The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXVIII | CRESCENDO OF THUNDER

       MAARIT HAD NO clue what the king would do with the head of the deceased guardsman. Theodoracius strode down the hallways in a mesmeric flurry of emerald green—the colour of the robes he wore that day. She watched his retreating back with regret gnawing at her insides, for a part of her wanted to see the face of the man who had raped her.

Perhaps it was to prove that she could stand it, or that she hadn't lost her courage, or simply for the sheer satisfaction of knowing that she was the one who still breathed.

No matter what Sergius had done to her, Maarit's eyes would be acquainted with the sun and the stars many times. She would continue living out whatever future she was destined for. She had won, so why did she still feel so utterly broken and irreparable?

Her fingers went immediately to her neck and, for the umpteenth time, grazed the bruises the man had left. The shades of blue and purple against her sun-kissed skin had grown even more stark overnight. Oddly enough, in her mind, they were not tied to unwelcome memories. Whatever marks graced her flesh were memories of her survival—and somehow, she had forced herself to attach comfort to them.

"Wait," she called after the king, surprising herself at the amount of mettle in the single word.

Halfway down the corridor, he whirled around to face her, still holding the sword and the decapitated head out of sight.

"I... I want to see it. Show it to me," she ground out through gritted teeth.

"I see you're still ignoring the formalities," he stated pointedly. A smirk was immediately sculpted onto his face. "Did you know that you're the only person in this castle who doesn't bow in my presence, Maarit Pheraios?"

"Don't change the subject." She squared her shoulders, her voice resonating like a threatening ballad. "Just let me see it one last time. What exactly are you protecting me from? I had no idea the King of Hell would care enough to protect anyone from anything."

There were gasps from the soldiers in response to her rudeness towards their king, but Theodoracius did not even flinch. He pursed his lips and muttered, "Fine. Do you happen to have a sensitive stomach? Because I really don't want any vomit on my clothi—"

"No, I do not," she snapped as she approached him. "Don't worry; Your Majesty's beautiful clothing shall remain impeccable."

Until it's stained with your blood, she thought to herself as she bowed low for him, purposely exaggerating her movements to show that she was not doing it out of respect.

It was out of contempt, and he knew it.

Still, Theodoracius sighed in defeat and brought the sword from behind his back, holding it out in front of himself for Maarit to see. The emotions that welled up inside of her were surreal, but also quite dull compared to what she had expected to feel. Without the body attached, she almost had difficulty believing it was a real human head. It was nothing but a vestige of violation.

She let out a ragged sigh and her gaze flitted to the king. "I thought I'd feel something more," she mumbled, the space between her brows wrinkling. "It's strange, I don't even feel triumph, it is just..."

"A cold vacancy?" Theodoracius suggested, his voice a whisper into the void between them. Her gaze met his and she couldn't help but notice how beautiful his face—flooded with vibrancy—was beside the lifeless one he held. Some strange, unnamed emotion flashed through his eyes, before being replaced with a façade of utter disinterest. "Right, well, welcome to the world of the heartless. Now, my guards will be taking you to the dining hall and I shall arrive soon."