The servants are just beginning to rouse. Today is the day they get to sleep in late, because on this day, I demand nothing of them but that they rest and enjoy the day at their leisure.
It is Seinmas, the Seventh Day, when the seventh Fury, Hecoa, The Goddess of the Dead, supposedly created her Underworld and drew all the malevolent spirits into it, curing the world of its ills.
What a load of horseshit that turned out to be.
I’m still here, aren’t I?
Ill-fated spirit I may be, but I’m no tyrant.
Let the people rest.
I’m not one to demand that they dress me or prepare me meals. The Furies know… I don’t need those kinds of meals anymore.
As for the other things…
I can draw my own bath.
Keep my own chambers neat.
Shave my own chin.
Cut and braid my own cursed hair.
Because even though my demands of them are fair and honest and I pay them generously, making sure they are well clothed and fed and have comfortable lodgings, they fear me.
But considering what I’ve become, I can hardly blame them for that.
I stop at a large window, admiring the new glasswork. The artisans have followed my instructions to the letter. So they should, because they charged me to the point of bloody extortion, but I appreciate good craftsmanship, and Tyron has enough wealth to go around these days.
Set into the thick wall above the inner entrance gates, this window allows a view into the outer courtyard, where all visitors and newcomers must pass.
It’s where my soldiers do their drills.
Its frame is forged from iron steel, as is the grille, with each square around two handspans in width and set with thick and clear sapphire crystal glass.
The previous window was smashed and rusted, haphazardly patched over with planks of wood, the miserable contraption allowing the bitter cold to seep in during winter.
Even I prefer warmth to the cold, still.
A familiar sound—boots crunching on snow—steals my attention.
Moments later, someone stumbles across the courtyard; a big, hulking figure dressed in furs and leathers.
Someone familiar.
An amused snort escapes me. You idiot.
I reach the tower and quickly make my way down the stairs, reaching the bottom before said idiot can take another step.
In the blink of an eye, I’m out the door and standing beside him with my arm around his shoulders.
“You look like you need a shoulder to steady you, Commander,” I say amicably, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
His entire body goes stiff. He slowly turns his head to glare at me. “Goddess-damn-you, you bastard. Your Highness,” he says, slurring his words. “You know I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.”
“A screaming toddler could have snuck up on you in your current state, Kaithar. Do yourself a favor and get into bed and sleep for at least ten hours. That’s an order. I can’t have you looking like death warmed up at drills tomorrow.” My nose wrinkles. “There are at least three different layers of perfume on you, Kaith. I take it you had a worthwhile evening, then?”
Kaithar shrugs. “Tch. That cursed nose of yours. You know what? I think so. Can’t remember.” His grey eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. “Where are you going at this ungodly hour, Van? You’re not going to fool anyone in that getup, you know.”
“I have no desire to fool anyone,” I say quietly, allowing Kaithar to lean on me as he walks across the snow-covered flagstones. He’s a heavy bastard, but as I am now, I can shoulder his weight effortlessly. “Just being practical, is all.”
I let Kaithar’s drunken observation slide, but I know very well what he’s going on about.
I’m wearing what might be described as the simple garb of a woodsman. Loose woollen trousers and a simple grey tunic. Sturdy leather boots and a hooded cloak.
In the capital, someone of my station would never dress so humbly. The Rahavan Court would be outraged.
But living in Tyron allows me such freedoms.
Especially with the way I am now.
“So, you didn’t tell me where you’re going,” Kaithar growls as we enter the stairwell. “Got a lover’s tryst or something?”
“I do not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There’s only so long you can prevent all womankind from entering the castle.”
“You know my reasons,” I growl. “The hunger is… unpredictable.”
The few women that I have encountered since my revival... their blood-scent was so tempting that I immediately sent them away. I fear what I might become if I were to ever succumb to such temptation.
The blood of men doesn’t smell so maddeningly sweet. I can control myself around them. As long as I surround myself with male soldiers and servants, my condition is manageable.
Kaithar staggers up the stairs, his footfalls so heavy he could wake the dead.
How can this bastard be so deadly and graceful on the battlefield—a pure menace with his heavy war axe—and yet so clumsy and lumbering when he’s had a few too many drinks?
It isn’t often, but when Kaithar gets on the booze, he goes hard.
“Van…” Kaithar’s tone turns serious—well, as serious as he can possibly be when he’s drunk and slurring his words. “You’re you. I don’t care what’s happened to your body. You’re as you as I’ve ever known you to be. You’ve already had enough power at your disposal in your lifetime, even before. If you wanted to turn into some evil bastard, you would have done so already. I should know. I’ve seen enough of them. You and I both. That’s why I’m loyal to you.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Commander Bareem,” I say dryly as I deliver my old friend to the top of the stairs. “But there’s still so much about this infernal condition of mine that I still don’t understand.”
The books I ordered from the other side of the continent haven’t arrived yet. Arcanea Magikora and An Illustrated Guide to Vampyrkind are extremely rare and old texts I’ve been trying to obtain for some time.
The answers I seek… I am hoping beyond hope I’ll find them in those books.
As we walk down the corridor, Kaithar puts his big, heavy arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do. It doesn’t make me see you any differently, Your Highness. I’m just glad you’re still alive.”
I take more of Kaithar’s weight, refusing to allow him to stagger. “Kaith,” I say softly, a thorny vine curling around my heart. “It’s not often I say this, but thank you.”
“Tch. What for? You’re not going all sentimental on me now, are you? You know, it’s good to see you, Van. I haven’t seen your face in a while. I get uneasy, you know, with you locking yourself up in your chambers all the bloody time.”
“I have a lot of work to do,” I growl. “Feyrun Bengar left Tyron’s estates and finances in a mess.”