The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXXI | DEATH SENTENCE IN BLOOD

       MAARIT ALLOWED HOURS to drag out before her, just to give herself sufficient time to change her mind. She let her eyes peruse the pages of the books the warlock had left her. She let her fingers sift through the fabric of the dresses hung inside the wardrobe in the corner. She let her mind race, repeating the words she would say to the king if she were to decide to make the demand. However, at some point, while cooped up in her white-walled and crimson-carpeted room, she decided that she had nothing left to lose.

       By the time she went to him, the sky had darkened to a navy blue and shown the first signs of stars.

       Though it had once seemed impossible, she had learned the way to the dining hall. Through the winding corridors—both narrow and wide, lined with paintings and sculptures and closed doors—she manoeuvred, until she reached the carpeted staircase she recognized, leading to veined marble floors.

       She wasn't sure what told her that he'd be there, but she simply knew.

       When Maarit saw him, she nearly stopped in her tracks just to stare at him from a distance without disturbing the scene before her. He was sitting in his usual seat at the dining table—for a split second, she wondered why he was always here rather than in his bedroom or study. But the fleeting thought wafted into the air and out of reach as she continued to survey him.

       She couldn't help but notice at he was not wearing robes as he always had before. He wore a white button-down shirt, frilled at the collar, along with a vest adorned with embellishments of dark blue and silver. Something at the base of his neck caught her attention: a strip of skin whiter than the rest, disappearing beneath his shirt. Resembling a scar.

       His ruby-encrusted crown was not resting atop his head, but was instead on the table, a hairsbreadth away from his hand. The distance between his fingers and the crown closed as he absently traced the outline of a ruby with his index. Then he retracted his hand once more, frowning.

       His clothing and his crown were not all she noticed about him, for there was something off about him in general. He was bent over the table, his spine curved, looking absolutely beyond exhausted.

       Ravaged.

       He was ravaged.

       There was nothing beautiful and terrible in his eyes. The man in front of her was someone entirely different from the man she had met on her first night at the castle. Gazing upon the king's countenance, Maarit felt a sudden and inexplicable pang of pity—like a dagger piercing her abdomen.

       When she cleared her throat, Theodoracius's head immediately whipped in her direction. A piece of his hair fell into his eyes, making him appear—physically—not so far beyond human perfection. He swept it away quickly and stood. The ravaged look in his eyes seemed to fall away, as though he couldn't afford to be tired.

       "Maarit, wh—"

       "I will agree to help you," she interrupted swiftly. His eyes went wide. She stepped closer to him. "I accept your terms and I will recite a prophecy for you. In exchange, since freedom is the one thing I cannot have, I need the second best thing. I need your very best soldiers to teach me how to fight."

       He blinked. "How to fight?"

       "Yes, how to fight," she snapped at him. "Don't act so surprised. Swordsmanship, archery—all of it. And I don't want to be treated like I am weak, or delicate, or incapable. I need to be taught in the same way any of the soldiers of your Royal Guard would be taught."