chapter 17

Chapter 17

The carriage rumbled through the desolate forest, its wheels crunching over the frost-bitten dirt road. The night was eerily silent, save for the occasional howl of a distant wolf. Inside, Lord Malrik sat in quiet contemplation, his fingers tapping against the polished wood. Outside, his guards rode in disciplined formation, their torches casting fleeting glows against the towering trees.

As they neared their destination, a castle loomed ahead-a structure more akin to a monstrous relic than a place of residence. It stood tall against the midnight sky, its spires jagged like the talons of some ancient beast. The very air around it was thick with the scent of decay, and the torches outside barely seemed to penetrate the suffocating darkness that clung to its walls.

The carriage came to a halt. Malrik stepped out, adjusting his cloak against the bitter wind. His guards dismounted, their hands instinctively resting on the hilts of their swords, but Malrik raised a hand. "Wait here," he ordered. None dared protest.

With a creak of rusted iron, the castle doors groaned open, revealing a nightmarish sight within. The stench of blood and burning flesh hit Malrik first, thick and suffocating. The corridor was lined with remnants of bodies, their severed limbs discarded like broken toys. Blood streaked the walls in dark, grotesque patterns, and from the distant chambers came the sounds of tortured screams-some sharp with fresh agony, others hoarse and near silent from prolonged suffering.

Cages lined the corridor, their occupants barely more than skin and bone. One prisoner, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, reached out weakly as Malrik passed.

"Please..." the man croaked, his fingers trembling.

Malrik did not stop.

He walked deeper into the castle, past the grotesque sights, until he reached the ritual chamber.

There, a young woman lay naked upon a stone altar, her frail body convulsing in pain. Three women in dark robes surrounded her, their eerie chants filling the chamber. One of them-her hair as white as moonlight, her skin unblemished like something out of a forgotten legend-held a curved dagger.

With deliberate precision, she dragged the blade across the woman's stomach. A weak, gurgled cry escaped the victim's lips, but death soon claimed her. The light in her eyes flickered and then vanished.

The silver-haired woman looked up, her piercing gaze meeting Malrik's. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.

"Lord Malrik," she said, her voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "I wasn't expecting you so soon."

Turning to the other two witches, she gestured lazily. "Take what we need. Burn the rest."

Then, she turned back to Malrik. "Shall we?"

She walked past him, her long black dress flowing like shadows behind her. Malrik followed without hesitation.

They entered a dimly lit chamber, where she gestured toward an ornate chair. "Sit."

Malrik remained standing. "You should be careful with how many people you take," he said, scanning her with cold calculation.

She let out a soft chuckle. "Do not worry, Lord Malrik. We choose those whose disappearances will not be noticed." She tilted her head. "But I suspect that's not the reason you came here tonight, is it?"

Malrik exhaled slowly. "How are the preparations?"

She smirked, leaning against a stone pillar. "You could have sent a raven, my lord. No need to trouble yourself with a personal visit."

"My patience is wearing thin," Malrik said, his tone sharpening.

The witch laughed, her voice echoing through the chamber. "You should know better than anyone that these things cannot be rushed," she said as she picked up a candle, watching the flame flicker. "Follow me."

She led him down a hidden passageway, stopping at what appeared to be a solid stone wall. With a whispered incantation, she stepped through it as though it were air.

Malrik hesitated briefly, then followed.

Beyond the wall, the room was eerily silent. At first, it appeared empty, but with a snap of the witch's fingers, the surroundings shifted. A bed materialized at the center of the chamber.

On it lay a girl, no older than nine or ten, with soft brown hair. She was deep in slumber, her breaths slow and steady.

"Lord Malrik," the witch said, her voice laced with amusement. "Here lies our beloved princess, Hera."

Malrik's eyes widened in shock.

"Impossible," he muttered. "Tommen sacrificed her. He gave her up for victory against his stepbrother."

The witch smiled, stepping closer to the child. "Oh, I did no such thing. I sacrificed another little girl that night."

"But why?" Malrik asked, his voice unnervingly calm.

"A reason only witches can understand," she said teasingly.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Morgana," Malrik warned, finally addressing her by name. "If Tommen ever discovers this-"

Morgana smirked. "He sacrificed her willingly for his war, Lord Malrik. He chose power over blood."

"Yes," Malrik admitted, "but she is still his daughter. And if I know Tommen, he regrets what he did. Why do you think he's been hunting witches ever since?"

Morgana's expression did not change.

"Because he wants me dead?" she asked, a hint of mockery in her tone.

Malrik nodded. "Tommen is many things, but a fool? No."

Morgana chuckled, turning away. "If Tommen truly believes he can catch me, he is the fool."

Morgana exhaled, watching him carefully. "So tell me, lord Malrik-do you want your grandson on the throne, or do you have your own ambitions?"

She turned back to him with a sly smile. "Ah, now that is the question, isn't it?"

She stepped forward, reaching for his face, but Malrik caught her wrist before she could touch him and pushed her away. She only chuckled.

"Did I strike a nerve, my lord?"

"You're a fool if you think you can use Hera as leverage against Tommen," Malrik said, his voice cold and sharp.

Morgana walked past him toward the exit. "And who says I plan to use her for blackmail?"

Malrik cast one last glance at the sleeping girl, then turned and followed Morgana back through the wall, his mind racing.