Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

38 | The Impact of Uncertainty

The room was beginning to brighten, the sky finally welcoming the sun again as a new day began, and as deadly dawn approached.

And yet, even with the brighter sky and the dramatic nature, it wasn't nearly as incredible as Archer thought it would be. He wasn't sure what he'd expected—the silence of an entire crowd or the stillness of the expansive ocean, perhaps—but there was no one there but Archer and Silta. No one to silence, no one to impress.

The King looked down at his chest. A perfect shot, a mercy shot. Straight to the heart.

Silta took the final steps towards him, pushing the dying man against his throne. Blood seeped from under his golden clothes as she threaded her fingers around his neck.

"I hope it hurts," she said, her head tilted and her golden eyes full of hate and disgust. " I hope wherever you end up, you can still see me. I hope you're forced to watch as I take your entire kingdom and burn it to the ground. I hope you watch."

Archer picked up the King's longknife.

"I hope you suffer," she said, knocking the King's head against the marble throne. "I hope you find my mother somehow. I hope she gives you the rest of what you deserve."

The King gurgled blood, his hands useless to stop his draining life.

"I hope you burn in hell," she whispered, her voice hissing the words like a snake would to its next meal, her mouth so close to his ear, her eyes so close to his.

The King slumped under her, his grand body sliding down the throne, leaving a long and shining trail of patchy crimson blood. His head hit the marble with a crack, and his crown rolled off his head, spinning a few times before it came to a stop. The sound echoed in the expansive room.

And it was just them.

He had her now, all his. Bardarian was gone, and Archer could pick up the pieces. He could let her mourn until she turned around and realized that he'd always been the better option. She and Archer could go back to the Avourienne. He would be her strategist, and she would be his captain.

Didn't it all sound so easy? So simple, so certain? Wouldn't it be so lovely to have the advantage of the immoral?

Silta looked down at her father, as if ensuring he was dead, watching to make sure his eyes didn't burst open once again and come back for more. Her golden eyes retained no sadness nor regret; she appeared to be simply watching. Archer watched her watch.

"Were you bluffing?" he asked, his voice loud in the silent room. "About the throne?"

"No." She didn't look away from her father, her back to Archer.

He could stay with her. Pick up the pieces. Learn to be a killer. One day, she might tell him she loved him. Archer could be the king himself if he loved her right. That's what he should do. Claw and fight his way to power, the advantage of the immoral. The power of the villain.

Archer turned, his heart crawling into his throat and begging to get out. It didn't want to be his anymore, didn't want to associate with his dark thoughts. He swallowed it down, forced it to stay there. Forced himself to breathe.

He lifted the King's blade and sunk it deep into Silta's back, where it came through just under the ribs. Because Archer was no villain, and he did not get the advantage of the immoral. He got this, the hell of the moral.

He'd hit the ground. He'd been falling for days, out of control and flailing. Racing time and racing morality and racing his life. Desperate to find something, even if it was the deadly ground below. So he found it, here, with all this death. It barrelled into him and tore the breath from his lungs and sent stars spiralling into his vision at all ends. It tore him apart. It ruined him, but it didn't kill him. Not like he thought it would, not like he wanted it to.