The Heirs of Death

20. A Game of Threads

A GAME OF THREADS

The candlelight flickered and died with a hiss as shadows clouded like heavy fog in every inch of the room we were in. Winds stirred around us, hissing as they rattled the bones hanging from the low ceiling. A few old and rusty bells groaned as I kicked a small couch covered with more items than to count before I placed the witch's chair in its spot and forced her on it, blindfolding her. She protested, her thin, long fingers trying to remove the piece of fabric obscuring her vision. It only took me a low, feral growl for her to drop her hands back to her lap, leaving the blindfold intact in its place.

Saél, still standing in the far end of the small room kept utterly silent as though she was nothing but a ghost. She kept her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the floor, her hands clasped together in the perfect portrait of a submissive slave. She didn’t fool me the way she did her mother.

I saw it as clear as the sun in the middle of a hot summer day, how her thoughts were dark and unholy, begging her mother would die right there on that chair in a slow and agonizing sort of torture. How her magic, so different from the blindfolded woman, churned deeply under layers after layers of lies and magic and spells and away from Ûzan's keen, hooded eyes. I smirked at her, fully knowing she couldn't see the gesture. Later, I would pull every single answer for my questions from her later. No matter the power in her veins or the long history with witchcraft, she could never withstand my spirit elemental once my mind dived into hers.

Aedis helped me rearrange the candles, placing them in circular patterns around the chair, the narrower circle in the centre, wide enough to swallow the witch and my standing figure next to her. We didn't light those candles, didn’t open the windows to the early morning sky, didn't allow in any single sort of light.

I turned to the pair of glowing, red wine eyes, their pupils vertically slit like a snake's, and held their stare for a few heartbeats. Then, Aedis turned to the wall Saél was pinned to, grabbing her by her collar before tossing her on a sofa that was torn and covered with dust, the cushion of foam and feathers half spilled out. The furniture groaned under the impact of both their bodies, the old wood wailing as Aedis turned to stare at the witch's daughter right in the eyes. Despite the heavy blackness, our eyes glowed, leaving a very thin light that was red and so feeble it was almost not perceptible.

"One sound," he hissed, claws holding the woman's face in place. "One damn sound can break the entire enchantment and doom us all. You better keep your mouth shut, or I'll gag you right now. Understood?"

Saél didn’t nod, the claws on her face pressed to closely to allow any movement without leaving injuries. But she managed a small sound out, a sort of whimper laced with fear, half of it faked. She would not mind it, dooming us—dooming herself—if it meant getting rid of the older woman seated next to me.

I returned my attention to the witch, my head falling next to hers, my lips so close to her ears I knew she could feel every breath against her hard, rugged skin. "Same thing goes to you, old woman.''
I didn’t particularly wait for her reply as I pulled a knife from the many ones laid on the nearby counter, whipping the dust over the torn fabric of my ragged shirt. But nonetheless, she dared saying, "I am not old."