The Witch's Cursed Daughter

91. Revenge

The patter of rain meeting the glass ceiling high above, hidden behind layers of green leaves, impinged on the heavy atmosphere. As Romile stood with his sword wrapped in his blazing red aura, Abner Faris could feel his grip tightening as if a vice was being endlessly twisted in fear he would let go. The growing sour scent of his sweat filled his nose as he waited, with the image of Romile growing more prominent in his eye.

Faris was a man of greed; he knew his nature. His size had predetermined that others would bow down to him throughout his life in fear. No matter which position he had climbed to, another was within reach as he interrogated others with his presence alone. However, standing, weapon at the ready, before a man at least fifteen years his junior and tilting his head down to make eye contact, he felt dread. The anxiety he had not received but induced all his days. With trepidation gnawing somewhere in the back of his mind, Faris felt his breath quiver as his feet moved instinctively to protect himself.

Romile had observed the ex-Jailer, watching his eyes darting up and down. He admired the man's gall and resolute belief in his command, despite the apparent outcome being his demise. As Faris's grip rotated around the hilt of his blade, Romile pounced, the embodiment of a predator, as his prey's, mind wandered with thoughts of survival.

The clashing metallic sounds of blades dancing noisily filled the glasshouse as the two toed-and-froed. With wild abandon, the duellers swung their swords, determined to kill their opponent as the taste of saliva filled their mouths without the presence of liquid. The controlled huffing of steady breaths, rising and falling with the movements of carelessly placed movements by Faris contrasted greatly to the unconscious skill of Romile.

As the blinding view of Romile's rusty hair darted across Faris's gaze, a sinister voice laughed in his ear, "I thought an ex-Jailer would be more resilient." Faris lashed in the direction of the words, his sword leading his body; however, the steel met nothing but air. The air was becoming musty, thick with the smell of fresh sweat, unearthed mud and roots from beneath the fighters' feet, and the arrogant pollen which refused to be overridden. Faris thought of the words Romile had sneered to him, his thoughts flashing with the memory set in The Chamber, whip in hand, Romile tenaciously supporting himself on the post in the middle of the room.

Exhaustion beginning to weight his boots, Faris wrenched himself to face Romile, whose appearance was almost unperturbed by the ongoing combat. "Those words are a nice touch. How long have you wanted to say them aloud?" Faris spat.

"Four years," Romile smiled back.

Without a chance to prepare for the following strike, Faris found himself looking at his reflection in Romile's eye. A black reflection, sad and painful, revealing the twisted expression painted over his features, and Romile's aura trickled from his chest. Slowly dropping his chin, Faris felt a strain in his throat as shock dried his airway. Romile's sword sat through his torso; lifting his eyes back to the Guard, he found that his killer had the same polite smile plastered on his lips. Suddenly, Romile pulled back, twisting his sword one hundred and eighty degrees, his firey aura flaring with thrill as he did. Life burned from Faris's face as his body crumpled to the ground, charcoal flesh puffing smoke continuously as his blood poured towards the sizzling hole.

Cleaning his blade with a handful of leaves, Romile glanced to Wen, whose arms kept the precious cargo they had finally laid claim to. As the hot touch of evaporating red liquid met his fingertips, Romile sighed heavily, ashamed of his eagerness to seek revenge on the ex-Jailer.

"Are you done?" Wen's voice pushed into Romile's mind as he stepped forward, crunching over the now rough terrain.

"Yes, Your Imperial Highness. Shall we go?"

"Davore, once again, if you will."

The prince walked to the pathway at the entrance and waited for Davore to take the lead. As she stepped around the sizzling body, the pungent smell scratching at her nose, the Mage quickened her pace, not slowing as she led them back out of the greenhouse without further interruptions.

Once in the clean open air, the group inhaled collectively, taking a moment to free themselves from the event that transpired inside. The droplets continuously falling from above had left a sheet of liquid across everything the eye could see, including the incoming unit of guards on approach.

With lights flashing beyond the clouds overhead and the increasing growls of thunder becoming more frequent, Davore asked, "Your Imperial Highness, would you like me to take care of them?"

"I appreciate that, Davore. However, your abilities are better suited to soothing and energy manipulation. I think it's only fair that I step forward this time since Sir Fassie showed such an entertaining display inside."

"You, Your Imperial Highness?" Romile burst, taken aback, "I know that your skill with a blade should not be underestimated but as someone of higher standing than myself, should I not protect you?"

"Very eloquently said, Sir Fassie, but no. Please take Evianna; I will be at a disadvantage should I try to attack with a body in my arms," Wen extended Evianna's small frame towards Romile, who obediently wrapped her in his grip. Having her in his arms again, relief washed over him, as his belief in himself outweighed that which he held in the first prince.

Wen narrowed his eyes as he watched the group approach, splashing through the giant puddles covering the landscape, counting the members he found there to by five people. He nodded slightly to Davore, which he knew she would understand.