Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

the souls of Lady Hope, once bright
were lost to endless appetite
their fate a tale of woe and shame
in gluttony's embrace, they came

- "Never Enough," Final Verse

I wake in the cabin of my nightmares.

I'm on a thin, lumpy mattress, tied to the headboard. Still wearing my black leathers—thank Yosif for small miracles—and the agony in my lower back has reduced to a throbbing ache, as if the stab wound is several days old. There are no blankets, and a quick look around the room tells me it's abandoned. Dim, flickering candles illuminate the space, casting long shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Shelves lined with ancient, dusty tomes and jars are filled with unknown substances. A large stone fireplace dominates one wall, it's fire burning with an unnatural bluish hue. The furniture is sparse and utilitarian—a couple of wooden chairs, handmade, around the fire. A table with a coalpot and some books. A stand next to the bed with a flask of water.

There's only one door—a heavy, iron thing adorned with carvings that seem to all depict torment and sorrow. The central panel features a mass of writhing souls, their faces tormented with agony. Each figure seems to be reaching out, grasping for escape, their limbs interwoven in a chaotic mass of suffering. On one side of the door, a gnarled tree is carved, its branches extending like skeletal hands. The tree appears to weep, rivulets forming small pools at the roots. The bark is detailed with tiny, anguished faces. The bottom section of the door portrays a yawning abyss, with skeletal hands and twisted tendrils emerging from its depths. The hands grasp into the air, seemingly desperate to pull anything within their reach back into the void. At the very top of the door, extending onto the trellis, is a watcher. A dark, hooded figure looks down, scythe in one hand and hourglass in the other, watching the scenes of torment below.

I take three deep breaths, try to stem the oncoming flow of panic, assure myself that my heart will stop beating out of my chest if I give it a few moments. I check the knots around my wrists—they're tight, double knotted, and the bandages on my right arm and left fingertips are gone. I curl my fingers over, attempt to scrabble at the knots, but they seem to be coated in a glossy white substance—wax would be my guess. They're cutting off circulation, and my hands begin to tingle. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The door swings open.

A man enters the cabin, dressed in black robes, a buck with a slit neck slung over his shoulders. The robes seem to move with a life of their own, trailing behind him like shadows. Shoulder guards adorned with sharp spikes seem to have mutilated the buck's stomach—it drips blood from several places as he drops it in front of the fire. A high collar covers his lips and nose, and the top half of his face is obscured by a black mask—the deadcrow kind with a pointed beak coming down over the nose, which someone might wear to the Veneer Dance on the Day of Loss. A hood obscures his hair.

"Yosif?" I breathe, hardly daring to hope.

He approaches. Through the slits in his mask, I see his eyes are gray-green. My stomach drops like I just missed a stair. My throat bobs, but I'm not consciously aware of swallowing.

Why didn't I just stay with the medics? How could I have possibly been this stupid?

How could I be dead?

There's so much left for me in the Lands of the Living. My sisters—they still need me. My troth with Brid—I need to do whatever it takes to help her follow her dreams. Osyrus, Dune, Billi—my friends. I'll never stop owing Killián—he got my sisters and me off L-Street, swore me my titles, introduced me to the most powerful politicians L'Anglimar has to offer. Is this really how it ends—me, stuck in a cabin with my worst enemy for eternity? Is that what the sum of my life measured up to? It can't be. I have to get out of here. I have to escape, somehow, have to make it through the Lands of the Dead and get to Yosif. To Lady Death. Surely there's a way out—

"There is no way out," Leómadura says, as if he can read my mind.

Maybe he can.

He reaches out a gloved hand, strokes my cheek with a single finger. I twist away—maybe I can bite him through the glove. His touch racks me with discomfort, makes me want to vomit. I'm hyperventilating now—can't seem to catch my breath no matter what I do. Still, he can't quite touch me—his finger passes through my skin as if I'm made of air.

How are the ropes able to bind me? What the eff is on them?

"Am I dead?" I ask, voice small.

"Dying," he says, pulling a chair over to the bed and settling himself upon it. "For now—we wait. See if they're able to resuscitate you. It wasn't a deep wound, but you've lost a lot of blood. I'm hopeful."

"You want me to die."

"I'm angry." He says it lightly, as if we're talking about a night hunt and not unbridled wrath. "That was not how I wanted my life to end."

"How's death treating you?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"We're on the outskirts of the second titan's lands." Leómadura splays his legs, rests his hands on his thighs. "I built this place from within the mirror—do you remember me telling you about it when we were in my office? I do not wish to stand trial. I doubt it would be fair. I'm a man of many sins—then again, who am I speaking to? A Whoreson. You know what it's like to be damned."

"I'm a good person," I say thickly.

He laughs. "Do you have any idea how many people you've killed?"

"I'm a soldier."

"Murder is murder." He tucks down the collar of his shirt—he's smiling. "I'm sure the fact that you're a soldier was a great comfort to the wives and children whose loved ones never came home."

I try not to think about the Xobs whose lives I've forever changed by my actions on the frontline.

"At least I'm not a rapist," is all I can think to say. "Or a soul thief."

"Clèr's tits—you're such a whiner. You were compensated."

"How about your other students?" I can't get it out of my head—what Killián said about there being others, despite Leómadura's denial. "Did you pay them too, or was it just the Whoreson you forced your shitty coins on?"

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"The others begged for me." His gaze is unfocused, his posture is relaxed. "Believe it or not, I don't care, but it's true—students are young, impressionable. Some of them get crushes, and perhaps I overstepped my bounds a time or two—but none except you complained. You're still breathing—why are you still breathing?"

Breathing is one word for it—my breaths come in short, unsteady gasps. I notice his chest isn't rising or falling—he's perfectly still, almost statuesque. He's still wearing the damn mask, and it's creepy—not as creepy as his eyes, though, blank and unseeing, staring right through me. "You must be clinging to life in the lands below," he says decisively. He lays a hand on my chest—this time he's able to touch me, although I can barely feel it. "Getting more solid, though—good. You're passing over. Soon we can begin."

"I should've let Killián castrate you." Tears burn my eyes, but I'm not going to let myself cry. Not here, not with him, not when he'd get off on it like he did in the office. "Go to Hel."

"I healed when I ascended." Leómadura's still smiling. "It would've been impermanent—although it would've brought him much enjoyment, no doubt. He does have quite the soft spot for you, doesn't he? I don't blame him. You're not hard to look at—remember how I used to call you pretty-boy? I meant it. I loved watching you during PT—who am I to judge the Lord of Death?"

My back does feel like it's getting better—the ache is dissipating, as if someone has ice on it. That scares me, and I arch—maybe the more it hurts, the closer I remain to the Lands of the Living. I grit my fingernails into my palms, pull against the ropes, try to put myself in as much pain as possible. It doesn't work. I'm still in this fucking cabin.

"No response to that?" he asks. "I'm not the only person who calls you the general's whore, you know—Galtero came up with it, actually, much to Audrin's delight. We Darkblooms are terrible gossips, but it comes with the territory of worshipping Lady Love. We feed off other's emotions like commoners eat bread."

"You're a lying piece of shit," I say vehemently. "Killián would never."

"Oh, I'd never accuse him of impropriety—I'm sure he's a saint who's never thought about it." There's bitterness in Leómadura's voice, now, and his gaze focuses in on me. "But we can't all meet the love of our lives when we're toddling children. I've played the mirror game with him—I know he's never cheated. I know his thoughts don't stray. His obsession with Bardic is, quite frankly, just that—an obsession. As disgusting as it is sweet. It doesn't explain, however, the lengths he's gone to for you. Why would the Lord of Death care so much about a whore from L-Street?"

"He wants me to marry Brid."

"That's never struck you as odd?"

"Sure it has," I say. "But you don't find many 15-year-olds with four titles."

"He gave you those titles."

"Because he wants me to marry Brid!" I won't let him disrespect the general—not here, not like this. "Has it ever crossed your mind that I might be a decent soldier?"

"He certainly sees something in you." Leómadura pulls a knife from his belt, scratches his chin with me—the gesture is almost absentminded. "But what, I wonder? Let's find out."

The knife moves to my face, my neck. I can't stop it, can't breathe, can't move. It traces patterns into my cheek, not deep enough to cut, a light pressure.

I close my eyes.

I brace myself.

I can survive this. I will survive this.

I've done it before.

My cheeks grow damp when he straddles me. I hate myself for it. Self-loathing festers in my chest, brings heat to my cheeks. I summon up all my strength and spit a gob of whatever's in my mouth at his face. It doesn't make it that far—comes back at me, drips down the side of my mouth. He wipes it away with the cuff of his sleeve, almost gently. I can't feel anything but the pressure of his weight pressing down on my hips. He's moving slightly, girating back and forth, and I almost scream—this can't be happening again, I won't let it, I won't let it…

I pray. First to Lady Death, then Lady Loss, then Marix, then Yosif. I hear no voices in response—not that I've heard anyone since Leómadura after he ascended. I pray when he unbuttons the jacket of my leathers, slits the sleeves so he can get it off without untying me. I pray when he does the same with my undershirt. I pray and I pray and I pray—not to anyone in particular now, just a mindless please please please—and I cry, and I shake, and I pray. I pray. I squirm a bit, try to drive one of my knees into the sensitive spot between his legs, but I can't get the leverage, not with where he's sitting. I'm going to fight this, I tell myself, but how can I when I'm bound like a prisoner of war?

I'm shirtless, now, the leathers and underthing cast aside on the floor beside us. The tip of his knife presses a sharp point into my chest, enough to draw blood.

"Keep crying." His voice is soft, musing, tender. "I like it when you cry. You look so pretty. I wish you were wearing that whore paint. I should've been afraid when you ran away, but all I could think about was the way it smeared…"

I'm not going to cry anymore, I resolve. This fucker can take anything he wants from me—but he can't have my tears. I stare up at him—still in that awful mask—gray-green eyes predatory and inhuman as he touches the wetness on my cheeks, paints beneath my eyes with my own blood. "Taking your essence was the best thing I ever did," he says, and reaches for my waistband.

That's when I smell it. A grounding aroma, strong and pervasive. Deeply earthly, reminiscent of damp soil and decaying leaves. Along with that, a bitter, acrid stench. Herbal nuances, sharp and pungent, stronger than thyme and sage, with a darker, more intense quality. While not overly floral, there's a hint of something sweet and musky.

Helleborne. The last time I was in a coma, I smelled it right before I woke up in the First Circuit medi-center.

I inhale as deeply as I can, relieved I can still breathe.

Hoping.

Praying.

I close my eyes.

###

"There we go." Bardic's voice. "Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's it, kiddo."

I suck in as deep of a breath as I can manage—my top lip is wet. So are my cheeks, my eyes. I take another breath, then another.

When I open my eyes, the cabin is gone.

Thank Yosif.

I've been transported back to the scrapyard—we're in a medi-tent, and I'm in a hammock. Camouflage fabric stretches over my head, a reinforced structure, glowing with light from the overhead sun. To my right in the next bunk over is a burn vic—same to my left. In front of me is a supply table strewn with medical supplies—bandages, healing cream, surgical tools, and a box of herbs.

Bardic leans over me—he withdraws the herbs he was pressing below my nose, brandishes them triumphantly in my direction.

"I thought the pain would be enough to wake you when I stitched up your back—no dice," he says. "Helleborne never fails, though—perhaps I should've started with that. How are you feeling?"

I can't speak.

I look up at him, blinking back tears.

I'm not going to cry.

I'm never going to cry again—that's a damn promise.

His brow creases with concern. He places the back of his hand to my forehead.

"You're burning up," he says. "I'll give you some willowbark and elderflower to chew. You lost a lot of blood—drink this."

He hands me a flask. I raise it to my lips gratefully, not taking my eyes off his face. My lips—and throat—are impossibly dry, and my back screams in protest when I move my arm. The Xob got me good.

I've never been happier to be alive.

I survived.

There's still time.

There's always time.

Until there's not, says a small voice in my mind. You'll be back, Whoreson.

There's nowhere else to go.