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CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE KING

F ear is the most powerful force in existence. It shapes worlds, forges civilizations, and drives humanity to surpass its limits or to destroy itself. Fear taught humans to master fire against the cold. It guided them to hunt and gather, driven by the gnawing terror of hunger. Fear built tribes to banish loneliness, and those tribes swelled into kingdoms, empires, and instruments of conquest. Over time, fear changed its mask. It became love, betrayal, and, above all, the most ravenous of desires: the thirst for power.

Power, that golden illusion, has shattered more lives than it has ever saved. King Ronan was its living proof, or perhaps its cursed one. Once, he had been a young man, sharp and ablaze with ambition. Power had appeared before him like a glistening, ripe apple offered to a starving man. He had bitten too deeply, taken more than what was his. And instead of the sweet nectar he craved, he tasted only rot, bitterness, and ash.

A guttural groan shattered the heavy silence of the royal chamber. The king's body seized, wracked with agony, as if life and death were locked in a savage struggle for his soul. Another attack. They were growing more frequent, more brutal like the curse devouring him was no longer content to wait. King Ronan had known Death, not as something distant or haunting, but as something alive, and intimate. She had walked beside him, whispered secrets in his ear, and wrapped herself around his ambition like a lover tangled in silk sheets. Yet Death, for all her cunning and cruel allure, had underestimated the darkness in him.

Ronan had not been content to merely conquer kingdoms or hearts. He had betrayed even Death herself, tearing feathers from her wings to fashion a crown that no man was ever meant to wear. He defied her and stayed alive. Cursed, but alive.

"Your Majesty—” a servant pleaded, rushing toward him with a cloak." Ronan let out a scream, raw and ragged. Bare-chested, his pale skin looked as though it were splitting apart, cracking under an unbearable weight. Blackened veins bulged and throbbed beneath his flesh, like starving serpents writhing to break free. The sight was unbearable.

"Cover him!" a servant shouted, rushing forward, but Ronan struck their hands away.

He collapsed against the balcony, his fingers clawing the railing, desperate to anchor himself against the hell devouring his body.

“His blood…” he rasped, his voice raw, his eyes bulging.

The servants froze, but Sir Beron’s arrival cut through the chaos. “Out,” he commanded, and they fled without a word.

“Beron…” Ronan gasped.

“They are preparing him, Your Majesty,” Beron said, his voice low and steady. The king was finally paying the price for his stolen power. The sapphire’s curse was claiming its vengeance. “Hold on,” Beron murmured, stepping closer with measured care.

Ronan tilted his face toward the starlit sky and erupted in a guttural scream: “I hate you!” His ragged voice tore through the night, a reverse prayer hurled at the goddess who cursed him, as if daring her to listen.

"I must end this pestilence..." Ronan growled, the black veins beneath his eyes pulsing like something alive. "It tortures me, Beron..." His voice cracked, fracturing under the weight of his fury. "The sapphire is claiming its vengeance."

"We are doing everything to locate the sacred ashes, Majesty. We will find the other half of the sapphire and end this curse. You will live?—"

Ronan grabbed Beron’s collar, his grip trembling with desperate force. "It’s not just life I want," he snarled, his voice raw with rage. "I need the other half!"

His eyes burned with an unnatural light, black veins pulsing beneath his skin like starving serpents. Such is the truth of power: once tasted, one cannot live without it.

"One last time," he growled. "And it will all be over. I will reclaim my glory. I must complete it... and finally wield its pure power."

"He wants to leave," Ronan murmured, his voice trembling, almost a whimper. "I need his blood..."

Such was the cruel irony of fate: Ronan had stolen the sapphire from the goddess Nehalennia, wielding it like a blade to carve through the enemy kingdoms of the Eldorians. Rivers of blood had flowed beneath his reign, an unrelenting tide of death sown without remorse.

And so, the goddess had taken her revenge, gifting him a poisoned legacy. A son, where there should have been a daughter. A flaw. A cursed child, the harbinger of the king and queen's doom. Yet, that same child, their singular heir was the key to their salvation.

Ronan could drink his son’s blood to slow the decay consuming him. He could find the other half of the sapphire to complete its power. Or he could kill his only son to cling to life a little longer, though in doing so, he would lose everything, even the power he so desperately craved.

A violent fit of coughing shattered the silence, wracking his body. Blood, thick and black, erupted from his mouth. He spat it onto the floor before barking, “More flowers! Fill his chambers! Bring him books, instruments, I don’t care! Just make him forget this cursed idea of leaving the Hive!”

Beron grabbed a cloak and draped it over the king's shoulders. "Your Majesty, all will be well," he said, "Come now. He is waiting." Ronan nodded. His breathing came in labored gasps, his eyes hollow and unseeing. Surrounded by guards, he followed Beron out of his quarters. When they reached the prince’s quarters, Ronan stopped abruptly. The massive doors were open. A shiver, sharp and cold, ran through his failing body. He leaned against the wall, his forehead slick with sweat.

His gaze shifted to the room’s interior. The sight was cruel.

Jace lay unconscious on his back, arms spread wide as if offered in sacrifice. A maester bent over him, delicate blades slicing through the fine skin of the prince’s back. Crimson streams of blood trickled down, collected in glinting glass vials. The maester’s hands moved with practiced precision.

The king stood motionless. “This is necessary,” Beron murmured.

But what Ronan felt wasn’t guilt. Guilt would have made him a decent father. No, it wasn’t remorse for seeing his son like this, stripped, sacrificed, reduced to a vessel for his survival.

It was his ego. The humiliation of knowing that a woman, goddess or not, had cursed him, trapping him in this vile act.

The king was lost in his thoughts when sudden screams erupted in the hallway.

"My queen!" a panicked voice cried.

Ronan turned his head just in time to see Queen Alys running. She was barefoot, her golden hair disheveled, flying behind her. Her eyes were wide, blazing with manic fury, and in her right hand, a dagger gleamed under the flickering torchlight.

"Let go of my son!" she screamed.

The maids rushed after her, pleading, but Alys ignored them, driven by a rage that nothing could contain. The soldiers hesitated. She was their queen. And even in her madness, she remained a sacred figure.

She raised the dagger high above her head, and in a desperate motion, shoved Ronan.

"You wretched bastard!" she sobbed.

But Ronan, with a sharp, caught her wrist with a cold brutality. He stopped her, his face hardening.

"You’ve finally woken up from your dreams!" he hissed, his voice low and rumbling with fury.

But Alys struggled fiercely, her frail body ignited by a strength that felt almost otherworldly. She turned her head and froze at the sight inside the room. Prince Jace was pale as death, his back carved with fresh, oozing scars.

Her voice was a whisper now, shaking with tears. “I finally see you for what you truly are."

The guards shifted uneasily, their hands on their swords, waiting for an order. Ronan barely turned his head. "Take the queen to her chambers," he barked, his voice sharp with fury. "She needs to rest. Light candles. Pray for her recovery."

But Alys lunged, twisting violently in his grip, her strength wild and erratic. Her scream tore through the hall. "No matter how many candles you light, there isn’t a single prayer that could atone for our sins."

Ronan’s hand tightened. "Your motherhood blinds you," he growled.

"Where is your dignity?" she sobbed.

His restraint snapped. "I lost it," Ronan roared, "when I fought the wars your bloodline couldn’t finish! I lost it when I secured the crown for your damned dynasty!"

"Dignity didn’t win you the kingdoms, the stolen sapphire did!" He leaned closer. "While you weep, I am the one trying to free us both from its torment!"

"You should have let us die, instead of drowning us in disgrace," she whispered, her eyes fixed on nothing, as if mourning every choice that led them here.

Ronan exhaled sharply. "It’s necessary. To save us both."

Him from death. Her from madness.

Alys shook her head, her knees buckling as she collapsed against him, her forehead striking his chest. "Please," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Stop them from scarring him. I loved you once..."

Ronan stood still, her weight pressed against him, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Love," he said bitterly,"is never enough."

The king pulled away, shoving her back with a swift motion. He wrenched the dagger from her hand, twisting her wrist so the blade grazed her palm, leaving a crimson line. Droplets of blood fell to the floor.

The maester emerged, vials in hand. "The ritual is complete," he said.

Alys stood frozen, her breath shallow, her tear-filled eyes locked on Ronan. His words, venomous and cold, had paralyzed her.

When two guards gripped her arms, she didn’t resist. The fury that had driven her moments ago had vanished, leaving a void too vast to fill.

As they led her away, her eyes stayed fixed on the king. On Jace.

And then, like a blade slicing through her mind, the thought came:

Whether queen or peasant, crowned in jewels or dirt, a woman bleeds twice more for her children: first in the agony of birth, and then in every sacrifice after.

Love had taken everything from Alys—her body, her mind, the very marrow of her bones. Once, she had been a young girl too, her lips stained with the sweetness of a man's lies.

But now, as her sins rise to curse her for the love and blind trust she gave that man, she bleeds again, forced to give up pieces of flesh from her only son.

"It’s time," Beron said.

They plunged into the dark corridors of the palace.

They descended the winding staircase, sinking into the depths where light failed and the air grew heavy. The damp walls seemed to whisper: muffled cries, broken murmurs spilling from the sealed cells they passed.

They halted before an iron door, bound in heavy chains and sealed with a black lock etched in ancient runes that pulsed faintly, alive with sinister energy.

The guards approached, wrestling with the key as they struggled to unlock the blackened mechanism. The chains groaned, almost alive, as if the metal resented their touch.

Beron’s patience snapped. He slammed his boot against the door. "Keegan! Open this damned door!"

From the other side came a sultry, mocking voice, sing-song in tone. "Just a moment!"

The guards pulled harder, straining with the key, until a sharp click broke the tension. But the door swung open of its own accord, releasing a long, grating sigh.

Inside, the cell was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the unsteady flicker of wall-mounted torches. The air hung thick, saturated with ancient magic so vile it felt almost alive.

Ronan advanced without hesitation, suppressing the pain in his body through sheer will.

In the center of the room stood Keegan, one hand on her hip, the other draped lazily over the back of an overturned chair. The flickering firelight danced on her ebony skin, giving her an otherworldly glow, while her crimson braids woven with beads coiled like living things around her angular face. A smirk split her lips, revealing dagger-sharp white teeth.

"You’ve finally arrived," she purred, her voice dripping with mockery.

With a fluid motion, she spun the chair around, revealing a bloodied man bound and gagged. His wide, terrified eyes darted desperately, pleading for an escape that would never come.

"Surprise!" Keegan declared, her tone all innocence, her eyes wickedly alight. "A humble offering for His Majesty’s appetite."

Beron’s jaw clenched, his voice tight with fury. "Watch your tongue, witch."

Kegan clicked her tongue, "You say it like it’s an insult. Yet here you are, crumbling in the dark, begging for my help." The King rolled his eyes, already weary of their bickering.

Ronan drew a deep breath, “Let’s begin.”

Keegan turned toward a massive cabinet cluttered with strange items. Her movements were fluid, laced with a provocative grace.

She rummaged through the chaos with maddening slowness, tossing objects behind her with careless flair: bones, vials, crumpled scrolls. The king’s patience unraveled thread by thread.

At last, she let out a triumphant cry. “Ah! There it is!”

From the depths of the cabinet, she dragged out a black chest, ancient and caked with dust. Even in the gloom, a faint blue glow pulsed through the cracks alive with sinister energy.

She placed the chest onto the table with deliberate precision, leaning over the lock, her back arching provocatively. She shot Beron a wink. He sighed, exasperated.

Her voice dropped to a low, seductive murmur, weaving a spell that curled through the air like a velvet ribbon. The heart-shaped lock trembled, then clicked softly, almost melodic. It sighed open, as if bewitched by her voice.

In an explosion of light, the chest flung itself open, as though alive, unleashing a searing blue glow that consumed the cell. The radiance devoured the shadows, illuminating every crack in the stone walls.

The shimmering light danced across Keegan’s face, her predatory grin deepening as her eyes burned with the same unearthly glow. The guards averted their gaze, unable to endure the intensity. Keegan’s fingers dipped into the chest, emerging with the fragment of the sapphire.

Jagged and unrefined, the sapphire was no polished gem but a fractured half of something greater—a broken heart. Its surface gleamed with a living blue, shifting engravings rewriting themselves like ever-changing paths. It pulsed in a hypnotic rhythm, alive with energy that belonged to neither this world nor the next. A beating heart.

The king stepped forward. Each step was heavy with yearning and dread. A faint breeze swirled through the cell, teasing Keegan’s crimson braids as Beron pressed the vial into Ronan’s trembling hand.

Ronan extended his fingers toward the sapphire. The moment his skin brushed its surface, a thunderous bolt of energy coursed through him. The black veins beneath his flesh flickered, glowing faintly, as his eyes burned with the same blue light. Without hesitation, he drained the vial in one motion. The prince’s blood slid down his throat.

The sapphire seemed to awaken, its luminous interior spiraling with threads of blue and silver. The engravings on its surface shifted, arranging themselves into cryptic, intricate patterns. A shadowy gust erupted in the chamber, carrying tormented whispers like the wails of distant souls.

Keegan, her eyes half-lidded, began murmuring in a forgotten tongue, her voice weaving through the air like a spell. She stretched out her hand toward the prisoner, and from his chest emerged a translucent white thread, ethereal. The prisoner groaned, his face twisting in pain as his soul was ripped from his body.

At the same moment, a dark thread erupted from the king’s chest, snaking toward the sapphire. Keegan moved her hands with theatrical precision, guiding the threads as they coiled around her long arms. The white and black filaments intertwined in a horrifying, harmonious dance. With one final gesture, she directed the white thread into Ronan’s body.

The king gasped, his chest heaving as though life itself had been forced back into him. The black veins receded, dissolving into his flesh. His sallow skin grew firm, his gaunt face regaining its youth. Straightening his shoulders, he once again commanded the room with an imposing presence.

The prisoner let out a final, rattling breath before slumping lifelessly in his chair.

Keegan, panting softly, lowered her hands and stepped back. With a deliberate motion, she shut the chest, trapping the divine light within. Darkness fell upon the cell again.

The king spun on his heels to leave, but Keegan stepped forward, her voice slicing through the silence. "Soon, you’ll need far more than a mortal’s soul and your son’s blood to survive."

Ronan froze, his body stiffening, before turning slowly. His eyes burned with rage. "Do you threaten me, witch?" he growled, his voice sharp as a blade.

Keegan tilted her chin defiantly, her lips curling into a mocking smile. Before she could answer, Ronan’s hand shot out, seizing her throat with brutal force. "Don’t forget your debt to me remains unpaid," he snarled.

But Keegan didn’t flinch. Her grin only widened. "See for yourself what my waters have to say, Your Majesty," she whispered, her tone smooth and daring.

Ronan shoved her away violently. Without hesitation, Keegan reached for a stone basin filled with dark water. Her fingers plunged into its depths, and the surface rippled, trembling as though alive. She murmured guttural words, low and hypnotic. Slowly, an image began to sharpen in the shimmering water.

Ronan stepped closer, his gaze locked on the vision. A table. A pendant rested upon it, delicate and gleaming.

"The tide has shifted," Keegan murmured, her voice echoing like a distant chant. "Time has passed, and the ashes... have been found."

Ronan staggered back, his face twisting into fury and panic. "Impossible," he whispered. His voice erupted, raw with desperation. "Bring them to me! Burn everything in your path if you must, but bring me those ashes!"

Keegan raised an eyebrow, amused. "Impossible," she repeated, shaking her head. "They’re beyond my reach—for now."

The king’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. His breaths came in ragged bursts.

Keegan leaned in, her words dripping like venom. "Time runs against you, Your Majesty. And the missing piece of your sapphire... will soon be found."

Beron stepped forward, trying to steady the tension. "We still have one fragment of the map," he offered. "Without it, no one can fully locate the sapphire. It took us years to recover even that?—"

Keegan cut him off with a raised hand. "Another fragment has surfaced," she said, her smile carnivorous as her fingers traced the water. The vision shifted, revealing the face of a man ; young, sharp, and dangerous.

"Dax the Viper, they call him" Keegan announced. "A pirate captain from the slums. Younger. Smarter. Stronger than you."

Ronan’s teeth ground together as he glared at the image. "Bring me his head and the fragment!" he bellowed, his voice booming in the confined space.

Beron raised his hands, pleading, but the king, consumed by fury, extended a shadow-wreathed hand and sent Beron crashing into the wall with brutal force. "Enough! Your counsel has slowed me for too long! My power is at stake!"

Keegan stepped closer to the king, her movements feline. Her long nails grazed his neck as she whispered, low and seductive, "You need the pirate. He will succeed where your generals have failed. At the right price, he will bring you the ashes. Then the sapphire. And finally... your power will be whole."

Ronan hesitated, his eyes gleaming with rage and unshed tears.

From the floor, Beron rasped, his voice heavy with despair. "Your Majesty... I beg you. Do not involve anyone else in this quest. It will only end... horribly."

Ronan silenced him with a frigid glare. He turned to Keegan, his voice a quiet, venomous murmur. "Know this, witch: the fate of your clan rests on the success of this plan. "Should you fail, I will ruin you so completely that no one will recognize what’s left."

A flicker of fear passed through Keegan’s gaze, but her smile never faltered.

Ronan pivoted sharply, his velvet cloak sweeping behind him as he marched out of the cell. "Send for the pirate," he ordered, disappearing into the shadows.

Beron struggled to his feet, casting a broken glance at Keegan. "You’ve doomed us all to a cursed fate," he whispered.

Keegan let out a raspy laugh, her voice reverberating against the stone walls. "Oh, dear... history always repeats itself, whether we wish it to or not."

With a flick of her wrist, the heavy iron door slammed shut, sealing Beron out. Her laughter echoed long after silence returned.