19. Nineteen

Multifarious faces stared down at Ryurikov, massive and crowding the entirety of the hag’s disconsolate underkeep. He glared right back at their sinister features. Ancestors of some sort, he presumed, since they resembled skulls more, but he never cared enough to ask.

“Hurry up,” he said, snapping his fingers at the old woman shuffling to fetch the item he’d requested.

Radmila or Beldam, as Ryurikov preferred to call her, scowled, unsightly face barely visible under the long, grey hair hanging in limp mats. An oversized and stained frock hid her scrawny frame. She was of such short stature she needed a stool to reach the cupboards. Her hands always trembled, from old age Ryurikov assumed, but there was a particularly strong tremor to them now. Bony fingers wrapped around a leather pouch. She nearly toppled off the stool.

“Are you dying?” Ryurikov asked. “If you are, tell the King. We’ll need to replace you.”

Radmila grumbled something, he didn’t especially care what. She had been in their employ for generations, well before he was born, according to Vasili. It didn’t seem likely that the crone would croak today.

“I better not get in trouble for this.” Radmila slapped the pouch into his outstretched palm. She returned to the tome she’d been pouring over before his intrusion, large and in some foreign text, bearing sketches of peculiar bird-like skulls.

Ryurikov grinned. “If you do, will it be my problem?”

She looked up at him, orange eyes alight with anger and contempt. She fucking hated him, and it filled him with glee.

“No, I don’t reckon that will be your problem,” she said.

“Exactly.” He winked, then pivoted to head out the door. The giant, glaring masks always became a touch too unnerving after a while. Vasili never wanted to enter the witch’s dungeon because of it.

His Keeper stood at the top of the dark and winding staircase, waiting for him, as always. He was a few years older than Ryurikov and had an impressive set of shoulders, but even in his thick, fire-yellow surcoat and armour, he looked like a padded flagpole.

Ryurikov puffed out a tired breath once ascending the last of the stone steps and slammed a hand down on Vasili’s shoulder for support. “Fuck, I don’t know why we have to keep her so far down.”

“Too old to make the climb up,” Vasili replied, stiffly. “The alternative is to keep her in chains.”

“Like in the good old days. Well, I got what I needed.” Ryurikov led the way down a long, cold hallway with his Keeper in tow. “How’s your back?”

“It’s fine.”

Abruptly, he stopped and faced Vasili, all mirth slipping away as he looked into those umber eyes. “I’ve already told you, but I’m telling you a second time. If you ever pull that shit again, I’ll whip you myself.”

“I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Don’t, you fucking block. I can handle a bit of drowning, but I don’t ever want to see anyone flayed like that again.”

Vasili’s thin lips mustered a ghost of a smile. “Your concern for me is touching, your Highness.”

Ryurikov made a face, turning in a whirl of his fur-lined, fire-yellow cape to saunter on.

“Should I ask what’s in the pouch?” Vasili looked nervous when Ryurikov cast him a cheeky smile and tossed the pouch up, catching it again.

“Ask.”

“What’s in the pouch?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I would prefer not to.”

Through large archways, they strode into a courtyard, overly spacious like everything else in the Maksim castle. The echo of splashing water bounced against grey stone, the behemoth of a fountain at the very centre, where Valka sat clad in a knee-length tunic and breeches of the same cobalt blue as Ryurikov’s own, keeping their cousins company.

“Don’t hold it out of the water too long,” Valka said to Anya, who had one of the fountain’s fish in her hands, lambent and shimmering like sapphire.

“Young Lady Zoya,” Ryurikov sang upon approach.

Zoya pulled away from the fountain’s edge to look up at him. He knew little about her, less still about children in general and could only guess at her age. Thirteen, possibly. He did know she’d lost her father in the war against demons up North only a month ago, and that she hadn’t been the same since. Her once plump face now sallow, green eyes listless and skin without colour, making her look like a ghost with auburn hair.

Ryurikov bowed to present the leather pouch in an open palm. “A gift, for the prettiest lady in all the Thuidal kingdom and beyond.”

Zoya took it, cautiously. “What is it?”

“Trust nothing my brother gives you,” Valka teased, perching on the edge of the fountain to keep the youngest from throwing himself into the water, fingers curled into the back of his tunic.

“I’m offended,” Ryurikov drawled. “This will cheer you up, Zoya, but don’t unleash it until the feast tonight, you hear?”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

His smile broadened. “Empty the contents into this ugly fountain.” He sneered up at the statue of his father, standing with exaggerated poise, both hands on a great sword. Ryurikov was well familiar with that sword. His father often used it to remind him he would never be great enough to wield it. “I promise you, it’ll be worth the wait.”

Valka hauled Milo away from the fountain again. Clicking his tongue with impatience, Ryurikov grabbed the rambunctious five-year-old by the underarms and with a great swing, tossed him into the hedges lining the paths. He then motioned for Valka to follow him.

“I’ve something to tell you.”

“You okay, Milo?” she called out to the lad struggling only with a fit of giggles.

Ryurikov took Valka as far as one of the elaborate archways, away from any guards, aside from Vasili, who was obligated to stay within six feet of him at all times.

“Listen,” Ryurikov began, pulling his sister closer. “This person you keep meeting in the forest—”

“Ruri, I’m not telling you—”

“I don’t need to know, but you said they can take you places, away from here? You’re certain?”

Valka sighed in exasperation. The surly grey skies dulled the gold embroidery of her tunic as she moved to clasp his face in both hands. She lightly shook his head. “Let it go. It’s too late. Prince Gerung arrived hours ago—”

“Yes, I was there to greet the ponce.” He clutched Valka’s hands, squeezing them. “You deserve to marry someone who isn’t named Gerung, don’t you think?”

She made a loud, unattractive noise, pulling away. “And you deserve to marry someone more sane than Princess Mauvella. But here we are, both betrothed for the betterment of our kingdom.”

Ryurikov cast a look about for any potential eavesdroppers, then pulled Valka further behind the stone arch, ignoring the way Vasili shifted closer, still. “I’ve got it sorted.”

Well, he continued to refine the details as he went along.

“What have you got sorted?” she asked with a suspicious arch of her brow.

Ryurikov debated telling her what he’d witnessed of Gerung’s father while welcoming their arrival, but he had yet to confirm his suspicions and wasn’t about to get Valka involved—at all. She didn’t need to know the visiting king was, in all likelihood, possessed by the very demons their armies had been losing against for the last year.

A sudden splash, and they both peered around the pillar to see Milo flailing in the water. Valka moved away, but Ryurikov held her back.

“He’s fine, children are buoyant,” he said in a rush. “During the feast, I need you to meet me in the meadow. Will you do that?”

She made an impatient noise and yanked her arm free of his grasp. “Assuming you can even get out.”

“Assume that I will.”

“Fine, if it’ll make you happy.”

“So happy!” Ryurikov called as she darted away and hoisted a spluttering Milo out of the fountain, reprimanding Zoya and Anya for not helping.

He smirked at Zoya’s defiant, “But he has to learn how to swim, sometime.” Maybe kids weren’t that bad, after all.

“What have you sorted?”

Vasili came up behind him, so close the man’s warm breath brushed across his neck. He kept doing that, invading his personal space when there was no risk to his life. Sometimes, Ryurikov was tempted to give in, just to let his Keeper get it out of his system, but the idea sat about as well as a cap sewn out of someone’s buttocks.

Ryurikov moved away. “Don’t worry about it.”

The look on his Keeper’s face clearly stated Vasili did worry about it. Too bad for him.

The feast was as any before it. Tables brimmed with food and drink, and the criminals they had lined up in the centre of the wide room pleaded for mercy as they wept, barely dressed and on their knees.

Ryurikov fingered the brim of his silver goblet, already drained of wine, looking on with distaste at the elderly man begging for his life. The whole line-up was unimpressive. They were no more than peasants, their crimes unworthy of such cruelty.

Alas, his mother had developed a taste for it, and his father was a perpetual enabler. Ryurikov’s gaze lifted off the quietly sobbing elder who had stolen only a loaf of bread, and settled on King Munderic at the adjacent table. A truculent bear of a man who looked like he had indulged in some heavy opiates, twitchy as he was. Of course, Ryurikov suspected it was something else entirely, but how to obtain proof?

Pissing him off would be one way, from what he’d heard.

The prince with the unfortunate name, Gerung, sat beside the king, the polar-opposite of his father. Young, elegant. Skin like ebony and clad in rose-gold and white. Long flaxen hair pulled in a graceful bun, braids festooning the sides of his head.

Unsurprisingly, his eyes were trained on Ryurikov rather than Valka. The shine Gerung had taken to him had been immediate, not that he blamed him. For the hell of it, Ryurikov winked at the prince, just as he caught Valka’s wary glance. She leaned into Gerung, who politely inclined his head, and murmured something into his ear.

Being the well-bred man he was, Gerung immediately rose when Valka did, bowing with a hand across his chest. He did not watch her leave. Instead, his eyes flicked back to Ryurikov. There was a suggestion in that amber gaze, and Ryurikov’s cock stirred at the thought of it.

Alas.

A servant drifted past to refill his goblet, and he downed it in a few gulps before rising, the harsh scoot of his chair drowned out by laughter. Queen Maksim had decided not to forgive the ageing man.

Ryurikov sneered. He did not share his parents’ taste in what they considered entertainment, unfortunately for the five peasants who had yet to plead their case, he had learned the hard way not to interject.

Slipping away was easy enough. Everyone was distracted and, if Zoya did her job, would soon be too busy to realise he was gone. He hurried down a cavernous hallway, Vasili once again his shadow.

“Prince Leonid.”

Ryurikov stopped in his tracks. When he turned, Gerung glided up to him, all smiles and white teeth and dazzling hair, shimmering in azure flames of the torches lining cold stone walls. Fucking hell, he was pretty. No wonder Valka wasn’t overly opposed to marrying him.

“Ryurikov, if you please. Leonid is the King.”

Gerung’s smile wavered. “Ah, of course.” He came to a graceful stop just a foot away. “I understand, although you should count your blessings.”

“Oh?”

“At least your name isn’t Gerung.”

Ryurikov laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Fuck. My apologies, I didn’t mean—”

“That’s quite alright.” Gerung’s smile was genuine and, honestly, exquisite. “Wherever you’re headed, would you care for some company?” Those bright amber eyes flicked to Vasili, but a few feet away from them, fingers tight around the hilt of his short sword. “Assuming your Keeper doesn’t mind.”

Ryurikov wrenched his gaze away from those full lips. “I’m sorry, I have a matter to attend to.” Gerung’s expression dropped, and he didn’t like that. Swiftly, he added, “I’ll find you after, if that’s agreeable?”

“After?” That smile returned. “Then, I’ll be waiting.”

Ryurikov had half a mind to forget about everything and drag Gerung into a spare bedroom to fuck him senseless that same moment.

“Alas,” he murmured, once again on his way.

“Your Highness, please,” Vasili uttered, darting after him. “Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Him!”

Ryurikov rolled his eyes, shouldering open a door leading down a long and narrow staircase. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is my business if you’re putting the entire kingdom on the line! If King Munderic finds out his precious son has been deflowered, he’ll have our heads or worse, declare war on us.”

“Lower your voice,” Ryurikov snapped, bounding down, down, down. It would only be a matter of time before others questioned his whereabouts, he didn’t need his whimpering Keeper to speed things along. “I’ll fuck him discreetly. Besides, does he strike you as a virgin?”

He reached the bottom of the stairwell at last and made his way along a dark corridor, crowded with rats and cages holding prisoners long since dead. Skeletal arms with but a thin sheet of leathery skin extended past the bars, fingers still set in clawed desperation.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder and forced him ’round. Ryurikov glared at Vasili. In the scattered torches, he could scarcely make out the taut features of that annoying face.

“Don’t, Ruri.”

Vasili only ever used that name when he was being possessive, and by fuck, he was possessive as all hell, having gotten it into his head that he and Ryurikov were meant to be. He had realised this insane notion the day his parents betrothed him to Princess Mauvella, and had been fending off Vasili’s advances ever since. Much like now, when that hand slid up his neck to cup his face.

“Just, don’t,” Vasili pleaded. “Don’t break my heart.”

Ryurikov smacked his hand away. “You’re forgetting your place, Knight.”

“I am more than that! I’m your Keeper—”

Ryurikov stalked off. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

A lengthy dash through the dungeons eventually led him to a heavy door that, with enough kicks, opened into the grounds outside the castle. Overgrown ivy and brush snagged his clothes. It was a pain to shut again, so he signalled for Vasili to do it for him.

“Does this have anything to do with your scheming the past few days?” Vasili demanded in a whisper.

Ryurikov shushed him, crouching by the wall, out of sight of guards standing at the parapet above, and waited for the sky to light up.

Come on, Zoya.

Dark grounds stretched ahead of him, remittent moonlight a whisper of silver across grass. He sat to rest his back against the wall, wondering if Valka had already made it to the meadow. It was easier for her to get around, not being chained to the castle like he was, just because he was the eldest and therefore a target.

His Keeper knelt beside him. By the look of strain on Vasili’s face, his flayed back continued to give him trouble. Ryurikov knew he ought to feel…something about that, about the way Vasili tried to help him while his father lost control teaching Ryurikov not to give into torture. Aside from the gut churning disgust at seeing skin whipped off bone, however, he didn’t feel strongly about it.

“Please, tell me what it is you’re planning.”

He sighed and skirted a glance over Vasili’s worried expression. “I’m sending Valka off to adventure like she wants to.”

“But—”

“She can’t get married, for fuck’s sake. Living life as a ruling monarch would kill her spirit.”

“Ruri, we need to combine our kingdoms if we have any hope of defeating—”

“It’s fine. Gerung being so taken with me will have its advantages. No one is going home in a huff, alright? We’ll still be able to join efforts.”

Vasili looked unconvinced. “And Princess Mauvella? I’m certain she will have something to say about you being with Prince Gerung instead.”

Ryurikov shrugged. “I’m kind of hoping the rumour of her disappearance is true. Then she won’t be a problem, and Queen Garnetha will feel bad enough to join forces, anyway.”

“And if the rumour is just that, a rumour?”

“Rumours always hold a seed of truth.” Ryurikov craned his neck.

Voices from atop the wall floated down. The guards were changing shifts already. He licked his lower lip. Maybe Zoya wasn’t curious enough to find out what was in the pouch. Fuck. He pushed to his feet, hand splayed against the wall behind him. He readied to run during their moment of marginal distraction just as an explosion illuminated the night sky, turning it into an expanse of shimmering sapphire.

Ryurikov bolted forward, Vasili’s stumblings and clinking chainmail behind him. Another flash, and glimmers sprinkled down like fat snowflakes—fish scales.

“Oh, fuck.”

“The royal fish!” Vasili gasped.

Thatwasn’t supposed to happen. Fucking Radmila.

Past the first line of trees and into the old forest, Ryurikov didn’t stop running until they were under the full cover of umbrageous canopies. Glowing insects flitted by as he strode over underbrush, providing just enough light for him to see his way to the meadow, tucked deep within. Once upon a time, when his father didn’t rule him with an iron fist, he and Valka often met in the meadow to get away from things.

She was there, ethereal in the moonlight as she gadded about, boots crushing violet irises.

Ryurikov hid behind a tree and pulled Vasili to him. It was too dark to see his face, but he heard the sharp intake of breath, his gloved hands flying up to grasp Ryurikov’s forearms. The sheer need radiating off his Keeper was pathetic. His own hands found the man’s shoulders and squeezed.

“I need you to do me a favour,” he whispered.

“Anything,” Vasili choked out.

“Stay here and don’t listen in.”

“Ruri, I have to—”

“You said anything.” It was cruel to take advantage of Vasili like this, when he’d disarmed him so easily, but times were desperate.

His Keeper remained silent, so Ryurikov patted his shoulders before easing out of the tight grasp. Valka’s attention snapped to him when he emerged from the trees. More light bloomed across the sky, and yet more fish scales flickered down.

“What the hell is happening?” Valka asked.

“Zoya having fun, hopefully,” he said, although spared a moment to consider the possibility that Zoya might currently be looking at exploded fish. Whoops. “Now’s your chance.”

Ryurikov closed the gap between them and clasped Valka’s neck in both his hands to pull her forward. She didn’t resist the embrace he caught her in.

She readily returned the hold, squeezing him tight. “Chance for what? Tell me.”

He leaned back and smiled, peering into her shadowed hazel eyes. “To run. Get away from this. I’ve got it all figured out. You don’t have to worry. You can go be free.”

Valka’s brows furrowed with doubt. “Come on, be serious.”

“I am.” He gave her a slight shake for emphasis, hands now tight around her face. “Go, adventure. Be better than this, than our parents.”

Her hands came to his shoulders and for a moment, clawed at the fur lining of his cape. “Don’t toy with me.”

“I’m not.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He pulled her down a fraction to rest his forehead against hers. “Please, I’m begging you, get the fuck out of here.”

Away from the food hoarding, the greed, the eternal torment their subjects suffered, starving to death in the castle’s cells, in their very own streets. Away from the ruthless, mangled mess that had become their rule.

Valka’s eyes closed, turmoil contorting her face. “Ruri, I’m not leaving you to Dad’s mercy.”

“I told you,” Ryurikov murmured, “he never lays a hand on me. It’s all just yipping.”

When she opened her eyes again, they glistened with unshed tears. “And I can just go on adventures?”

“Like you’ve always wanted. I’ve put a lot into this.” Ruefully, he smiled. “If you don’t go now, I’ll have pissed Radmila off and die of the liquid shits for nothing.”

Valka chuckled. “Swear to me that everything will be okay. That you won’t get into trouble, and our kingdom will join with Florewen and Noxnynth?”

For a fraction of a second, Ryurikov hesitated. Then, “I swear it.”

He was going to burn for his lies, but Valka would be well away from this place before that ever happened. By the time she discovered he’d lied… Well, it would be too late. Their Kingdom would likely have succumbed to the army of demons drawing nearer each day.

“You have to go now, while they’re too distracted to notice anything.”

“Ruri. I—”

“Go.” Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her. “Go with whoever you meet. I know they’re basically at your beck and call.” He grinned at her abashed expression.

She took the first step away from him, and Ryurikov’s heart clenched tight.

“Eat your greens, Ruri,” she said with another step. “You want to be as big as your little sister sometime, right?”

Yet another step, and he thought his heart might shatter at the sight of her back. Before her form could disappear into the shadows entirely, a sudden panic tightened its hold on him.

“I love you, Valka!”

She turned. Another blast of cerulean light mantled the sky, its hues brushing her pale face. Her lips held a smile. It was sad. “And I you.”

And then she was gone, the crunch of leaves and twigs masked by more fireworks.

She hadn’t told him where she was going, where she wanted to go. Almost as if she knew he was a liar, that he couldn’t know where she would go because their father would wring it out of him. Ryurikov simmered on that possibility during his return to a fretting Keeper.

“Calm down,” he muttered distractedly.

“Where is she going?”

He didn’t answer. By the time they crossed the grounds back to the castle, the last of the explosions had died down. All had become quiet, eerily so, the scrape of the heavy door dreadfully loud. He rubbed his thumb across the length of his pointer finger, heart thudding with certain fear. Only a matter of time before the King and Queen questioned where he’d gone to, before they asked about Valka’s whereabouts.

The courtyard was empty, carcasses of fish much larger than they ought to be littering hedges and pathways. Their scattered scales a lustre of sapphire, livening up an otherwise grim scene. Poor Zoya, he had to find her and apologise. Assuming she hadn’t been traumatised further. Fuck.

Rather than brave the main hall where the feast would likely have resumed, Ryurikov veered off into the west section of the castle, where he could await Gerung in the guest chambers.

“Where are we going?”

Of course, Vasili would have already realised what he was going to do, trailing behind him, as always.

“I don’t have a choice,” he muttered.

“Ruri.”

“Just, shut up. I’m trying to think.”

Get Valka away from all this, done. Sleep with the Prince of the Noxnynth Kingdom, could do. Get him to fall in love and propose, easy. Bank on Princess Mauvella’s disappearance, also easy.

He was at the door before he knew it, looking at ornate carvings of fish and floral swirls. Before his knuckles connected with the dark wood, the door swung open. Ryurikov quirked an eyebrow at Gerung’s startled look, his curvaceous frame outlined by flickering orange hues of the hearth’s fire inside.

“Decided to ditch the feast, then,” said Ryurikov.

Relief flooded Gerung’s face. “Yes, of course. My father has, as well. He’s in his assigned chambers. Is everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Gerung tilted his head, sending rivulets of flaxen hair to slip over his shoulder. “The explosions.”

“Oh, that.” Ryurikov waved a dismissive hand. “Just a kid playing a prank.”

Gerung smiled. “Shall we head back to the feast? It’d be a shame to miss out on such splendid food.”

Food taken right out the mouths of their subjects.

Ryurikov stepped closer. From the corner of his eye, Vasili’s whole body took on the rigidity of a tombstone. He could practically hear his Keeper screaming on the inside when he entered Gerung’s chambers, when the door shut, and when lips crashed against Ryurikov’s in a heated kiss. Gerung pulled away shortly after, embarrassed and covering his mouth with a few fingers.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I’ve been aching to do that since meeting you.”

In fluid movements, Ryurikov undid the clasp of his cape to let it drop to the floor. His fingers found Gerung’s chin and he guided him close. Their lips met again, with a little more finesse this time. Finesse he practised throughout. While easing the prince to his elaborate bed, while undressing him.

While fucking him with slow deliberation, relishing in the wanton moans and lust-laced pleadings for more, more, more.

Ryurikov kissed him, deeply, guiding him to the pinnacle of pleasure, and he kissed Gerung again once they collapsed to gather their breath, skin glistening with sweat. Their lock of lips came undone, and Gerung’s half-lidded eyes held Ryurikov’s for the longest time as he reached out to stroke a palm over the man’s soft sides.

“I hate to do this,” Ryurikov murmured, stealing another kiss before he sat upright to swing his legs off the bed. “But I need to go, for now.”

“You’ll return?”

Gerung was splayed out for him again, nothing but dark skin and radiant beauty. Unable to resist, he leaned over to capture those full lips in another kiss, languid and tender.

“I’ll return.”

He fumbled with the clasp of his cape after shutting the door behind him. It was still quiet, aside from the snuffling to his right. Ryurikov started at the sight of Vasili, slumped on the floor, shoulders shaking with uncontrolled sobbing.

Something akin to guilt slithered up his spine. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Vasili…”

“Fuck—” Vasili violently inhaled a large clump of snot, furiously wiping his face. “You!”

“Hey, now—”

His Keeper stumbled to his feet, face red and damp with tears, distorted with a rage Ryurikov had never seen before. It shocked him into silence.

“I fucking hate you.”

The venom behind those words sparked Ryurikov’s own anger. “Too bad for you, then.”

Vasili gaped with hurt and disbelief, then shook his head and stalked forward. For a moment, Ryurikov thought he might attack. Instead, Vasili shoved him out of the way, his angry stomps echoing through the chilly, glum hall as he walked away from him.

He’d never done that before, either.

Ryurikov rubbed his shoulder, glanced out the arched window closest to him, then walked in the opposite direction.

His wandering became mindless. Mostly, he was trying to avoid facing anyone, Vasili’s weeping still haunting the forefront of his mind. He didn’t see the wide man emerging from his chambers until he practically ran into him. Ryurikov grunted and moved back, his gaze meeting King Munderic’s.

Even in the dim blue light of the torches, the man’s eyes were unfocused, muscles in his face spasming in a way that was truly un-fucking-settling. He looked wider and taller than Ryurikov remembered.

“How was he?”

The voice sent frost into Ryurikov’s very bones, worse than any of Radmila’s muttered revenge-spells. That was not the voice of the king, he’d not even opened his mouth to speak. Ryurikov jostled back, heart thudding harshly. Munderic’s head cocked to the side, as if blind and listening for sounds.

Ryurikov did not speak, he held his breath.

The King faced him in full. His neck looked oddly distended, limbs even more so, as if something were stretching him from the inside.

“Was it worth it, Prince Ryurikov? Was he a good fuck?”

Ryurikov laughed. He didn’t know what else to do. The King somehow knew he’d just undone the carefully woven tapestry of planning between the distended man in front of him and King and Queen Maksim.

Oh well, he supposed he might as well burn everything down while Valka could no longer get hurt. His father was going to kill him for this anyway, or at best, torture him. And this kingdom—his kingdom—deserved to fall, weak and cruel as it was.

So Ryurikov laughed again. “He was an excellent fuck. What’s the matter, would you like me to take you for a ride too? I bet you’re a little harder to tame than your well-travelled son.”

Munderic’s head cocked again. His mouth opened, releasing one of the most awful sounds Ryurikov had ever heard a man make. His mouth, now gaping, widened still. Until it tore at the corners and kept tearing, a large, bone-like protrusion emerging from it, like a beak. Arms and limbs extended, cracked, and tore to reveal scythe-like legs. Blood splattered across the stone, somehow catching fire.

Ryurikov pivoted to run. Something hard clobbered him in the back. He crashed to the floor with a strained grunt. Raised himself back up. Heat singed his back. It took him far too long to realise his cape was on fire. He rounded a corner, fighting to undo the cape. It dropped to the ground, but the fire had latched onto him, crawling up his side, scorching fabric into his skin.

He cried out in agony, trying to rid himself of his clothes entirely, thinking only of the fountain where he could douse himself. Shouts of shock and terror echoed around the castle, chased by the frenzied noise of bone clacking against stone.

Ryurikov dropped to the floor, screaming, engulfed in flames.