill me.”

Riven considers him with a gaze as if he were dirt he would kick aside with his boot. “Ah, groveling. The most sincere form of manipulation. I almost forgot how much training you had, back at the elven king’s side in Palisandre. Before you ran and started this—flourishing trade.” Although Riven’s voice is still soft, his eyes are not. Those eyes burn with a dark fire.

“Please…” Lyrian starts again.

Riven holds up a finger. “None of that. No more pleading. It is tiresome. And pathetic. You are far too desperate. To be kept alive, you should be trying to keep me entertained. And your king, of course.” Riven’s smile becomes a vicious, dark thing. “What about this? Normally, I would make you bow, but given that you’re already on your knees, I’ll make an exception. Kiss our king’s boot and then crawl back over here and kiss mine.”

Lyrian keeps staring as if he can’t remember where or who he is. His face, for the first time since I’ve known him, is blank. Vacant. Bereft of the cruelty, of anything.

“Go on. Do it before I change my mind and decide to decorate this lovely carpet with your innards,” Riven chimes lightly, as if he hadn’t just delivered a death threat that makes the blood in my veins run cold.

Lyrian startles out of his stupor. I hold my breath as Lyrian—the cruel, cold, arrogant Lyrian I know, who’s tormented me all my life, starts to indeed crawl over to the Dark Lord like a dog.

Riven clicks his tongue and points to the ground. “Lower, Lyrian. Your head should be touching the ground, so low that I don’t have to see your ugly face anymore. You know what this is supposed to look like. You have watched it so many times in Palisandre.”

Lyrian lowers his head to the floor, so close his chin touches the carpet as he moves to the Dark Lord.

“Oh, and make it memorable, Lyrian,” Riven croons after him. “After all, this is your new king in front of you, and you certainly don’t want to upset him. He is not as forgiving as I.”

Lyrian doesn’t look up to the king as he whispers, “My king, it is my sincerest pleasure to serve you.” He lowers his head and presses his pale lips to his leather boot. Then he crawls back .

Riven watches him with raised eyebrows as Lyrian pauses in front of us. “No flattery left for me, Lyrian?”

Lyrian flinches before he says, “Of course, my lord. You look as fresh as the morning dew on a rose petal.”

“I was speaking of flattery, not poetry, but go on now.” Riven waves a lazy hand, and Lyrian leans forward to bring his lips to Riven’s boot.

I hold my breath. But somehow, to see Lyrian humiliated like this feels better than hurting him would.

Riven lets out a sultry chuckle when Lyrian stays on all fours, his head still lowered, as if he can’t bear meeting anyone’s eye. “Groveling suits you, Lyrian. One might almost assume you have been born for this.” At the last sentence, Riven finally glances over at me. This moment… I know Riven did this for me.

I flash him a grateful look before my eyes drift back to the Dark Lord’s, still a churning red but darker now. I feel a twist in my stomach when I find him studying me in return, his gaze so intimate it could burn a hole in me.

I blush at his stare but keep looking back at him, at the swirling shadows all around him. Spellbound.

Too late, I notice the blur of movement behind me. Someone grabs my long hair, pulling my head back. The blond warrior, suddenly next to me, his green eyes vicious slits.

I spin out of his grip to face him. He raises his hand too fast for me to comprehend, too fast for me to dodge… but then it’s suspended, mere inches from my face. His palm is already open where it would have connected with my skin and no doubt split it open a sliver of a second later. I feel the gust of wind in my hair provoked by his movement.

But there is no collision. No slap. No pain.

The warrior just stands there, in this position, hand raised, as if he has been frozen.

Only then do I feel the wave of power flickering through the room, those dark shadows that have been gathering in the corners, now swirling everywhere around us. Soft as the night, but just as deadly.

The Dark Lord has just stopped the blond man from slapping me with his power and an invisible command.

His voice follows a second later, calm, but cold as he says, “Don’t, Kyrith.”

Kyrith.

My heart is in my mouth. Hammering. Slowly catching up. My eyes search for Riven’s. I find them wide open, as if he too forgot about Kyrith. Kyrith’s face to my right is still an angry mask, still motionless, his eyes still narrowed to slits, and his fangs exposed when I glance back at him. He still can’t move. He looks like he is going to kill me with his gaze though.

He manages to growl, “I warned her.”

“I take it upon myself to discipline my slaves.” The Dark Lord doesn’t look at me again when he declares, “We’re leaving.”

***

I follow them outside and to the forest. The Dark Lord is leading the way, Kyrith trailing behind him, followed by the quiet but beautiful man with red hair and Riven walking next to me. We take my path through the woods, the path I’ve run a thousand times, until we reach the cliff. The cold wind’s soaring up from below, the Abyss again beckoning, the ocean churning.

This is the very cliff where I stood so many times as if something was calling me.

I finally dare to glance at Riven, who is carrying my bag. I know he reads the question in my eyes, the panic, when he says, “This is the fae gap. Now, we jump.”

And with that, he grabs my arm and together we go over the cliff.