"What about your son, King Valen?" Celeste's voice cut through the silence, sharp and deliberate. All eyes turned to her, then to Zephyros.
"Zephyros lacks the spark," Valen said, the words hanging like a funeral shroud. His gaze lingered on his son's mismatched eyes—one storm, one ember—as if mourning the fire he'd never kindled. "The crown demands an inferno. He's… a struck match. Brief. Unremarkable."
The statement struck Zephyros like a blow, a heavy chord resonating deep within him.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. The room fell silent, every eye turning to him. His chest heaved; his hands trembled at his sides.
I don't have much of a grudge against Dalit, he thought, his mind racing. He's just annoying. He didn't kill Iris. He didn't do anything to me. But if I let this go, nothing will change. Change only happens through revolution. And this… this is revolution.
"Does her death haunt you?" he hissed, fingers curling around the owl's splintered wing in his pocket. "Or do you sleep soundly, wagering which child to burn next?"
Silence. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Celeste's eyes met his, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Fire," she whispered.
"Zephyros Vainar!" Valen's voice boomed, his face red with anger. "Sit down!"
Zephyros ignored him, his jaw tightening as he turned back to the room.
"Just burn," he snarled, his voice trembling with rage. His hand hesitated, trembling, as black fire flickered at his fingertips.
For a moment, he saw Iris's face—her smile, her laughter—before it was swallowed by the flames.
For you, he whispered. The flames were cold to the touch, a paradox that sent shivers down his spine, but they consumed Dalit with a ferocity that defied logic.
The flame erupted—living void, cold as a star's corpse. Dalit's scream curdled into wet gurgles as his skin crisped like parchment.
Zephyros trembled, not from the chill, but from the hunger in the fire—how it crooned as it devoured. More, it seemed to whisper. Give them all to me.
The room erupted into chaos, relatives scrambling away from the inferno, their faces twisted in fear and horror.
Zephyros stared, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
The owl's voice slithered from his marrow now, no longer confined to his ear. Sweet boy, it purred with Iris's lilt. See how they scatter? This is power.
This is love. Burn the rest, and she'll return. Burn everything.
"Ye-yes…" Zephyros murmured, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames and panicked cries.
Valen sat frozen on his throne, his face pale, his hands gripping the armrests as if they were the only things keeping him upright.
"Take him to his room," he ordered, his voice trembling. "Now!" Valen's lips moved—father, king, coward—but only a dry rattle escaped. As guards seized Zephyros, the king's hand spasmed toward his son, fingers brushing empty air.
A beggar's grasp, Zephyros realized. He's been dead longer than me.
Aftermath
As Zephyros was dragged through the gates, the room exploded into uproar.
"What in the gods' name was that?" roared Flora, Dalit's father, his face red with fury and grief.
"My boy is dead! Dead, I tell you! He's no more than ash—ash to the world!" His voice cracked, and he sank to his knees, clutching at the air where his son had stood moments before.
Flora collapsed, clutching Dalit's melted signet ring. "He hated figs," he laughed wetly, madness glazing his eyes. "Stupid boy. Stupid, stubborn—" Celeste watched, nibbling a candied fig.
Valen sighed, his voice weary but firm. "Throw his remains to be sacrificed." The words hung in the air, cold and final.
Flora's head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. Tears streamed down his face, but he said nothing, his defiance crumbling under the weight of Valen's authority.
Celeste sat down, still eating, her eyes sharp as they flicked between Zephyros and Valen.
"Hypocrites," she muttered under her breath. They had sacrificed Iris without hesitation, yet now they trembled at the thought of their own mortality. She clenched her fork, her mind racing. If Zephyros was going to burn the world, she'd make sure she was the one holding the torch.
Her gaze flicked to Valen, his face a mask of cold authority. The royal family of the Central District is worse than the Stem could ever be. At least in the Stem, they don't pretend to be righteous.
A bitter laugh threatened to escape her throat.
I can't believe I'm related to them—even if it's just through some distant cousin. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth.
Her attention shifted to Zephyros, his figure disappearing through the gates, dragged away by the guards.
He won't need me soon enough. She frowned, her mind racing. But then again… people are going to die. And not just the guilty ones.
The Grassland
The grassland breathed. Moonlight pooled in Iris's footprints, glowing where she'd once danced.
"Zephyros," the wind sighed through dead grass. Murderer. Savior. Fool. He clutched the owl, now warm and squirming.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—" The stars smeared. Iris stood ahead, her back to him. Always just out of reach.
"I know!" he screamed, his voice breaking. "I know!" He clutched the wooden owl in his hands, his knuckles white.
For a moment, the owl seemed to move, its carved feathers rippling like water. Its amber eyes locked onto his, glowing with an unnatural light. He reached out to grab it, but his hand passed through empty air.
A whisper slithered into his ear, soft but insistent.
"You're becoming them, Zeph." He spun around, but the grassland was empty—only the rustling grass and the cold wind against his skin. The voice came again, this time from the shadows.
"Can't you see? You're no better than they are."
"You told me to kill them, didn't you?" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "You wanted this!"
"I'm not talking about their deaths," the voice replied, cold and mocking.
"I'm talking about you. You allowed her death. You let her die."
As Zephyros walked, the flowers around him seemed to shift and whisper.
"You failed her," they hissed. "You let her die." He tried to block out the voices, but they grew louder, echoing in his skull until he couldn't tell if they were coming from outside or within.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—Iris, standing at the edge of the grave, her face pale and her lips moving soundlessly.
"Why didn't you save me?" she mouthed, over and over, until he had to look away.
He turned, and the floating owl disappeared, reappearing on the ground. It perched there, its wooden body creaking as it turned its head.
"You're not strong enough," it croaked, its voice a perfect mimicry of Iris.
"You'll never be enough." Zephyros clenched his fists, but the owl didn't flinch. It just stared, its amber eyes glowing with a light that shouldn't have been there.
"You're losing it, Zeph," the owl said, its voice dripping with mockery.
"You can't even tell what's real anymore." Zephyros shook his head, trying to clear the voice, but it only grew louder.
"Face it," it sneered. "You're just like them."
Zephyros woke with a start, thrashing in his bed, his sheets tangled around him.
"No!" he screamed, his voice raw and desperate. "What's happening to me? Just stop! Leave me alone! I'll do it—I'll do everything you want of me!"
He turned, his eyes darting around the room. At first, it was just a flicker in the corner of his eye—a shadow that moved when it shouldn't.
Then came the whispers, faint but persistent. By the time he saw her—Iris, standing at the foot of his bed, her face pale and her lips moving soundlessly—he wasn't sure if he was awake or dreaming.
Zephyros burst through his room's door, his chest heaving. The guards moved to intercept him, but he raised a hand, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
"I'm going to pray," he said. The guards hesitated, their hands twitching toward their weapons, but after a tense moment, they stepped aside.
One guard, however, followed him, his expression wary, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Zephyros didn't look back. His mind was a storm. "God, god, god, god," he muttered under his breath, the words spilling from his lips like a curse.
He bit down on his fingers, the pain sharp and grounding, but it did little to quell the tempest within him. The guard trailing him flinched at the sight but said nothing.
He reached the elevator, its doors sliding open with a soft hiss. The guard followed him inside.
The ride was short, the hum of machinery the only sound between them. When the doors opened, Zephyros stepped out into the chamber.
The light before him was blinding, yet it seemed to pulse with a life of its own, shifting and writhing like a living thing.
"Hello, god," Zephyros said, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with a volatile mix of defiance and desperation.
The words tasted bitter on his tongue, a reluctant acknowledgment of the power before him.
The being chuckled, a sound that was both melodic and unnerving, like the toll of a bell echoing across a desolate plain.
"Don't call me god; god is a cage," it said, each syllable a different voice: Celeste's rasp, Iris's lilt, his own. "I am no deity. I am no savior. I am simply... Is."
Zephyros clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until he felt the sting of blood.
"What are you, then?" he demanded, his voice sharp and cutting, like the edge of a blade. He glanced at the guard beside him, frozen in place, his eyes wide but unseeing. Good, Zephyros thought. He can't hear this. He can't see this.
The being's form rippled, its edges blurring as if it were a reflection in disturbed water.
"I am a dragon," it said, its voice dripping with mockery. "A demon bound to your bloodline. A Companion turned curse, passed down through generations. Your ancestors called me a god, but I am nothing more than a reflection of their long-gone might."
It paused, its tone shifting to something almost playful. "And in any case, I don't suppose you think I'm really god. A folklore. A fable. A lie."
Zephyros' jaw tightened, his rage simmering just beneath the surface.
"You're the source of all this," he spat. "You're the reason my sister is dead. The reason my family is a rotting carcass of what it once was. You're the curse that's been hanging over us for generations."
The being tilted its head, its form shifting again, eyes sprouting across its surface—amber, glowing, and unblinking.
They fixed on Zephyros, piercing and unrelenting, as if they could see into the darkest corners of his soul, and it shivered.
"Why do you care so much for your sister?" it asked, its voice soft, almost tender.
"She lost her breath, yet you breathe daily. Every second. You are mortal, Zephyros. Mortals confuse me. You grieve, but only in fragments. You mourn, but not in its entirety. You remember, and then you are filled with joy when recalling her. It is... incomprehensible. You attended her sacrifice. She died like dust, and you live, breathing that in."
Zephyros staggered, his resolve wavering. "No... no, stop. You made her die. You took her from me."
The being's laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound that was both joyous and terrifying.
"Yes, I did," it said, its voice dripping with malice. "But tell me, Zephyros, what will you do now? Accidents, death, destruction—you mortals always attribute them to some divine will. But what if I told you there is no grand design? No purpose beyond the one you create? Your god gave you life, and that was all. The rest is your doing. Your choices. Your failures."
Zephyros fell to his knees, his strength abandoning him. The weight of the being's words pressed down on him, crushing his spirit.
"You're wrong," he whispered. Zephyros looked at the ground. It was all meaningless.
"You think you've broken me," Zephyros said, smiling, his voice rising. "But you've only shown me the truth. If there is no grand design, then I will make one. I will end this curse, not because the gods demand it, but because I choose to."
The being seemed to huff at that.
"You think you're so clever," Zephyros said, his voice low and trembling.
"Using us, manipulating us, feeding on our pain. But I see you now. You're not a god. You're not even a demon. You're just a parasite, thriving on the suffering of others. And I won't let you take anyone else from me."
The being laughed again, its tone gleeful and horrifying.
"Oh, rigor! Your descendants are ever so intricate," it cried, filled with twisted delight. "Troublesome. Demonic. Fear-mongering. I love your race, even if you don't resemble a human. You never cease to amuse me."
Human? I am human... No. It's correct: I am not human.
"Amuse you?" he shouted. "You think this is a game? You think her death was entertainment for you? You think my pain is a joke?"
"You had to survive," the being interrupted, its voice cold and calculating. "You are no saint. Did you not kill a man mere weeks ago? And another a few hours ago?"
"Hahahahaha! Hahahrrahahahahah!!" it screamed in delight.
The being's laughter faded, replaced by a cold, calculating silence. "Es thu mira sel va Rit. Hal dir thu ka ri?" it intoned.
The words reverberated through the chamber like a thousand needles piercing Zephyros' skull.
He dropped to the ground, clutching his head, the pain unbearable. The guard behind him crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Zephyros gasped, his vision swimming. He forced himself to look up, his eyes locking with the being's.
The being's form shifted again, its edges solidifying into something resembling flesh. Two large horns sprouted from its forehead, and a white mane cascaded down its back. It wore a robe of black and gold, its presence both regal and terrifying.
"I have been with you since the creation of the royal family. Since the founding of the central district. And I have lived long before that. But I am not bound to your family, Zephyros. Not truly. I am here because of a promise. A promise to a friend."
Zephyros' mind reeled, the pieces falling into place. "A promise?" he asked, barely a whisper.
The being seized his wrist, its touch frostbite and funeral ash.
"Retribution?" It laughed—their laugh now—Iris's giggle warped into something jagged. "Oh, child. You misunderstand. This isn't your vengeance." Its claws pierced his vein, blood swirling into a crown of smoke. "It's hers."