“She’s gone mad,” Zadarrah muttered, his voice low and dangerous. His footsteps were deliberate, each step measured to mask the storm raging within him. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing thin lines of blood.
He paused, nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply, trying to catch her scent—anything that could lead him to her quickly. The thought of her, the way she had deceived him, made his blood boil. He had been played for a fool, and the humiliation was a bitter poison coursing through his veins.
Zadarrah knew the consequences of killing her. The backlash, the chaos it would unleash—but none of that mattered now. All he could think of was finding her, ripping that cursed ring from her finger, and draining every last drop of blood from her treacherous body. The image burned in his mind, fueling his fury as he stalked through the darkness, a predator on the hunt.
Similarly, Cleo had her own storm brewing. The men shoved her ruthlessly after stripping away her jewels, their rough hands binding hers tightly behind her back. Each step she took sent a jolt of pain through her bare, bruised feet as they forced her forward.
They left the forest behind, the trees giving way to the steep descent that led into the moors. The air grew colder, the landscape more unforgiving. As one of the men approached her, his breath rancid with the stench of rot, Cleo sighed and turned her head away in disgust.
“Ya’ll bear me pretty children, yes?” he sneered, his chuckle low and guttural. Cleo met his gaze with a smile that dripped with false sweetness.
“As many as you want,” she purred, leaning closer to him, her voice a silky trap.
His chuckle deepened, his eyes narrowing with lust as he moved closer, his hands rough and possessive as they cupped her waist, pulling her against him. “I’ve never seen a woman of your…”
His voice trailed off as his men watched, curiosity and a dark desire in their eyes.
“Color?” Cleo prompted, tilting her head slightly, her gaze piercing.
The man stared, momentarily dazed by the vivid contrast of her bright eyes and skin against the grim surroundings. “Yes, yes…” he murmured, almost mesmerized.
Suddenly, the air whistled ominously. A massive bolt of lightning cracked through the sky, striking the man with blinding force. Cleo was thrown backward by the explosion, her body rolling down the hill, unconscious.
The man’s men stared in horror at the remains of their leader. His liver and ribs lay grotesquely a foot away from his still-smoking, severed head. Fear seized them, and they raised their spears in panic, scanning the area for the unseen enemy.
But the heavens had already turned against them. The clouds darkened, churning like an angry sea. Thunder boomed, deafening them before another flash of light tore through the sky, consuming their lives with merciless precision. Their charred bodies crumpled to the ground, filling the air with the stench of burnt flesh.
Zadarrah emerged from the shadows, his footsteps heavy as he approached Cleo, just as she began to stir. Without hesitation, he grabbed her by the neck, his fingers digging into her throat until her eyes bulged with terror and confusion.
“You thought you were smart?” he hissed into her ear, his voice dripping with venom.
Cleo’s mouth opened to speak, but no sound escaped as she gasped for air. He released her suddenly, throwing her to the ground like a discarded doll. She coughed and groaned, struggling to find her footing.
“Have you lost your mind? No, don’t answer that. You have certainly lost your mind!” Zadarrah’s voice was a growl, his patience wearing thin.
Cleo glared at him, her anger flaring despite her weakened state. “The ring,” he demanded, his hand outstretched, palm open and waiting.
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing with defiance. “I believe it is the other way around, Zadarrah. Man to woman as God intended.” Her tone grew sharp, each word cutting like a blade.
Thunder rumbled ominously above her, as if the skies themselves were warning her. But Cleo scoffed, undeterred. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Zadarrah smirked, lowering himself to sit on the sand in front of her. “I will not ask again.”
Cleo smiled back, cold and mocking, as she mirrored his movements, sitting across from him. “You just did, you fool.”
Swiftly, she jolted back, her hands instinctively moving towards her feet before she thrust them in front of her, just as a flash of lightning struck the ground where she had been sitting moments before. She eyed the scorched earth with a mix of disdain and defiance.
“You mock me, Zadarrah,” she spat, her voice laced with bitterness. “I’ll be sure to pray for you,” she cried out as she turned and bolted away, her feet pounding against the sand.
Zadarrah watched her frantic escape with a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with a dark amusement. He glanced down at his feet before rising slowly, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
Cleo struggled with the ropes binding her wrists, using her teeth to tug them free. “Ugh!” she groaned, spitting out the bitter taste of the coarse fibers. “A ring? That foolish man! How could he be so utterly foolish?” she muttered, her frustration fueling her sprint as she raced toward the distant sound of a rushing river.
A sudden prickle of unease made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She leapt aside just in time as another bolt of lightning tore into the ground, leaving a smoking crater in its wake. Whipping her head around, she saw Zadarrah approaching, his expression unreadable.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Cleo groaned in exasperation, pushing herself to her feet, her pace quickening. She screamed as a blinding flash of light sent her hurtling forward, the force of the impact making her ears ring. Dazed, she struggled to stand, only to find herself once again within Zadarrah’s grasp.
He pinned her roughly against the gnarled trunk of an old tree, and she let out a harsh cry as an uncut branch pierced her shoulder, blood seeping down her back. His eyes were half-lidded, his brows furrowed in a severe frown. The green in his eyes was barely visible, shadowed by the intensity of his gaze.
“I can tell you’re not in your right mind,” she panted, her voice strained. “But if you could just tell me what it is you think I’ve done—”
“The ring,” he growled, each word carefully chosen, his voice simmering with restrained anger. “The trader told me you came here weeks ago and that he gave the ring to you. I’ve wasted my time with you, to the point where I—”
Cleo’s sudden burst of laughter cut him off, leaving him momentarily stunned. “You’re even more of a fool than I thought…” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You believe the words of a trader who’s in cahoots with the very people you’ve just scorched to death?”
“Over you…?” he hissed, his anger flaring. “Yes.”
Cleo’s gaze wavered, his words striking at her confidence, but she quickly recovered. “Where is this trader now? I’d like a word with him.”
He scoffed at her request, but she continued, her tone taking on a deadly calm. “Consider it my last words before I meet my God.”
After a tense moment, he dropped her. She caught herself before she could fall, wincing at the pain in her back.
“Walk.” he commanded.
She smiled faintly, straightening her posture as she walked ahead of him, sensing the distance he maintained between them.
They arrived at the trader’s shop, the atmosphere tense with unspoken threats. Behind the counter sat a green-skinned woman with golden, shimmering hair, singing softly to the small man she cradled in her lap, the trader. At Cleo’s sudden greeting, the woman fled without a second glance, leaving the short man to scramble to his feet, his eyes widening in recognition.
“You’re even more beautiful than they said,” he whispered, climbing onto a stool to get closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch, or even taste, her skin.
Zadarrah’s hand shot out, gripping the trader’s wrist before he could make contact. “Is she the one?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
The trader gasped, turning to face Zadarrah, fear seizing him instantly.
“Don’t lie, sweet boy,” Cleo cooed, gently stroking the man’s balding head. He leaned into her touch, but his comfort was short-lived as Zadarrah cruelly twisted his knuckles.
The trader arched his back, screaming in pain. “NO!!”
“No, she’s not the one?” Zadarrah’s voice a deadly whisper.
“Yes!!” the trader cried out, desperation in his voice.
Cleo finds the cleanest chair in the room, though it’s hardly more than a rickety wooden frame, and drops into it, exhaustion pressing her into the splintered seat. After a moment, she manages to pour myself a jug of what ever liquid filled the canister, inspecting it closely before taking a cautious sip. The liquid is lukewarm and bitter, and she can only hope it acts as the highly acclaimed sedative.
Zadarrah moves silently through the back entrance, the bloodcurdling screams that soon follow tell her he’s not leaving anyone alive. His return is announced by the heavy thud of his boots on the wooden floor, each step echoing like a death knell. She dosent look up, merely taking another sip, the metallic taste of blood still clinging to her split lip.
His shadow stretches long and dark over her, a suffocating presence that she can’t ignore.
“Stand up.” His voice is a low growl, thick with the stench of slaughter, and something in it makes the thought of disobeying him delightful.
She rises without a word, her eyes meeting his with a mix of defiance and curiosity, as if trying to decipher the storm brewing in his gaze. “Do you believe me now?” she asks, but the question feels more like a challenge.
Before she can respond, his hand swings across her cheek with brutal force, the sharp crack echoing through the room as shes thrown back against the wall. Pain radiates from where he struck, but she bite down on the inside of her cheek, tasting the sharp tang of blood as she suppress a wince.
He watches her intently, desperation flickering in his eyes, yet she dosent see his thin veil of control slipping. The warlock was no fool that he would not take note of beauty. Her lips twitch into a smile, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she sucks on her bottom lip, savoring the taste.
A gesture that did not go unnoticed by the warlock.
Zadarrah scoffs, his eyes narrowing as he steps closer, his breath hot against her skin. “That won’t work on me. I know what you are…” His words are almost a snarl as his hand closes around her throat, fingers digging into her flesh.
Her smile grows wider, as the pressure on her neck make her vision blur. Tilting my head slightly, she lets her eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the darkness that inches closer, her lips still curled in a mocking grin.
____
She gasps and shudders as she awakens from her sleep, instinctively sitting up. Her silky hair falls over her shoulder as she adjusts to the pain still reverberating through her body. She stands, struggling to maintain her balance as a wave of dizziness pins her head. Wincing, she smiles with a mix of respect and annoyance, the bitter taste of mandrake lingering on her tongue. The cold chain at her ankle rattles, defying any attempt at freedom.
His gravelly voice announces his presence. She spins to find him seated beside the makeshift bed, his eyes green and narrowing as he observes her. Her hair bounces and falls at her back as she turns. His fingers drum loudly on the wooden frame, the sound echoing along the walls of the abandoned manor. Cobwebs cling to the ground and edges of the walls, while fallen chandeliers and debris clutter the center, leaving an open view of the night sky.
She shivers, the hairs on her arms and legs standing on end, her torn garments offering little protection against the brutal weather and exposing parts of her body she would prefer to keep hidden. He looks up at her, his green eyes shrinking to their edges.
Standing unwaveringly, she gazes vacantly at him, her face a mask of blankness. “You wanted me dead,” she says softly. “You gave me a deadly tincture.” She pulls the last needle from the side of her thigh with a wince.
“And what happened?” he asks gravely, his tone betraying disinterest.
“Obviously the opposite of what you expected,” she replies, sitting down and staring at the wall opposite her. She inhales the thick air sharply and blows on her hands, rubbing them together quickly before placing them on her arms.
He watches her with a scoff as she shifts her focus to him. “Whenever I can, I try to do the right thing. I…” She shrugs at her own words before they are fully out. “I pray to God and thank Him that I was able to see the better part of myself that He saw in me.” She glances at him. “What do you do?” she asks, with a certainty that she will hear his answer.
His fingers still. He straightens and rests against the large seat suited for his frame, sending her a questioning look.
“Because I think,” she continues, “that everyone needs someone to serve, and unfortunately, some choose to serve the worst master— themselves. Why do you think that is?”
He stands, pushing himself from the chair.
“You’re just going to leave me here… alone? It’s freezing.”
His footsteps move further away. “Your God should keep you company. And warm.”
Cleo lets out a frustrated sigh and eyes his chair. “Hm,” she mutters, walking towards it and plopping herself down. She chuckles to herself as she savors the warmth of the chair, which is twice her size. Groaning softly, she cuddles herself, a treacherous smile stretching her lips as she recalls the warlock carrying her to this foreign land. Her blouse is ripped from the bottom of her midriff to the hem, her skirt torn and burnt past her knees, the white fabric barely recognizable. She remembers the pain from each needle as the poison entered her.
As a child, she had ingested far worse substances, making her immune to much of everything. It only made her sleep less comfortable and her joints more stiff. The cold breeze sends a jolt of pain up her ankle where the iron clasp gnaws at her skin. She sits on the floor, checking the blackening patch of skin, sighing and rubbing the area. She pondered on her situation until morning.
The sun was barely in the sky when she hears him descending the stairwell.
