Page 8 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

He felt the sickening pop when his fist connected with that bastard’s face.

As he drew his fist back in preparation for one more swing, he could not help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Some would call him insane, but there was never a single soul that would test the theory unless they had a death wish.

They did not call him The Forest Demon for no reason.

He excelled in violence and perfected the art of killing, an ominous thing of nightmares.

A story humans told their children to get them to go to sleep at night, lest they wanted their transgressions judged by the Demon, himself.

There were more than a thousand ways to quietly kill a man and Aziel Haze had been successful in every form of murder he’d attempted.

But, sometimes, a loud death was necessary.

Especially if the sick bastard was a rapist that preyed on young women who were barely old enough to leave the comfort of their father’s care.

He swung again, leather-clad knuckles smacking against teeth.

Blood pooled in the man’s mouth, his grip on Aziel’s jacket faltering.

He hadn’t struggled in the last five minutes, which meant that now was the perfect time for him to wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat and strangle the rest of his pathetic life from his bloated body.

He didn’t. No matter how much he wanted to feel that life dwindle away under the grip of his fingers, Aziel pulled back and slowly raised himself to his feet.

He looked over the hulking mass of the man laid out before him and with his head cocked to the side, he frowned. Not enough, he decided.

He saw Oran flinch in the doorway as the heel of his boot smashed into the man’s mouth, teeth and blood filling the open cavern.

“Get him up before he chokes on that.” Aziel huffed.

He looked down at the blood on his gloves with a small smile.

Aziel would not say that he was evil, but he did enjoy dispelling a good beating when it was called for.

There were even times he loved to kill the people on his list. Depending on what they did.

He’d killed rapists, murderers, con-men, politicians, and priests. Whoever King Dorid commanded. But there was nothing like killing the likes of the man he’d just sent to the dungeon. For men like this, repeat offenders, Aziel liked to repeat pain. He would have fun with this one.

Turning his eyes to the prince, Aziel let out a long sigh.

There it was again, that vivid look of disgust and awe plastered on his face, as if it were the first time Oran had seen him torture someone.

It wasn’t. “Why insist on watching if you are only going to look at me like I’m a monster afterwards? ” He hummed.

Oran sighed, dragging a hand through his midnight-colored hair. “I learn something new each time I watch you do this.”

“And what did you learn this time?” Aziel chuckled, head turning to watch as his men dragged the rapist through the door that led directly to the dungeon.

Blood trailed after the man, but Aziel couldn’t tell if it was coming from the wound on his stomach or from the hole in the bastard’s thigh that once was holding his knife.

Ignoring the blood on his glove, he reached into the pocket of his embroidered jacket to retrieve the silver container that held matches and rolled tobacco.

At his brother's extended silence, he arched a brow. “That bad, huh?”

“Not bad.” Oran shrugged. “Impressively gory.”

“It was deserved.” He lit one of his rolls and took small puffs as he placed the silver container back in his pocket.

He’d never been one to smoke after a kill, but this one was unplanned and he had a lot of explaining to do when he was allowed to be graced with his father’s presence. “He hurt that girl.”

Oran sighed. "You are toeing a line that you might not want to cross, Aziel. People are starting to catch on. Why must you take things so personally?”

“Do you have to personally know someone to defend their honor?”

“Well—"

Aziel pushed himself off of the wall and walked towards his brother, blowing smoke into his clean-shaven face. Surely, he’d prettied himself up for his celebration—as it was a thing to celebrate. The heir apparent had returned to his glorious kingdom and would be finding himself a wife.

They were in for a night of revelry and, surely, debauchery.

Oran would drag him along with their cousins and his friends, force him to sit through hours of card games, drinking, smoking, and meaningless sex with a number of the courtesans that were primped and ready to be used.

Including the one that had haunted him for the last ten years.

“I think I heard something about you saving that pretty little Mystic from being ravished by our cousins on Hunting Day.”

It was all too telling that his brother was uncomfortable. Oran shifted his weight onto his left foot and folded his arms across his chest. “It wasn’t about her.”

Of course it wasn’t. Aziel didn’t receive lengthy letters detailing Nymiria Celentas’s brilliance, but he’d heard his brother complain enough.

He knew that Oran’s reasoning behind saving that girl had nothing to do with honor and everything to do about his anger.

There was a girl, he'd learned, that was the reason Oran was sent away.

Another Mystic that won Oran's young heart—Rayelle.

It'd been roughly nine years since his lover was ripped away from him and stoned in the dead of night, but Oran's anger never went away.

No matter how much he tried to please his father, that anger and that pain was still very much visible under his hard exterior.

Oran was on a mission to avenge Rayelle's death. It was that simple.

“She’s a pretty one."

“Aziel.”

Oran’s tone sounded eerily close to their father’s, stern and commanding.

A tone that could make those below them fall in line.

Aziel never considered himself to be below them, not really, but from a political standpoint, Aziel was no more important to the royal household than the courtesan he’d fucked the night before.

Nymiria Celentas, on the other hand, was the king’s pride and joy.

The daughter he never had, according to one letter he’d sent Oran.

He didn't want to believe it, but it seemed as if it were true. Everyone he'd talked to had told him the same story. She was his doting pet.

Ignoring his brother’s brooding, Aziel tossed his cigarette to the ground and finally examined his gloves.

“I suppose I should clean myself up a bit.” He pulled a black handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, narrowing his eyes as he wiping the blood from the black leather that he wore like a second skin.

He could feel his brother's eyes on him, following along with every movement.

Oran acted as if he wanted to say more, but Aziel was simply not in the mood to listen to the prince's incessant whining.

"Don't you have a party to get ready for? " He asked.

Oran looked up from Aziel's gloves. "Yes. I do, actually. And you do, too. My mother has requested your presence at this event. I'd suggest you make an appearance this time."

This time. Aziel rolled his eyes, fighting back against the urge to start scratching at his hands.

His face crumpled in discomfort and he turned his neck to one side, the tension in his shoulders relieved for just a single moment when the joint popped.

There were many people he detested in this palace and his stepmother was at the top of that list. Aziel held a firm belief that all of the evil stepmothers written about in fairy tales were direct depictions of that woman.

But Oran was correct. If Aziel so much as dared to go against her wishes, he would pay for his disobedience tenfold.

And there were just some things he was not willing to risk.

Oran was gone before Aziel could finish washing the blood out of the room.

Even though there wouldn't be much time for him to get ready and the clock was steadily ticking, he still took his time, doing his best at prolonging the inevitable.

He scrubbed and rinsed until the stone flooring was just as gray and bland as it'd been before he dragged that sick bastard into it.

After he dumped the final bucket of water, he took a step back and pulled the silver container out of his pocket and lit another roll with aching, trembling hands.

As a boy, the only thing that ever brought him joy during his time in the palace was sitting in the room he shared with his mother and both of them looking out the window, watching and identifying the birds that flew past. She taught him the name of every bird that was native to this region.

And of the hundreds of species, his mother claimed that her favorite was the crow.

Never for its beauty, but for the fact that crows were amongst the smartest species of birds in existence.

They could remember a face, remember any form of cruelty bestowed upon them and pass those tales down through generations—its offspring already born knowing of the cruel and hateful ways of someone who tried to inflict harm upon them.

Aziel's eyes traveled over the vast expanse of greenery outside the window, lingering on the iron gates that surrounded his mother's final resting place. He hadn't been inside her graveyard in over ten years, as each of his visits in Yaar over the last decade were short and to the point.