That night felt like it was just beginning, even though Natasha had just left my room moments ago. I let out a shaky sigh and stared up at the ceiling, trying to sort out my thoughts.
"He moved on so fast," I whispered to myself, feeling a mix of confusion and something close to hurt—maybe disgust. "Not that we were really in love anyway." I turned on my side, hoping for some comfort, but it didn't come.
"What if we actually were in love? Would that make this hurt even worse?" I asked the empty room, but no one answered. It was just me and the silence.
"Why didn't he choose sister Seraphina or sister Lysara? Why me?" I pondered. The questions hung in the air as I felt the tension building inside me.
Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the room, pulling at my curtains and signaling that a storm was approaching. It felt like everything around me reflected my heartache.
"Even the weather seems to be breaking up with me," I muttered with a bitter laugh. I closed my eyes, desperate to find some sleep, but my mind wouldn't let me rest. The thoughts swirled like the storm outside, and I knew it would be a long night.
---
(Author's POV)
At the farthest reaches of the country loomed a House that defied the embrace of darkness, even beneath the cover of night. House KaelThorn.
"Move the shipments faster, Master will be here any second!" barked a dock worker, his voice slicing through the damp, oppressive air. Clad in a black suit that clung to his lean frame, he stood under the flickering lamplight that cast sinister shadows across the harbor. His tanned skin gleamed like polished stone, and his brown hair was slicked back; he exuded a cruel authority.
The shipment was being hauled by battered slaves, their bodies an array of bruises and open wounds, clothes in tatters—some stained with the dark evidence of their suffering. Each grunt of exertion was mingled with whispers of despair.
Suddenly, another dock worker came sprinting toward him, panic flickering in his wide eyes like a candle in a storm. "Sir, he's here," he gasped, his voice quaking in fear.
"Who's here?" the lead dock worker asked, though deep down, he already knew.
"Him." The trembling worker pointed toward the engulfing darkness, where a figure emerged, seemingly carved from shadows and nightmares.
Lord Kael.
His very presence twisted the air with dread. With slick black hair framing a face of cold precision, a sharp jawline that seemed to cut through the tension, and eyes as crimson as fresh blood, he radiated an aura of malignant power. Tonight, he wore a tailored black suit that hung ominously on his frame, betraying nothing of the soft elegance it concealed.
Each deliberate step he took sent ripples of fear through the dock workers. They knew that each footfall resonated with the promise of punishment. In his hand, he cradled a cigarette, the tendrils of smoke curling ominously before his narrowed gaze, fixing the dock workers with a predatory stare.
"Lord Kael, greeti—" The lead dock worker began, but his words died in a gasp as Kael, fueled by a whirlwind of rage, slammed the man's head against a nearby crate. The resounding crack sent a tremor through the dock, and gasps rippled through the crowd, a mixture of horror and terror.
"My clients noted the shipments were five minutes late," Kael snapped, adjusting his sleeve with a calculated deliberation that sent shivers down the spines of all present. "Care to explain?"
"S-S-Sir, the ship—" The lead dockworker stammered, desperation creeping into his voice, but his attempt at reasoning was silenced by a brutal punch to his left eye. It bloomed instantly, a swollen, pulsing mass that mirrored the chaos in the hearts of those who witnessed it.
Blood trickled from his nostrils as he staggered, thrown into a world of confusion and fear. Kael was not a man to entertain excuses; perfection was his deity, and imperfection was met with retribution.
"My apologies, sir," the dockworker managed to choke out, though he knew it wouldn't be enough.
"Luke," Kael's voice dripped with menace, "do you know what becomes of those who defy my orders?"
The dockworker trembled, caught in a web of uncertainty as he stared into those chilling crimson eyes that promised a dark reckoning.
"Luke…" Kael persisted, his voice an icy whisper that cut deeper than any blade.
"Yes, sir, I do." Luke's voice was a mere whisper now, barely a confession.
"Good." There was a terrible satisfaction in Kael's tone, low and sinister—then—
Bam.
Kael's gun barked like a malevolent beast, the bullet striking Luke squarely in the forehead. The violence was clinical, the body slumping lifelessly to the ground, the air thickening with the acrid scent of gunpowder and death.
Kael regarded the scene as if he had merely completed a target practice session, indifferent to the horrors surrounding him.
"Take him to the Gearworks." His command echoed ominously, a death sentence that sent icy waves of fear rippling through the dock workers.
They knew the Gearworks were merciless, churning flesh and metal alike without remorse.
Gasps erupted once more, filled with a primal terror that stifled every breath. The assembled dock workers returned to their tasks with trembling hands, minds racing with dark thoughts.
"Sir, reports have come in; a storm is coming." Kael's assistant burst in, urgency lacing his tone, unaware of the storm that had already descended upon the harbor....
(Arinelle's POV)
I couldn't sleep, tossing and turning in my bed. "Why is sleep avoiding me?" I muttered into my pillow.
I finally got up and tiptoed into the hallway, which was eerily quiet except for the staff completing their overnight tasks. I made my way to the kitchen for a refreshing glass of water; the cool air felt nice against my skin.
One of the maids noticed me. "My lady, you're still awake?" she asked, concern in her voice.
"Just getting some water," I replied, trying to sound casual but feeling a bit anxious.
"Don't forget to get your beauty sleep; your mother insists on it," she said with a knowing smile.
"I will, don't worry," I assured her as I hurried into the kitchen. It was spotless, as always—Mother wouldn't have it any other way.
Drip. Drip. The sound of water filled the quiet space, but then I caught snippets of conversation from the maids.
"I heard she'll still be getting married," one of them whispered, clutching a basket of towels.
"Yes, but you won't believe who it is this time," the other replied, a teasing tone in her voice.
I froze. Who was I going to be married off to this time? My heart raced at the thought.