Page 36 of Light Locked #1
She sat down stiffly as another servant wrestled her boots off.
Another maid approached with scissors, grabbing her pants leg.
Clea’s eyes widened with horror as she saw the scissors inch near the leg of her pants.
The first cut into the fabric felt like it was sinking into her skin and her busy mind screeched to a blank.
Her leg moved on impulse, thrashing with so much force that she kicked the maid back.
Hands collected from all sides and Clea felt her optimism and composure evaporate.
She became an animal, thrashing in panic as they cut and tore at her pants, stripping them off of her body before slicing away at her shirt and anything else beneath.
The tearing of the fabric was the loudest thing in her ears, and she cried out as they removed everything, freeing her from the last of her clothes as the chair toppled.
At the sight of her skin, they released her onto the cold stone floor and cleared away from her in stillness.
Clea curled into a tight ball on the ground, her body shaking as she stifled panicked sobs.
Silence settled over the room, and she could feel their horror and disgust as they eyed her nakedness. When they saw her body, it existed. Clea had, at times in the past, been able to almost pretend she didn’t have one at all .
In such a fantasy, she didn’t have to suffer nakedness.
She didn’t have to suffer the faded luminance of her skin, nor the rot of her spirit which wound through it.
The disease was beyond physical, the blackness crawling from her core in black, sunken vines, marring the space between her breasts and snaking in poisonous, spidering lines up towards her neck, across her collarbone and around her side.
It wrapped her thighs and crawled through her spine.
It would seep through her body, into all her organs, destroying them, one by one. No manner of healing would help.
That’s how it had taken her siblings.
She remembered seeing the body of her brother, open for examination, his insides blackened and decayed, glistening under the torchlight of the morgue.
She’d snuck in to say goodbye and had not been prepared to witness the fate that had caused him so much suffering toward the end.
She had not been prepared to see her own fate, lying out on that table, one she’d see again and again until at last it came for her.
Clea hoped the maids would leave her there, that the ugliness that had cost her so much would salvage her now.
It had long been her burden and her flaw, ostracizing her from the people she claimed to belong to.
Now, she only wanted to be left in that isolation, but like wolves on a carcass they came for her again.
Hands collected around her in a rush with abrasive brushes, sending pain like a hot rash over her skin.
They paid no mind to the sensitivity of the darkness, shame following the path of their brushes, burning her skin with humiliation.
She struggled and protested as another servant grabbed her face, funneling a cool liquid into her mouth as she gasped for air.
The liquid tasted bitter and medicinal; Clea barely swallowed some of it before she spit the rest out.
The servants tried again. Clea’s focus was scattered from one part of her body to the other, until they covered her mouth with a damp cloth and she fought back with whatever ounce of dignity they’d spare her.
One sharp breath and a sudden dizziness washed over her. Weakness sailed through Clea’s muscles, and she sank into the chair a moment before losing consciousness.
???
Ryson scanned the throne room as the soldiers forced him onto his knees. He heard the other Venennin enter the room after him.
“How much for the girl?” Myken’s voice boomed.
Ryson’s eyes lingered on King Kartheen. The man was clothed in riches.
They spilled over the armrests of a throne embedded with diamonds and rubies.
His necklaces and rings were dotted with gold, and sapphires.
The room spoke of grandeur, but the man himself appeared frail.
His long, gray locks rested over his chest. His cheek and brow bones framed two sunken, black eyes.
His hands were beastly and disfigured, scales crawling across the side of his face.
His Kalex mutations had earned him names such as the Reptile King.
The mutations had never been to his advantage physically, but the banner of a lizard over his throne displayed how he’d leaned into the title.
King Kartheen tapped his long nails against his armrest with impatience. The clicking sound, as subtle as it was, seemed to make Myken squirm.
“How much for the girl,” Myken repeated more softly, “Your Majesty? ”
The pain in Myken’s voice made Ryson want to smirk.
Venennin were powerful creatures on their own, and naturally hated bartering for anything.
Every now and again, the king would purchase something that would be the envy of other traders, and it was good to stay in his good graces to win those bids.
“My servants report that she is of the Lodain royal house,” the king replied. He hid the extent of his interest, but any royalty was extremely rare. On that alone, Clea would fetch a very high price. Ryson hoped that price would secure her safety, at least from King Kartheen himself.
“Yes.” Myken confirmed with a tight nod. “We captured her on Queen Vicant’s territory, actually, but decided to bring her all the way to you.”
“And what of him?” King Kartheen replied, always looking to criticize his buys before he purchased them, despite Myken’s obvious pandering.
“He’s an Insednian. They’re a rare catch.”
“Yes, but no one will buy one. Let me see him,” the king said, waving a hand that gave subtle hints of his eagerness.
Myken grabbed the chains that bound Ryson and forced him to his feet. At the same time, Ralth grabbed a handful of Ryson’s hair and yanked his head back.
The king approached, pulling up the length of his robes with each practiced step. He circled the stone altar at the base of the throne. This place had once been a temple after all. The altar now only serving for the presentation of new riches before the king. It had seen much bloodshed before that.
“Someone give me shadow,” the king said, waving a clawed hand.
Soldiers threw a cloak over Ryson, Myken, and Ralth. The darkness brought out the luminance in Ryson’s eyes, confirming his identity as an Insednian.
“Let me see his weapon. You said it looked valuable,” King Kartheen demanded, waving another hand but keeping his eyes trained on Ryson as the soldiers removed the cloak over them.
One of the king’s servants approached and knelt with the scythe elevated in her palms.
The king’s hands hovered over the weapon as if afraid to touch it. He turned to address Myken. “Speak with my servants. They will provide your asking price. Within reason, Myken.”
The king shooed them away with a wave of his hand as servants replaced their grip on Ryson’s chains.
“Now, get out,” he hissed.
Myken and Ralth left as a servant entered carrying a woven hamper. The king raised his eyebrows as the servant set the hamper down before them. Ryson spotted Clea’s clothes, his cloak, and the bag they had traveled with.
The servant identified the objects in Kaletik.
Ryson recognized the faint glimmer of jewelry.
The Deadlock was half-covered by Clea’s shirt.
They’d stripped her of everything, and would rebuild her in the image of a fitting fantasy.
Ryson knew the process well and hoped that Clea would only need to endure the least of it before making her escape.
Her fate, in many ways, could be much worse than his.
Thinking of her goodwill in healing him and the potential for her to experience such horrors anew angered him.
He remembered her last words as she’d been pulled from the carriage.
For a woman so inclined to fumble in insulting him, her observation of his nature, shared with a striking sense of herself, had left him without a reply.
In all the talk of his past, she hadn’t asked him to share who he once was. She had all but completely overlooked the mention of it.
She’d been calm at their separation and had chosen her words with great intent. They very well could have been her last words to him, and she’d chosen to edify him. That had not been naivety. That had been something else entirely.
Now, she would be prepared like a meal with every suitable garnish, her life preserved until her price was named by the highest bidder. After that, every piece would be devoured until they found her empty unto death.
His rage, an ever simmering cauldron at the base of his self, started to stir. The feelings were so deep and so familiar, that they’d blackened into a kind of numb complacency. For the first time in a very long time, he felt their presence again.
“I’ve only once seen a weapon like this,” the king began as he continued to inspect the scythe.
“There aren’t many like it, crafted from cursed Insednian silver, imbued with a Venennin’s soul, capable of sucking the cien out of anything it cuts.
It’s rumored that these are Insednian heirlooms, passed down from wars even before the great war.
” He lifted his eyes to the paintings and expensive things that decorated the walls.
“And they’ve been used to slaughter the masses since.
An old enemy of mine was an Insednian, she made me watch as she executed all my officers.
She plundered my camps, took all that I had earned in my conquest, and burned it while I watched.
Alina Al Nevana, The Witch of Wicked Wisdom, they called her. ”