King Andrew sat upon his throne. His neck twitched; grey eyes narrowed as he looked with hazy sight toward his council. Blackness shrouded his view and his head ached — Gods, it felt like daggers digging in from the base of his skull. His knuckles stretched over the arms of the anchor that was his chair, extended with bone-white intensity.
Duke Haymark stood with the Council Speaker just before him. The weasel, Jed, stood to their side.
"Again."
A scream clawed up through the air. The body on the floor writhed, face twisted in agony. Her fingers contracted so stiffly around invisible objects Andrew waited for something to break. After a few seconds, her arced back collapsed back to the ground, heaving for breath.
Jed scowled and said, "Again."
This time, as the body contorted in pain, shadows whipped around her; they twisted between her legs and wrapped around her fingers. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head; the darkness spilled from her eyelids like a heavy smoke.
A twisted smile lifted the edges of Jed's lips. He turned to the Duke of Haymark.
"There," came the Duke's graveled voice. "It is done."
Both men looked to the Council Speaker, who finally took his hands off of the woman on the ground. He rose from her limp body with a smile to match theirs. "We are ready now."
Andrew's clouded eyes remained on the splay of sliver hair that tumbled across the ground, still shrouded in tendrils of black, sparkling in the light as if even the stars were crying.
