The Grey Blood #2

King of Ghosts

The wetness pooling against his bandages causes his suit to cling uncomfortably to Oliver's body, the jostling of the horse beneath him tearing his stitches further.

The mantra he repeats in his head over and over makes it easier to ignore the pain that sets his teeth on edge and numbs his fingers that are curled around the reins.

Three days. He has three days before his brother will be dead.

Oliver won't let that happen.

He's been to the palace a number of times, his duties for the duke often taking him within the cold halls of the sprawling buildings. He finds himself before the sloping domes of the palace now, the towering stone sweeping deep shadows over the cobbled streets and lavish homes.

Approaching the gate, the guards stop him, deep scowls marring their features and Oliver is glad for the darkness of his suit which hides the stains of blood he feels sticky against his skin.

He slips from horseback, hitting the stone nearly sending him to his knees as agony arcs up his side. His white-knuckled grip on his horse's saddle is the only thing that keeps him standing.

"I need an audience with the king," he spits out, his voice harsh and demanding.

"Step back, sir, or—"

"My name is Oliver Narovich. I need an audience with the king now."

Recognition blooms across their faces, causing him to curl a lip. He doesn't know what they recognise him for, rarely does he care. Oliver's reputation is always one of brutality no matter whose lips the tales are falling from.

"This way," one of the guards says after clearing his throat and turning to the gates to lead him through.

Oliver stumbles after him, throwing an arm over the broad neck of his horse to steady himself. The animal tosses his head in annoyance, nudging his side. Sparks of white crowd Oliver's vision like stars exploding in the sky and he swallows hard to stop himself from puking.

When his horse is taken, Oliver has to focus on placing one foot in front of the other without collapsing. He doesn't notice his changing surroundings. He doesn't notice the people around him or the gazes that follow him. He staggers after the guard's footsteps and that's all he can worry about while trying not to succumb to the darkness that gathers in the corners of his vision.

"Wait here," the guard orders, his voice muffled in Oliver's ears like he speaks to him from another room. When Oliver lifts his head to reply, he finds the man already across the room, marching away.

Blundering his way towards a sofa, Oliver sinks into the soft cushions with a vague thought about leaving blood on them.

He struggles to find the energy to care. Blinking, he attempts to gather his bearings but can't seem to focus on a single thing. He reaches into his pocket, grabs his case of cigarettes and pulls one out to roll the unlit cigarette between his fingers, needing some sort of movement to focus on.

His good eye catches on a statue of a god. The definition of masculinity with its rippling, marble muscles and flowing robes the artist didn't bother to make cover its cock. Glancing away while managing a scoff, Oliver wants to study the area further, find the easiest exits, but the click of heels on the polished floor interrupts his attempts at garnering some sort of control over his situation.

He struggles to his feet as Isabel Inania approaches, the short bob of her hair displaying her revealed shoulders. Gone are the fingerprint bruises he noted once marred her throat. Gone are the shabby layers of an escort's abused silks. Now she glimmers with jewels and a tailored dress, her eyes still carrying that sultry sheen that could tear down nations.