2. Eldrion

TWO

The elf is sweating. Beads of perspiration drip down his pale face, and he grimaces as I lean in closer.

“Fuck you, Eldrion,” he spits.

My eyes flash. Anger settles deeper between my ribs. He knows where they are. The elves know everything. And he will tell me before the day is out. Or he will lose his life.

I stalk away, slowly, rolling up my sleeves.

It’s dark, and it stinks in this hellhole of a place.

It’s unusual to find an elf in this part of the city, which is why I know he has the connections I need. Connections to the whispers that have been rippling through Luminael ever since she escaped from my clutches.

Ever since my power was questioned.

For the first time in centuries, there are rumours of an uprising. I showed weakness. I allowed them to escape. And now I am paying the price.

I rub my temples. My visions have both abandoned me and intensified. They show me nothing new. Only what I already know. And what they do show me grows ever more terrifying.

I don’t know if this means the city’s fate is growing closer to being sealed, or if it means I am simply running out of time to reverse it. Perhaps it means it is already set in motion. It always has been. Perhaps every step I take simply draws me – and my people – closer to oblivion.

I have thought of my mother very little since she died. She was not a kind woman or the sort of mother who cherished her children. She made it clear I was an inconvenience. A speck she would rather not have to deal with. She saw nothing good or powerful in me. To her, I was weak.

But now, for the first time, I find myself wishing she was here so I could ask her what to do. Because she was, if nothing else, wise. She understood how to interpret her visions in a way I never have. Perhaps because I never had anyone to teach me.

Mine didn’t start until after she died. Perhaps that is why she hated me; because I was inadequate. Perhaps I wish she had been alive to see what I grew into.

Perhaps I don’t.

I rub my temples again. My thoughts feel as though they are not my own. They swirl and spiral and twist inside my skull like dark, suffocating smoke. I cannot see through them and I cannot determine what’s real.

All I know – with resounding certainty – is that I need Alana back.

She is important. She is the missing piece.

And she saw what I saw.

I spin around and flex my fingers. Ink-like smoke twirls around them. I use my powers infrequently. I prefer to rule through the anticipation of violence rather than the use of it. And though I’ve used brute strength on plenty of occasions, my shadow magic is something usually reserved for battle.

But the elf has left me no choice.

His eyes widen as I draw closer to him. Sitting on a wooden stool in the centre of the abandoned inn I sequestered last night, he cannot move. I bound his wrists and ankles with copper. He is lucky I have not yet taken his ability to speak.

“Are you prepared for what you’re about to endure?” I ask, peering into his eyes, feeling my own flash like shards of silver ice, boring into his soul.

The elf’s jaw twitches. He thinks he can withstand it. He thinks he can be brave.

He is wrong.

I have not used this element of my powers for two centuries. Am I sorry I’m using it now? No. For her, I would infect every soul in this city until their insides cracked and withered and they were unable to keep their secrets from me.

I turn my palms up and, again, flex my fingers. The smoke drifts towards him. It starts at his ankles and weaves its way up his body, coiling around his limbs. He winces as the smoke squeezes his calves. He inhales sharply and shifts on the stool.

I tilt my head but remain completely still. When I breathe out, the smoke begins to move faster. It swirls thicker and darker. It reaches his throat, and the vein on the side of his neck throbs. It reaches his lips, and he tries to keep them shut. It pries them open and drags a quivering scream from somewhere deep in his soul.

His head tips back, his mouth opens, the shadows enter him.

They claim him.

They sweep through his veins, and nestle inside him, and scrape like acid until he screams again.

“Tell me, elf, where are the Leafborne hiding?”

The elf shakes his head. He has no loyalty to them; elves know everything and are loyal to no one, so why is he lying to me? Why would he risk his life for them?

“Where are the Shadowkind?”

Again, he shakes his head. He grips the sides of the chair tighter as his eyes roll back and darken. “Fuck,” he cries, “you... my lord.”

I do not let my anger take over.

I walk forward, then place a hand firmly on his arm. My wings splay out to my sides, casting dark shadows over his smooth, pale face. Then I touch his temple, and let the pain intensify.

The shadows clamour inside him, swell, push, crack, break.

He screams.

Then the screams stop. He is panting, unable to make a sound because all he can see is the pain.

I exhale slowly and breathe a cloud of warm, soothing air over his skin.

He cranes his head around and stares into my eyes.

I give him barely a second before I start the process all over again. Smoke, ink, congealing inside him, breaking him from the inside out. Then sunlight. Compassion.

The cycle continues until close to dawn.

Finally, he blinks at me. His entire body is trembling. His mouth hangs open. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for making it stop.”

“Tell me where the Shadowkind and the Leafborne are hiding, and I’ll never have to hurt you again.”

He stares at me for a moment, then he starts to cry. “I would tell you, my lord. But I don’t know. I promise you, I don’t know.”

He is telling the truth. An overwhelming sense of certainty washes over me. As if his true thoughts and feelings are floating in the air between us.

The elf does not lie.

My wings beat hard behind me. The air cools his face. I untie his bonds. He sighs with relief and droops forward, rubbing his wrists.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “Thank you for showing mercy.”

My gut twists. Mercy?

No.

I study him for a moment.

Then I slit his throat, and leave him there, his silvery blood dripping in thick, heavy droplets onto the floor at his feet.