Chapter Two Samuel

Chapter Two

Samuel

S amuel held his breath as the crowd surged forward, pushing him even closer to the stage that had been erected in the heart of Dameral's main square. It was a large wooden monstrosity, dragged out of storage once a year for this garish display and fitted together over the cobblestone streets. From his position, he could see the dark stains of old blood on the boards—countless years of death marked into the wooden grain.

He didn't even want to be here, but the throng had him trapped. Lowly, he cursed himself for not taking the longer route, the one that avoided this main thoroughfare that lay smack between the warehouse where he worked and the glorified closet he called home. For forgetting that it was the first day of spring and what that meant.

But there was nothing to be done now—there was no way he could fight against the flow of people as the square continued to fill. Well, there was one option, tempting and dark. But he ignored the impulse, swallowing down the anxiety that rose through him as he gripped the short iron fence that barricaded the area around the stage. As much as he ached for it, he couldn't dare act out now, not while staring out over the trench before the stage that was patrolled by Blood Workers. Guards in their robes of deepest black.

They kept the crowds back, flexing their metal claws towards anyone foolish enough to press too far. Samuel studied the hands of the one closest to him—the steel claws fitted over their fingertips, held in place by silver chains that crossed over the backs of their hands in a grotesque mockery of jewelry. Those claws were sharp enough to slash skin, to rend flesh so that blood welled to the surface.

Blood they could use to break and control you.

Samuel fought back a shiver, tearing his gaze away from the Blood Worker and focusing on the mostly empty stage. On the spot where the Eternal King would soon stand.

The sacrifice was already there—a beaten, bruised shell of a man bound in chains. Samuel couldn't see his face, even though he was so close that he could hear the man's ragged sobs. His head hung low, the dirty strands of his dark hair falling across his face as the crowd jeered at him.

Samuel ignored them, the merchants and artisans in their fine clothes, the non-noble Blood Workers with their daggers and their claws. The noble Lords and Ladies watched from above, from the balconies of clubs and restaurants that ringed the square. But there were so few like him—poor and tired, trapped amongst the throng—so he closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats, searching for the fleeting calm against the panic that caught his breath like a fist around his throat.

The crowd keep pressing against him, hot and ever moving, the smell of sweat and bodies filling his nose, the sound of chattering nonsense growing louder and more incomprehensible until suddenly, all at once, silence descended.

The Eternal King was here.

Samuel looked up, finding their King stepping through the curtains at the back of the stage. The King was dressed impeccably—such fashions might have been far beyond Samuel's means, but he was still astute enough to pick up on what was in . A tailored jacket and breeches, a silken waistcoat with fine, delicate embroidery. A perfectly tied cravat. The only thing that shocked him were the claws. Samuel had expected them to be gold-plated or inlaid with jewels. But they were simple steel things, more for function than for fashion.

But it wasn't the clothes that made the man. Samuel never had the privilege of seeing his King before, having taken great care to avoid the attention of Blood Workers as much as possible, regardless of political power. But now he saw that the King was not just some dangerous mage hiding in a palace. He was more than that: he was alive and vital and strangely untouchable.

He didn't look more than thirty years old, a man still in his prime. He wore his hair short and carefully cut, a bed of golden curls that cushioned his crown. His features were harsh but striking—a strong jaw, clear eyes, and a tall, lean frame.

It was almost possible to understand how a rebellion had formed around him all those centuries ago, how a nation had followed him when he stole a throne and stayed under his sway for lifetimes, for centuries, for an entire millennium. He still seemed so young, so powerful, fueled by the blood of countless victims.

But he also seemed bored, the expression on his face one of polite disdain, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Yet duty called, so he arrived, ready to pander to the will of his people in this extravagant farce.

Samuel bristled with rage, his entire body trembling with the force of will that it took to contain himself. It was a pointless, directionless anger—Samuel wasn't naive enough to think otherwise. He was just a peasant in the crowd, in his patched shirt and dirty trousers, his long hair pulled into a loose and messy bun at the nape of his neck. He didn't belong here—the pointed huffs of the properly dressed woman at his elbow only confirmed that—and he could do nothing but seethe.

On the stage, the King continued to stare idly over the crowd, and a young man dressed in robes of deep, blood red stepped forward. Samuel's eyes darted to him in surprise, taking in the man's youth—hells, he couldn't have been older than Samuel's twenty-five years—and his rich, burnt gold skin tone, one not usually seen amongst the Blood Workers of Aeravin. At least not the ones who would be at the King's right hand. For this was the Royal Blood Worker, the King's official secretary, the man through whom all official business was run.

The King pushed right past him, circling in front of the sacrifice and drawing the eye of everyone there. A collective hush spread across the square as the King pulled the man to his feet, where he stood, shackled and cowed, as he was examined. Coldly and clinically—like he was nothing more than a specimen to be studied in a laboratory.

The Royal Blood Worker cleared his throat, awkwardly drawing the people's attention away from their monarch. "My friends," he said, with a casual smile. Tittering and laughter broke out amongst the crowd, but he kept on smiling gamely, like this was a private gathering between friends, not a state-sanctioned murder to extend the life of their endless King, done year after year, for only he had the right to Eternal.

In that moment, Samuel hated all of them, the Blood Workers and the magic, his country that was drenched in the blood of those like him, born without these so-called gifts.

"We are honored by your presence here today," the Royal Blood Worker continued, his voice deep and clear and gaining in confidence. "For your continued support. It has been a strong year for Aeravin, and we have all of you to thank for that." Placated by his words, the crowd cheered. "Through his sacrifices, King Tristan Aberforth has kept our country strong for centuries past, allowing us to flourish where others see Blood Working banned, has kept our borders strong against those who would see us eradicated for the gifts in our veins. He has done this for a millennium, as he will continue for centuries to come. But in order to do so, Blood Working demands a price."

Samuel clenched the fence in front of him so hard that his knuckles turned white, biting the inside of his cheek as the Royal Blood Worker continued to speak, to justify this horrific act. This murder done in the name of their nation.

"This man is not just any criminal," the Royal Blood Worker continued, pointing a single clawed finger at him. "But a thief and a traitor. He was caught trying to smuggle state secrets out of Aeravin, secrets that would have undermined our position in the world. Our security. Fitting, then, that he will serve his King far more in death than he could in life."

The crowd cheered, accepting the crown's judgement, their hate and anger flowing over him. Samuel himself was almost caught up in the moment, in the sheer power of it as they called for death and blood.

The King tangled his hand in the sacrifice's hair, pulling it so that he was forced to bare his throat, and spoke at last. His voice was gentle but clear, carrying over the crowd as silence fell. "Know that your sacrifice is for the good of your nation."

The man hissed, finding his courage in the final moment. "Fuck you."

The King didn't even frown, didn't even react. He just reached out with his other hand, dragging his clawed thumb against the man's throat. Flesh split easily under the metal tip, blood welling bright and red. The sacrifice gasped in sudden pain, but the King already had his mouth at his throat, his teeth digging into the skin as he sucked the man's blood.

Samuel couldn't look away, even though the scene was a violation of everything good and right. The sacrifice was gripping the King's shoulders, as if he were trying to shove him away, but the King held him in a fierce, almost intimate embrace.

Time seemed to slow as the sacrifice's grip grew looser, his skin turning ashy and grey. It was like watching the body wither before him, all the moisture and vitality being drained from the man as the King seemed to grow brighter, more vibrant, until he practically shone with life.

The sacrifice—the once-man—croaked out his final breath, then slumped forward.

The King looked up, his lips and teeth stained red as he smiled—feral and alien—then he shoved the corpse aside. It fell to the floor with an ungraceful thump, the body curling up on itself.

Samuel felt bile burn the back of his throat, and he had to look away, sucking in steadying breaths to keep from hurling his lunch onto his neighbor's boots.

"You will be remembered," the King said, though there was a bite to his words. It was ceremonial, Samuel knew enough to realize that, but surely it wasn't normally this sarcastic. This cruel. Then again, they hadn't even bothered to name this man, hadn't bothered to treat him like a person with a life before him. In the end, he had just been another source of blood. A source of life, drained and stolen.

This couldn't be over soon enough.

The crowd was cheering, though, for their King. For the one who had allowed so many of them to practice their Blood Working freely and openly, when every other country in the world banned the practice. For the one who had given them an entire nation without caring about the backs that broke under it.

"Thank you for being here this evening," the King said, blood still dripping down his chin. "Remember, all that I do is for the good of Aeravin, and for you." He bowed then, to his people, then turned to disappear back through the curtain.

Samuel rolled his eyes, focusing on the discarded corpse as the Royal Blood Worker stepped forward once again, rambling about plans for the country—new legislation that was coming as the House of Lords opened for the year, the plans to redo Dameral's central square by midsummer, changes to the policies for requisitioning blood, given the all-time high enrolment at the Academies this year.

It was bullshit. None of it was for him, or those like him. The poor. The Unblooded, born without the ability to use blood magic. Those who kept the country functioning while struggling to simply survive.

At last it was over, the Royal Blood Worker inclining his head before stepping over the freshly made corpse and disappearing after his King. The Blood Workers were moving through the crowd, muttering about the news for the year, eager to be back to their lives now that the entertainment was over.

Samuel didn't rush. He let them fight their way out, following in the relative quiet behind them. It wasn't like he relished rubbing elbows with them anyway, or that he had anywhere to go. Just another night of stale bread and mealy apples for dinner, a book until it was time for sleep, then another day of the same.

Day in and day out, an endless cycle that would repeat itself until he starved or broke, whichever came first.

He shuffled on home as the sun set against the ocean, shivering at the cool breeze that came in off the sea. Spring had just begun but the shadows still rose early, chasing him through the narrow streets to his doorstep, fought back only by lampposts filled with witch light—oil and blood, lit by Blood Working, fire that burned cleaner, cheaper and longer.

He barely noticed the woman slumped in the narrow alley around the corner from his flat, huddled in the shadows between the lamps. He wouldn't have noticed her at all if he wasn't so tired that he couldn't lift his eyes from the ground in front of him. He almost passed her by anyway—it wasn't his problem—but he had just seen a man drained of life, killed by a Blood Worker and a King.

He couldn't in good conscience do nothing. If he ignored her, he knew what would happen—the woman would simply disappear into the night, vanished like so many others. Never to be seen again. Dameral was a dangerous city for those like him, and he couldn't let another be claimed by it.

Sighing, he stepped closer to the woman. "Come on, then," he said, quietly. Carefully—always so careful never to let it slip. "You can't sleep here, it's not safe." He reached out, planning to shake her awake, but jumped back when he realized the woman wasn't sleeping.

She was dead.

Cut open and drained, desiccated and ruined, sliced open along the veins and bled out in a disgusting, vile death. Dried blood lingered at the edges of her wounds, and her mouth hung open, caught in the rictus of her death scream. She had passed slowly and painfully, suffering all the while, and the pain she had felt had been written into her very flesh.

This wasn't some random mugging. She had been murdered by a Blood Worker, then dumped here like just another bit of trash. For a moment he just stared, going cold as he realized what it meant.

Blood Workers, for all their power, still had to follow rules—only a handful—but this was one of them. This was a violation of the very thing that kept Aeravin stable, a promise of safety to the Unblooded. They were not to be taken and tortured this way, used in experiments and cast aside. They bought this protection with their loyalty and their Blood Taxes, and to see it so flagrantly broken?

Gooseflesh broke out across Samuel's skin. Whatever was happening, it was too dangerous for him to be here. If he was found…

He turned to flee, but there was already movement at the edge of the alley. Black robes. The soft red glow of witch light moving closer.

He was caught.

"Is there a problem here?" the Blood Worker asked, holding up the lantern so that it nearly blinded him. But he squinted through it, taking in her features—she was young, younger than him. He didn't put her at much over twenty. Her features were sharp and harsh, her fair hair shorn close to the scalp. There was something about her that looked dangerous, something calculating and empty as she catalogued him, as academic as if he was a butterfly pinned to a board, and it chilled him to the bone.

Samuel considered lying, considered running. Considered unleashing the dark power that stirred in his chest. But none of these options was viable, so instead he simply said, "I think there's been a murder."

The Blood Worker moved forward, almost too fast for the eye to see. It was the preternatural strength that Samuel knew existed but had so rarely seen. In a heartbeat the Blood Worker was kneeling next to the dead woman, her hand hovering over the corpse's face, as if she were too afraid to touch it.

"Blood and steel," she cursed.

Samuel took a step back. "It wasn't me. I'm not… I'm Unblooded. I just found her. I swear."

The Blood Worker didn't even look up at him, staring at the corpse's ruined face.

Her unidentifiable face.

The Blood Worker turned to him, taking in the poor quality of his clothes, the lack of claws or knives on his person, and immediately dismissed him as a threat. "What's your name? We're going to need a statement."

"I said I didn't—"

"I know that," she snapped. "Hells, anyone who looks at you would know that. But you still found her. Now, I don't want to waste my time arguing with the likes of you, so let's just get this over with."

Samuel bit back the surge of power that stole his breath, but he nodded. The Blood Worker was right, after all. There was no way he could have committed the crime, but he was part of it now. "Hutchinson. My name is Samuel Hutchinson."

The Blood Worker finally looked up at him. "Good. I'm Guard Alessi, and I'll come and collect you for your statement later." Grimly, she turned back to the corpse. "But for now, I have a body to take care of."

Samuel didn't fight it. He was, completely and thoroughly, fucked.