Crowned - 12 | Payment Settlement!

 

CHAPTER 12

Elvira remained skeptical of the tomfoolery brewing under her name and the alleged magic associated with it. Only cold hard proof – other than Kaeo’s estranged body – could soothe either Kairo’s delusion or her troubled mind.

“I will accept it only if you take me back to the Count’s Estate,” Elvira demanded.

“Why would you want to go back to a place you were trapped in?” Kairo sighed as he leaned in and placed his elbows on the table.

A portion of food separated them. Though, surprisingly, even after being unconscious for five days, Elvira did not have the urge to scarf down the free meal.

“I need to make sure that my friends are alright,” she replied.

“You have friends?!” Kairo exclaimed, at the same time as Kaeo banged his fist over the table.

“I knew it! You were the one who caused the fire!” he rejoiced.

Elvira and Kairo turned to face at Kaeo, who was busy scarfing down breakfast on the opposite end of the table.

“I was trying to save my friend,” Elvira mumbled and let her head hang.

“Arsonist,” Kaeo supplied, “You’re truly one of us.”

“I cannot believe you made new friends…” Kairo sighed, “I spent five years trying to locate you and you were busy forging fresher bonds…I halted my research on Linch Blood because I wanted to complete it with you…” his words faded into a whisper.

“Woah,” Elvira gasped and backed into the cushioned chair, “That is so nice of you. I didn’t even know that you were real…I never tried escaping because,” her voice cracked, “because I had no home to go back to. At least I had people I cared for, back at the Estate,” Elvira sniffled.

“You were our first friend,” Kairo mumbled, “Of course I would never give up on you, like you did not give up on Kaeo.”

Teary-eyed Elvira and a pouting Kairo turned to face Kaeo. The ravenette paid no heed to them as he was busy shoving rolls down his throat.

Elvira grimaced at the sight.

“Can you leave me back at the Estate?” Elvira asked again, turning to Kairo.

“Can I come along? I want to see these friends of yours,” Kairo narrowed his eyes at the food, ‘I want to see which friends would let Elvira be abused on the regular and still be worth a second thought.’ he thought.

He stood up and with a snap of his fingers, a magic circle appeared under his feet. “Let’s go, I’ll protect you this time,” he said as he held out a hand for Elvira.

The brunette got out of her chair and walked around the table to stand by Kairo’s side.

It was Kaeo who took Kairo’s hand instead, “Leffs goh, brafa!” (Let’s go, brother!) he exclaimed with a mouth full of food as he stepped over the circle.

“Why is he going?” Elvira frowned.

“Gof sum payments to settle,” Kaeo brushed her off.

Kairo passed her a sheepish smile before snapping his fingers.

To say Elvira missed this magic would be an understatement. In no more than a second, they were halfway across the nation and inside the Count’s Estate without the hassle of travelling or showing identification involved. 

Elvira made a mental note to ask Kairo about the rules of Teleportation Magic because there was no logical way for them to be standing inside the East Wing Hallway without him ever having visited it.

“You stay here, I’ll go,” Elvira whispered and stepped out of the circle.

Instantly, Kaeo pushed past them and walked ahead.

Frowning, Elvira took two longer steps to walk ahead of him.

The ravenette scowled and jogged past her in order to be at the front.

By the end of the hallway, Elvira and Kaeo were squabbling like children competing to walk past a door.

Kairo, willingly behind them, shook his head in utter disappointment.

Elvira elbowed Kaeo and walked through the door first, frowning at how silent the Estate was. This time around, maids should have been busy cleaning the window crevices and dusting the doorknobs and hinges.

Kaeo swore under his breath. “First you poach my magic and now you attack me ever so violently!” he seethed in her ear.

Elvira paid no heed to his words for her eyes caught sight of Sinclair walking toward the Count’s meeting room. Elvira ran up to her side, panting, as she called out her name.

The butler’s assistant turned to face the voice and her eyes widened at the sight before her. Instinctively, her feet shuffled backwards and her grip on the tray in her hands loosened. The ovular metal fell to the floor, its thunder echoing in the silent hallway.

“E-e-elvira?” Sinclair gasped.

“Sinclair,” Elvira stated bluntly.

“Y-you are alive…as well…?” Sinclair raised a finger to point at her face.

Kaeo and Kairo walked up to Elvira’s side, which cued a scandalized Sinclair to back into the charred walls.

“A-angels of death! Has my time come?!” Sinclair wailed, backing into a corner. Her mouth quivered and her eyes barely held Elvira’s gaze.

“Sinclair, are you okay? It is me, Elvira, I did not die—is anyone else dead? What happened to Clary?” Elvira asked, stepping in front of Sinclair.

Sinclair furrowed her brows, scrutinizing Elvira’s face. When her assessment deemed Elvira worthy, Sinclair stuttered out a response.

“O-oh, you, you disappeared, everyone thought you died…and Clary, um…Clary is sort of gone…?”

“Gone?”

Tears overwhelmed her eyes but Elvira could only blink them away. A tear slid past her cheek and caught a glimpse of sunlight. It sparkled like the crystal shards rushing towards her, all those nights ago, when Clary pushed her out of the window.

Clary saved her.

Sinclair picked up the metal tray, “Come with me,” she said as she grabbed Elvira’s wrist and led her into the meeting room.

A scowling Kaeo and frowning Kairo followed.

The meeting room was where Count Aramia hosted the commonfolk to hear out their grievances. It was a room on the farthest west of the estate, with its own entry and exit-ways for the commoners. The detached nature of the hall would be the only reason why it survived the massive fire.

A wall of maid-backs greeted them upon entrance. Like the rest of the estate, the meeting room was also a picture of glazed hardwood, antique furniture and tapestries. The commoners had an entry door on the far left, in front of which Elvira spotted Yuna and Lira. Her eyes widened as she followed their line of sight; horror struck her gaze as she backed into a hard chest. Her nostrils flared and squirmed while her ears were assaulted by the screams of agony.

On the small elevated stage at the end of the room were two gold carved chairs, designated for the Count and Countess. Since Count Aramia was unmarried, the smaller throne chair remained empty.

Until a few days ago.

“Is…is that what I see it is?”

Sinclair nodded.

“A-aren’t they supposed to be…?” Elvira frowned.

“A decade ago,” Sinclair replied, her tone equally chill.

For, on the thrones, were seated two people whom Elvira had only seen in pictures before. Their portraits were in the Count’s office, Elvira remembered glancing upon them everytime she cleaned. The pointy chin and upturned moustache of the beady eyed former Count and the triangular face and hooked nose of the former Countess.

Elvira could not believe her eyes when they substituted the people from the pictures on the throne chair.

The dead Count and Countess were sitting on the throne chairs, smirking, with an evil glint in their eye as—

Elvira clutched her heart.

It was Clary.

She was standing beside the Countess, dressed in a shiny black suit, wielding a whip in her right hand. She struck the whip against the ground and a shaggy haired man, curled up on the ground, whimpering.

“Told you, Clary is gone.”

The whip wielding, curly-blonde haired and newly dark eyed Clary burst into a hearty laughter.

“Yeah…well…”

Am I still dreaming?

Elvira couldn’t make sense of reality anymore. All of Count Aramia’s household staff stood in attendance, witnessing the shaggy haired man being whipped while the supposedly dead Count, Countess and Clary, bellowed in mirth.

“They’ve been doing this ever since the day after Salary Day. Head Butler suddenly called everyone here and we witnessed Helif going mad over his parents standing in front of him. Now they do this every morning, whip him in front of everyone, that is. The maids seem to enjoy it a lot.” Sinclair explained.

“Oh? So, he is the one who has been causing me misery,” Kaeo grunted.

Elvira felt a shove before Kaeo walked past her and she came to an embarrassing realisation that she had been leaning against him all this while. She cursed under her breath as Kaeo made his way through the crowd of maids.

“Count, Countess,” he greeted as soon as he was within sight, tone cold and hard.

The nobility passed him a nod of acknowledgement.

“May I?” Kaeo asked.

The old Count nodded, his mouth pushing up in a grin.

“May I what? What? Do dead people have telepathy? The dead people stare-understanding?!” Elvira whispered into Kairo’s ear, exasperated by the whole scenario.

“Your guess may be better than mine, it’s your magic after-all,” Kairo shrugged.

Elvira rolled her eyes and Kaeo grabbed the shaggy haired man by his tattered collar.

“Helif Aramia?” he questioned, looking him in the eye.

“I-I am the COUNT! D-do not say my name, y-you peasant,” the man spat blood, “You are all being fooled by these impo—”

He couldn’t continue for Kaeo’s fist met his face. Elvira spotted a sapphire blue magic circle over his knuckles, aiding the impact of his hits, and her breath hitched. He was Kaeo.

A more…unhinged version though, Elvira realised, grimacing while Kaeo shoved punch after punch into the slender man.

“The young man seems impassioned,” the Countess remarked from her throne chair.

“All well-deserved,” Clary scoffed and threw the whip towards Kaeo, “Use it as you please.”

Kaeo picked up the whip and began wrapping it around Helif’’s neck when Elvira shouted, “Stop it! You’re going to kill him!”

 

the pen who gained sentience

News Reporter: As the 'Freedom' magic swells through, more and more objects gain sentience. The onset of memories intertwined with emotions has overwhelmed quite a few unwilling participants onto the path of villainy. Though as Barbie Dolls banding with the Robots in hopes for a World Takeover (rooted in deep hatred over human treatment) are becoming commonalities, there are shocking cases like that of an ancestral pen writing its autobiography which are taking the world by storm!

The entires go as follows:

I remember being crafted by my master. After the searing molten metal was molded into my form, he carved his seal onto my back and forever branded me as his. My master's hands were rugged against my polished finish; he never took care of his hands. They were always calloused, scathed or scratched in one place or the other: I observed for as long as I stayed on his display shelf. Regardless, he held each of my siblings with ardent care, a representation of love for his craft.

I would miss him, I remember thinking, when a contractor claimed me away as a prize for a writing contest. Though, my master's memories would soon be shadowed by the eccentricities of my first owner. 

He was a gentleman by facevalue, a man of refined clothing and graceful eloquence. He smiled charmingly, curtsied to every compliment and housed me proudly within his breastpocket. A scholar, one would think him as, until they'd spend a night in his working quarters against the bright warmth of the kerosene lamps on his limping oakwood table and witness him writing so passionately that his tongue would poke out of his pursed lips.

One would think he's drafting the constitution or writing the Declaration of Independence with such fervor, but no! Oh Master, if you would only witness the utter filth he used me for. His sharp Ts and cursive Gs were using my precious ink for writing erotica! And mind you, he was not poetic about it! He was crass, descriptive and imaginative (trust me, I'd know) within those pages and somehow he made a fortune off of them!

It truly baffles me, to this day, how he accounted his success to me. 

"'tis all because of this pen," he'd say to his friends, as if it were I, an innocent non-sentient object, who was whispering the devil's ideas into his head at the arseclock of dawn! The Audacity! 

That is how the nature of my existence became ancestral. 

I was passed down to my first owner's son, even though he had a perfectly fine daughter who could use me for better purposes, who seemed to inherit his father's exceptional imagination.

Though, my second owner used his imagination for a purpose quite contrasting to his father's. While his father was using me to bring bodies together, my second owner used me to bring bodies apart. Quite literally. No, he wasn't a divorce lawyer. My second owner was a member of the Mafia and he was masterful at coming up with ways to dismember his brothers in Christ. 

He used my delicate head in evil ways, scratching illegible cursive over the parchment, whilst seated in a dingy office with moonlight as his governing agent of sight. No wonder the letters seemed equally threatening as to what they read; and honestly, I would have been fine with such misuse if he wouldn't use his pantpockets as my placeholder.

That was straight up abuse.

And the stench was often nauseating. Not that I could feel it then, though, as everything is coming back to me now, I have since leaked my ink twelve times on the paper while trying to write about him.

Thankfully, he lost me in a gambling debt. I remember being estatic as I was held being passed onto a better man. A man with soft hands and an erudite gleam in his eyes. He combed his blonde hair in different styles everyday and kept me on his well furnished bedroom desk and used me seldom. 

Though, when my third owner did use me...it was somehow even more devious, albeit oddly wholesome and weird. He used me to write letters, love letters, normal isn't it? Yes. His letters were poetic and innocent, often desperate and fervent with emotion — but he drafted them to the man he loved while his illiterate wife would be hanging by his arm, peeking over the parchment and giggling. Never without her.

"I w'nder what yer writin. Is it for me? I do love ye!"

"Of course, my darling, it is for you. I'm always thinking of you and writing of you," he'd reply to his wife, still using his straight and sharp-edged handwriting in the honour of his manly lover. 

His moral delinquency, brought on by the times he lived in, thrived for as long as I remained with that family. Therein, I faced the first traumatic event of my life. There are no pen therapists, but I do insist humans to come forward for this profession because pens genuinely need a grip for their sanity to cling on. We might be mightier than swords only because swords merely kill, while we can do much more than that.

The odd couple eventually had a kid; the kid got its grubby claws on me and ABUSED MY GENTLE NIB-HEAD OVER THE PARCHMENT, SCRIBBLING AND SCRATCHING TO THE POINT WHERE I FELT THE PARCHMENT TEAR AND CRUMBLE IN THE FACE OF MY EVIL MINISTRATIONS. That child made me a criminal, a first degree murderer, and if that wasn't horrible enough, that demon-spawn threw me off the open window.

I was flung down three floors and into the muddy wet fields, traumatized and abandoned. I call that event of my life as APENDONMENT, you get it? yeah? funny? no? My bad. 

Why are you still reading? 

Regardless, those insect infested fields were my new home. At least for a week, I remained unused and degraded, until a dog ran up to me. It peed in my line of sight and we looked at eachother, intently, while he did his business. It was to no one's surprise that the animal found fancy in me, after the quick moment we shared and picked me up in his salivating mouth.

Are you writing that down, my future therapist? Yes, thank you. 

The ten minutes I spent in his slimy mouth felt like a lifetime's worth of goo accumulating in my crevices. I was let go at a middle class doorstep, a little downtrodden albeit homey and picked up by a little girl.

As a wise pen had once said, after all ink-ridden scratches on parchment comes a new ink filter and the smoothest, most flourishing writing.

Finally, my time had come. After all the trials and tribulations, my perfect body worn down by my paint chipping away and my master's mark pierced by a dog's canine — I found a family who accepted me at my worst. They bathed me and placed me in their happening living room, a family of three who ate together and made merry. 

They used me seldom (my ink was expensive) but when they did, it was for honourable purposes. I filled out the little girl's school admission form in that house. I was used to write greetings on birthday cards and sign a deed for a field. My new owners were content with what they had and were always striving to do more for their little girl. 

Placed on top of a cabinet, in a stand of my own, I witnessed the little girl mature into a lady and her parents curve into old gentle souls. Their shaky hands had no use of me anymore and the invention of a telephone line had me forever stuck in my place, steady and observant. I would have felt neglected if the mother did not do her weakly dusting chores whilst humming to a new tune.

She was a beautiful singer and she passed on with a smile on her face. I was used to sign on her Death Certificate and I put my best curves forward in her honour. 

Her husband did not do the dusting after she was gone. He remained on the living room couch, where the family had eaten dinners together, celebrated happiness and hugged eachother in moments of sorrow. He remained there, now alone and staring into the ceiling.

I would have felt lonely but somehow, I knew he was more. Alone but not forgotten; for the last time, I was used to write the little lady's wedding invitation. Her father found his smile again for her husband-to-be was a good man. She took her father into the city after the wedding went through and I was packed up in a box, abandoned on an attic, never to be used again.

Laptops and texting had taken over, I heard as I laid in my bed of dust for many an ages, hoping someone would use me again.

I was made as a tool for a free human society, to be used by those who pursued freedom of passion. Though, when in their hands I begged for a life of my own but now that I have one — I have nothing to do with it. Odd, is it not? 

Freedom

 Aira tapped on the webstory app. Its icon enlarged, burst into colourful confetti and zoomed out to reveal Aira's profile page. Her eyes skimmed over the bell icon in the upper right corner and her shoulders slumped upon its grey sight. No new notifications, comments, reviews or reads.

The whizz of a coffee machine and the scent of vanilla essence sweetened the sense of misery as her thumb tapped on star shape in the lower left corner of the app. A list of trending stories popped up with the first one was titled, 'I was sold off to the Demon King and Now He is Obsessed with Me!' 

Aira rolled her eyes and swapped the screen until she reached the last page; ranked 96th was her story, 'Loss and Loss.' There was only one upvote on her story, eighteen thousand times less compared to the top grossing story. A sigh escaped her lips.

"Aira, no using phone during your shift!" 

Her teeth clenched as she locked her phone and pocketed it in her uniform. She raised her head to pass a stiff smile to Shumaila, her coworker. Shumaila was kind and beautiful with bright doe eyes, full pink lips and skin as white as moonlight. It wrung Aira's heart to work beside someone like Shumaila.

The chime against the door tinkled in arrival of a customer. Instead of heading to Aira's counter, which was in front of him, the man walked over to Shumaila and began reciting his order with a flirtatious glint in his eye. Shumaila giggled ever so slightly as she typed in his order and confirmed the bill. The flush of a smile caused by the customer earned her a good tip in the Tip Jar. 

"One café latte with whipped cream and mint sprinkles coming right up!" Shumaila recited as she tore the printed receipt off the cash counter and handed it over to the customer. His hand lurked over hers a minute more than what one would be considered gentlemanly. Shumaila retreated her hand as soon as he grabbed the receipt and gestured him to wait on the many empty tables for his order to arrive. 

Though, in the four minutes he waited, she couldn't shake the intense gaze presiding her every move. Sweat clamoured in her hands as she passed a smile to Aira and informed, "I'll take a break for a moment, don't mind," before walking inside the 'Employees Only' room. 

She paced to the locker room while wiping her hands on her apron, again and again, until a searing burn agitated her skin. She gulped as she reached in front of her locker and stared dead into the mirror. Everything seemed normal, nothing was weird about her face. Still, she rubbed her palms all over her features to make sure she had no makeup on.

Nothing.

"Shumaila! Are you f**king kidding me?! What are you doing in here instead of serving customers?! Peak morning hour is about to start! I did not hire your pretty face to hide in the lockers!" Raiden, the young manager, shouted as he entered the locker room.

Shumaila flinched at the loudness of his tone and backed into the locker as Raiden infiltrated her personal space. "I—I, you know, I got anxious. I don't do well when I am anxious and there was this man staring—"

Harsh fingers grabbed her face by her cheeks and pushed them together to seal her lips in a pout. "If you are made this pretty then you better f**king get used to being stared at, you s**ty wh**e!" Raiden cursed. He let go of her face with a jerk when tears welled her doe eyes. Her head hit against the locker handle with a loud thud.

Shumaila whimpered as Raiden walked away with a last warning, enraged steps leading him to where he was heading before getting distracted by the crying mess of a lass. "No body wants to work, everybody wants easy money like it will f**king drop off a tree," Raiden grumbled under his breath as he walked through the 'Employees Only' door.

He beelined towards the cash counters and pocketed all the cash from Shumaila and Aira's cases and Tip Jars. "Don't you make you lose money!" He called to his workers before walking out of the café. The cash wad was thick in his pocket and his steps are hasty on the cobbled floor. A walk turned into a jog which eventually morphed into a run as he dashed past the glistening shop windows of high-end stores. He turned round the corner, into an uphill alleyway which led him to a street contrasting the pleasures of life he left behind.

His pace slowed as the smell of accumulated garbage overwhelmed his senses. Small huts lined both sides of the cracked road, buzzing with employment and overpopulation. Even the sun did not shine in this area, Raiden realised as he made to the twelfth hut on the left of the street.

A scream resonated through the neighborhood and the people surrounding the hut made a way for him, decorated by pitiful glances and harrowing sighs. He gulped as he banged open the wooden plank for a door and found his father swinging a blow at his mother.

He gulped, disgusted, his chest heaved and breath hitched, summoning all his courage he shouted, "Stop! Here's the money! Let her go!" He emptied out the cash wad from his pocket, his eyes not leaving his mother's withering self.

"Da fook am i gon do wid dis? Innit too li'l? Wad do ye think, dis won lemme win!! Can ye no' earn even?! Whot a load o' crap I've born!" The father tsked as he snatched the cash from Raiden's hand and swung the wooden log against Raiden's kneecaps. 

The young boy wailed and collapsed to the floor. His mother slithered closer to shelter her son even when her old bones were shivering like the last leaf in a storm. The father tsked at the pathetic sight infront and walked out.

"Watya lookin' at?! Go yer ways, ye swine lot!" He shouted at the crowd standing outside the door. Though, as one last act of mockery, he threw the log he used as a weapon to beat his family inside their house. It landed against the mother's foot, lifeless and unthreatening without a user. 

"Atleast we got a good one for soup tonight," she whispered in her son's ear, her eyes never leaving the thick log. She pulled away from the hug and patted her son's back, "Let's get going." She had a job to do, places to be at and responsibilities to fulfill. 

Her bones ached as she limped downhill, ignoring the stares and whispers following with the wind. Her feet were already swollen from an older beating and new bruises were beginning to form under the long sleeved blouse she had on. Her shoulders were hunched but the corners of her lips remained upturned. Her circumstances did not wear the smile off her face as she rung the bell at a giant mansion's gate.

"Who is it?" The security man asked through the speakers inbuilt in the wall, beside the bell.

"It's Mary," she informed upon which the metal gates buzzed and drew apart. Her small frame tried its best to not limp inside the mansion's lawn. She squared her shoulders even though they hurt her bruised collarbones, she straightened her back even though it felt like she was being stabbed repeatedly by pins and needles, she held her head high even though all she wanted was to fall to the floor and never get up.

She knocked against a richly engraved wooden door and waited patiently until a muffled "Come in," was uttered. Mary twisted the golden handle and entered the spirit scented room. 

"Morning Mary, how are you?" A voice croaked from the elegant king sized bed lined with sapphire and gold. 

"I'm quite fine, how are you Ms. Vasilissa?" Mary asked as she walked up to the lady's side and gently plucked the blanket off her. 

"I'm as good as I can be. Ahsen is supposed to come today, will you send a word to the kitchen after you help me with the loo?" The lady asked. 

"Of course Madam," Mary replied as she slid her hands underneath Vasilissa's armpits and dragged her limp body onto the wheelchair beside the bed. 

"I want the British Rose scent today, if you don't mind," Lady Vasilissa whispered as Mary dragged her feet off the bed and gently placed them one by one on the footrest of the wheelchair.

"Of course Madam," Mary agreed and pushed the wheelchair from one room to another. "Is there a colour you are thinking of today?" Mary asked as she turned the wheelchair around in a circle to let Vasilissa survey the surrounding masses of clothes in the closet room.

"What do you think Mary? What would be the best colour on me?" Lady Vasilissa giggled.

"You trust this old woman's choice too much, Madam," Mary snorted but proceeded to walk up to a set of pink chanel. "Maybe this?" She asked, smiling genuinely.

"I love your choice!" Lady Vasilissa exclaimed. She wanted to clap but she couldn't; old her would have clapped and hugged Mary for choosing a good outfit but now that she was almost hanging off of a wheelchair custom made for her paralysed body, all she could do was smile to convey her gratefulness. 

The bath was set up, the water was warm and the bubbles smelled like British Rose. Old Vasilissa would have had a bottle of wine and a book to go along with the aesthetic while she soaked. Though now, she had a helper to wash her fingers and the corners of her eyes.

"Tell me a story, Mary," Vasilissa stated as the caretaker gently washed every part of her body like it was her own. 

"Of course Madam," Mary replied and began narrating a love story. A story which Vasilissa could have turned into reality if she were her former self, playing the violin at the Grand Theatre and married to the love of her life. Though, the only romance now left in her life was Mary's unbridled kindness.

After the bath, Mary helped Vasilissa get dressed and set her up for breakfast. 

"Why'd do you always treat me so nicely even when I am nothing now. All my staff left after the accident, Mary, you're the only one who keeps coming back," Vasilissa sighed as Mary fed her a spoonful of cereal. 

"You're like my own," Mary replied simply, having seen Vasilissa grow up more than her own son. She gently wiped the corners of Vasilissa's mouth and fed her another spoon. 

"I should have paid you much better when I had the chance to." 

Mary wheeled the wheelchair to the living room and left Vasilissa alone with her guest. From her line of sight, Vasilissa could only see Ahsen if he were crouching or kneeling in front of her. Old Vasilissa would have pierced people's eyes if they witnessed the love of her life kneeling on the ground but this Vasilissa was pathetic enough to bring fall to him.

"G'day sunshine," Ahsen greeted her with a kiss pressed to her lips. "I've missed you," he said as he held her head in his hands and straightened its droopiness to meet his eye. "You've lost weight?" He frowned when he couldn't feel the former squishiness of her cheeks. "I was gone for a week and that maid was being lazy?! I'll just—"

"Shhh, calm down Ahsen, it's not their fault. I had a bad stomach recently," Vasilissa said. Her instincts urged to run a hand through her lover's lush hair but all she could do was stare in his eyes and convey her love. 

"Bad stomach?" Worry laced his tone and his hand reached her stomach, "Are you okay? What happened? Why didn't you tell me? Did you take meds?" 

Vasilissa wanted to laugh, throw her head back at his cuteness and hug him so tight that she could hear his heartbeat against her ear. Old Vasilissa would have done so but this one could only pinch her cheeks up.

"Of course, it wasn't anything bad, it overate noodles again," she stated. 

Ashen and Vasilissa caught up after he picked her up from the wheelchair and laid her on the sofa with her head resting in his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair as they reminisced their past. When it was time to leave, Ahsen settled Vasilissa back in her bed and pressed a kiss against her forehead.

"I'll see you soon, okay? Miss me," he kissed her cheeks and stood up.

"I always do," Vasilissa replied with the same love in her eyes that she used to have. Something tightened in Ahsen's chest as he locked the door behind him and walked through the darkened hallways of a once shining mansion. 

Tears whelmed his eyes at the thought of what his beloved was going through. She used to be the brightest shining star of the high society and now that she had stopped burning, everyone who used to clamour around her had disappeared. His love was treated so wrongly by the world but his love never complained about the mistreatment.

Why was his love so good?

Ahsen pressed a hand against his heart and settled on the entry footsteps of the mansion. Visiting Vasilissa every week crumbled his spirit. He wanted peace but he couldn't let his beloved be abandoned yet again, not when he was alive and breathing after all that happened.

Ahsen pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and opened up the Webstory app. Every week, visiting Vasilissa, he is reminded to publish a new chapter of, 'I was sold off to the Demon King and Now He is Obsessed with Me!' Vasilissa loved the escapism it provided her and if that was the only thing he could do for his beloved after getting married behind her back, then so be it.

Crowned 10 - Lost and Found!

CHAPTER 10

     Heavy footsteps thumped against the dark floor as a man hastened down a spiral staircase through a flurry of men, drinking and dancing in between. Heads turned and eyes followed his hastening back.

“Lord Kairo, congratulations on winning over Bestia!”

“Brilliant party tonight, Lord Kairo!”

“Looking handsome as always, Your Highness!”

“Where are you rushing to?”

Kairo brushed past many a talking figures, letting their calls fall on deaf ears. He jogged past the dance floor and entered the room opposite to it. He locked the door behind him before calling, “Brother? Are you okay?”

The little room was dimly lit by a lamp placed on the center table, opposite to which was a wooden seat. It was a resting room for the servants, which had been taken over by Kaeo’s impatient grunts and whimpers.

“Kae, what’s happening?” Kairo asked as he kneeled beside the wooden seat, his eyes wandered over Kaeo’s pained expression.

“I—ugh, I can feel it, her magic,” Kaeo seethed through gritted teeth. His fist was clenched around a fork which he dragged over and over into the wooden seat.

“Close your eyes,” Kairo said as he placed a finger over Kaeo’s forehead and gently pushed him backwards, “Tell me what you see.”

Kaeo writhed under his brother’s touch and the fork was further pushed into the wood. “Arrgh, the’rre, there’s a, a fire,” Kaeo huffed as pain clutched his abdomen, “A big place is on f—ugh, fire, argh,” he grunted, voice deepened with controlled agony, “I can feel her stripping my magic.”

“It’s okay,” Kairo reassured, “She might need it. Tell me, what do you see? Give me a hint.”

Kaeo swore under his breath as he tried to concentrate. His body felt like it was being stabbed by invisible daggers and every hole was releasing his magic into the universe. Exhaustion took over his limbs and he let himself slip further into the curve of the wooden seat.

“There is a, um, trees, she is outside. The build—aargh, it’s on fire. There’s a magic circle, r-r-red and, guards, the crest, it’s the Count’s crest. Aramia. Ugh,” he grunted as pain ripped through his body, threatening to split him in half.

“Good work, brother,” Kairo smiled and knocked a finger against Kaeo’s forehead.

The ravenette fell limp, rolled off the seat and crashed against the marbled floor.

Kairo cringed at the loud thud Kaeo’s head made after hitting the table’s foot. “That’s gotta hurt…” he mumbled before a brilliant jade magic circle appeared under his feet and swept him away. “To think you had been so close…” Kairo muttered as he materialized in front of the burning occido wing at Count Aramia’s estate.

He whispered a spell and a small magic circle appeared within his right eye. Through it, he could clearly see the crimson magic circle over the estate. The circle throbbed furiously, unlike anything Kairo had seen before. He could feel the spell lending power from the very atmosphere around him. The roaring winds, the shivering leaves, the crackling fire, they are all sustaining the circle overhead.

“This…this is magic,” Kairo gasped in a whisper.

His bespelled eye caught sight of a pulsating red wave on the farther left of the magic circle. It seemed to be connecting something on the ground and something else in the burning building. The purest thread of gold was encased within, as thin as an eyelash, fragile beyond belief. Kairo wondered if he stared too hard, it would break apart.

He ran towards it and found a body being dragged by two guards. The pulsating red wave had one end connected to it and an orb of powerful crimson throbbed around the body.

Kairo looked up and spotted the other end of the magic entering the first floor of the burning building.

He snapped his fingers and a magic circle appeared under his feet, levitating him off the ground. He floated to a broken window and found a similar throbbing body, surrounded by raging fire and protected by the crimson magic. From his height, he could see two more waves pulsating on the opposite side of the estate.

Kairo casted a quick spell and brilliant jade magic circle appeared underneath the crimson. It sucked the fire away until all that was left was smoke and wails. As soon as his magic circle disappeared, Kairo entered the burnt ballroom, picked up the person and floated back to the ground.

“It’s a miracle!”

“The fire is gone!”

“All hail—”

With another snap of his fingers, the wailing guards were knocked out cold.

Kairo placed the two bodies beside each other and almost instantly, the overcast magic circle disappeared. The wind rested and the trees came to a standstill.

“It’s like the magic has a mind of its own…” Kairo whispered with fascination shining in his eyes.

Though, as soon as the throbbing orb disappeared from the two bodies, horror caused his eyes to widen. For whom he remembered with warmth now laid cold and scarred. His feet scurried to her side and clammy hands picked up her curly brown head. Tears threatened his eyes as he pulled the limp body against his chest, whispering, “I-It’s okay, you’re safe now, nothing like this will ever happen again…”

The gnarly bite marks disappeared from her body as a magic circle appeared underneath Kairo’s feet.

Five days later, her eyes fluttered open.

There was a heaviness in her limbs that weighed her down and a clog in her throat that made her croak out, “Ah.” She closed her eyes again then reopened them as memories began spiralling in her head.

“Clary!” she shouted hoarsely as she shot up, instantly regretting both the actions. A violent cough wrenched her momentarily motionless. Her world spun as her head throbbed, threatening to burst open.

She swore under her breath as her eyes scrutinized the strange surroundings. She came to a very obvious realisation that she wasn’t in Count Aramia’s basement or her hardwood charpoy.

No.

She was in an unfamiliar lap of luxury, settled in between an army of soft pillows and a sinfully addictive bed. A calming scent wafted in the rich air surrounding her, accentuating the obvious wealth around the four-poster bed. Opposite to the bed, a fireplace of black stone crackled a warm glow.

Clary.

She raised her hands to get rid of the silk sheets and spotted colourful pins attached to her wrists. She pulled out a pin and seethed as a few droplets of blood marked the sheets. The pins were a healing tool, she recognised. Their needle tips were supposed to prick the veins of a patient and the tiny glass blob on the opposite end stored a healing spell or potion, whatever the caster deemed necessary. The pins were an Alchemy Type Mage’s speciality.

Oh.

She had almost overlooked it.

She was so used to them and suddenly, the scars were…gone?

‘Did Count Amaria finally sell me off?’ she wondered as she slipped out of the bed.

Her feet landed on the softest carpet known to existence and she could not resist the urge to rub her feet against it.

Clary. Her mind reminded.

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely and pulled out the remaining four pins before getting up.

Dizziness overtook her sight and she grabbed the bedframe to stabilise herself. It was then when she caught sight of her attire. Her eyes widened as she faced the full-length mirror placed beside the fireplace.

She hadn’t seen herself in anything but the maid uniform for such a long time so it came as no surprise when an audible gasp escaped her lips. Though, instead of fascination, hers was scandalised.

For on her body was the very familiar and very classic, pearly white, iridescence embroidered, fae-woven, wedding dress.

Alarm bells raged in her mind.

‘Count Aramia totally sold me. Some creep wants to marry me. I need to run away, as soon as I can, as far as I can.’ She concluded and limped out of the bed room, which was connected to its own living room, past which was an opaque glass carved door. She gulped and limped to the circle widows. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she realised that she was on ground floor.

She looked around the living room and picked an umbrella from the stand by the door. She would use it as a contingency weapon, she decided as she unbolted the window and jumped out. Her limbs were still weak and instead of landing gracefully on her feet, she plopped on the hallway, clutching her thundering heart and sweaty limbs.

“Elvira.”

The sudden acknowledgement made her jolt backwards. Her head hit the wall and a loud groan escaped her lips.

The person in front swore under his breath as he rubbed a hand on the back of his head.

Elvira looked up and found a pair of dark eyes glaring at her with annoyance. He seemed bothered by her presence, if not disgusted, yet the odd familiarity in his face made her breath hitch.

Her eyes narrowed at his face. The frowning thick brows, center-parted raven hair strands caressing the flashy eyelashes. Odd amethyst eyes wandering over her face, the high nose bridge representing the pride in his almond shaped eyes, easing into a philtrum and pouty peach lips.

 No way.

She had never noticed it…but there was a mark under his left eye.

Had it always been there?

She wouldn’t know.

She was so sure she dreamt them up.

But—no, was it a dream again?

Elvira reached out and her fingers grazed over his shirt-covered-stomach. The hard touch felt real. Her eyes widened to their brim as she whispered, “Kaeo.”

“Good that you have your wits intact,” the man replied, voice deep and so unfamiliar, “Now that you are up, I can finally use my room again. For star’s sake,” he swore under his breath.

No, it wasn’t Kaeo. The Kaeo she knew had brilliant blue eyes and a smile that would light up her world.

It was a smile worth dying over.

And Kaeo died five years ago…

I should find Clary.

Elvira used the umbrella to stand up. The stranger shadowed her frame with his lean build.

“Ex-cuse me,” Elvira muttered as she limped past him.

 

Crowned 9 - West Wing

 

CHAPTER 9

The soft crackling of firewood engulfed the otherwise silent living room. The indent on the shiny red sofas placed in front of the fireplace indicated a party of five people. A soft scent emanated from the candles decorated on the mantlepiece. Like the rest of the Estate, the living room of the East Wing was a flurry of glazed wood, books and antique furniture which Elvira walked past.

Her neck was craned up and her hair were tucked behind her ears in order to catch the faintest of sounds. The layout of the two wings seemed to be similar as Elvira paced through a hallway of doors, opening and closing them to check inside.

Just as she opened the last door in the hallway, she heard two maids walking up the staircase. Instantly, Elvira entered the dark room and hid behind the closed door.

“How long will it last? My feet hurt, ugh.”

“It’s a full night thing. But thankfully there is overtime pay.”

Elvira scoffed, ‘It must be nice being human.’ She thought.

“I feel bad for the slave girl, they don’t even get paid.”

“That’s their fault for being born wrong.”

“Yeah…”

Their voices disappeared around the corner and Elvira sneaked out to run downstairs.

“I’ll just make sure that she’s safe and then I’ll leave,” Elvira whispered as she eyed the empty hallway downstairs. She could hear a loud orchestra on the left end and proceeded to follow the noise.

There were guards at the door, Elvira spotted, then squared her shoulders and plastered a smile on her face. The guards opened the door for her, considering her a maid. She entered what she assumed to be the ball room owing to the majestic ceilings decorated with crystal chandeliers, hanging like upside down trees. The opulent carvings of gold made her breath hitch, people dressed in elaborate gowns and elegant masks meandered the circular dance floor, clinking glasses, passing whispers and in the center of it all stood Clary, scantily clad in a bedazzled brassier and panties, tied to a pole. Her eyes were covered with a silk cloth and a bejewelled clamp pursed her lips.

Her pale forehead was in a frown and her body shivered with every strange touch lent by a passerby.

Elvira saw red.

Her mind forgot all sense and let a scowl ease onto her face. Her tongue did not twist into another sweet-talking monologue and her knees did not buckle at the sight of the Count surrounded by his men.

The skies rumbled outside and the orchestra reached a crescendo.

Elvira stormed out of the ballroom, up the stairs and began kicking every lantern and candlestand in sight. She sped into the living room upstairs, grabbed the fire poker and tossed all the firewood outside. The hardwood floor and the furniture easily caught light.

“FIRE! FIRE UPSTAIRS! THERE’S A FIRE! EVACUATE NOW!”

She shouted as she ran downstairs. Panicked maids rushed past her, guards jogged upwards and other servants ran to their masters’ aide in the ball room. Elvira entered the ball room, amidst a crowd of servants and scoffed at the frenzy with which the nobles were running around.

Paying no consideration to the girl tied to a pole.

Elvira beelined towards her, shoving past numerous servants and reached Clary’s side.

Her chest was heaving and upon close sight, Elvira noticed how badly all of Clary was shivering. Elvira placed a hand on Clary’s back and she jolted away from her touch.

“Clary, it’s me, don’t worry, I’m here,” she reassured as she unlatched the clasp from Clary’s mouth. The girl moaned as soon as her mouth was free but the painful bruises of the clasp remained on her pretty face. Elvira pulled the eye cover off her head and Clary cringed at the sudden assault by light. Realisation struck her down; her knees gave up and she descended to the floor.

The screaming had trickled to the outside as the guests managed to escape. The crowd in the ballroom had thinned while Elvira attempted to unfasten Clary’s hand binds.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be done in a moment and we can leave,” Elvira assured, clawing at the thick rope to get it loose.

“I—it’s okay…” Clary said but her tone showed no optimism. Her voice was barely above a whisper, too afraid to let out and catch any more attention.

Elvira desperately pulled at the knot, attempting to undo it but all her strength could do was fray the thick rope. She swore under her breath as waves of heat threatened their safety. The fire must be descending down, Elvira concluded – was there no mage on the premise who could get rid of it? All she had wanted was a big enough distraction and an equally immeasurable loss to the Count but she did not want to endanger anyone else.

“It’s, it’s loosening, trust me,” Elvira said through gritted teeth as her nails dug into the crevices of the rope and blood oozed out of them, “I’ll, I’ll get it done.”

“You should run…” Clary whispered, her gaze mesmerized by the way the ballroom door caught fire.

“We- we, we will go together,” Elvira seethed through a clenched jaw as her fingers were finally able to breach the tight constraints. She heaved as she pulled apart the thick knot and dropped the bloodied rope on the floor. “Le—no, wait,” she looked around and ran up to pull a curtain off a window. The rod fell down with a resounding thud and Elvira hastily pulled the curtain off it. She ran back to Clary’s side and draped the fabric over her shoulders, “Let’s go now.”

The fire had caught up to them and the entrance to the ballroom was ablaze. Elvira rushed Clary to the window and used the curtain rod to break the glass. She got rid of the small shards encasing the window pane and called for Clary to jump.

The darkened gardens awaited with a promise of momentary peace.

Yet, Clary stared at the approaching flames, unmoving.

“I think I understand Yuna now. And I get why you and her are so brave…” Clary whispered, “Dying today is better than suffering every day.”

Elvira widened her eyes as she turned to face Clary.

Her light orbs reflected the fire and an odd sense of peace veiled her face. Gone was her gentle smile and earnest eyes, exhibiting all the hope and kindness in the world.

“No, Clary, death is not an escape.” Elvira countered sternly, “We are leaving,” she snapped and grabbed the girl by her shoulders.

Clary shrugged out of Elvira’s grasp and turned to scowl at her.

“Why do you keep saving us? Why do you insist on living? We haven’t had a good day ever since we failed the Awakening and we never shall! If we live today then we suffer tomorrow! So what if you helped me today, he is going to kill us tomorrow! And it will be even more humiliating! I do not want this anymore!” Clary screamed, molten rage pouring out of her voice and eyes.

Elvira gritted her teeth as she looked around, “No Clary, I cannot die because the world has yet to see all of me. You cannot die because the world has yet to see all of you. Just because a group of people reject you does not mean you are not worth the effort others put in for you. The world beyond the mage villages of Lunaria is better than you expect. We’ll run, we’ll escape, Lira, Yuna, you and I, we’ll run and we’ll build life for oursel--”

Suddenly, two crystal chandeliers exploded and their shards shot outwards.

Elvira’s eyes widened as Clary pushed her out of the window.

She propelled downwards, gasping, as horror graced her vision.

Crystal shards shot into Clary’s nape, back and feet, disabling her to the burning ground.

“No, no, no, no, no, Clary! No! CLARY!!!!”

The ear-piercing scream birthed a crimson magic circle over the burning estate. Winds howled in response and nearby church bells rang with fervor. Blood oozed out of Elvira’s eyes as she fell onto the damp prickly damp grass, chanting, unblinking, “I have to save Clary, I have to save Clary, I have to save Clary.”

She tried to get up but another sound of explosion tripped her back to the ground. Pain twisted her limbs and yet another ear-piercing scream escaped her throat. Her vision darkened as her bruised fingers clung onto the grass, digging into the soil, grounding herself under an immense yet invisible weight.

The last thing Elvira saw was a crimson magic circle expanded all over Count Aramia’s Estate, glowing furiously, before the darkness consumed her.

Amidst Northern Hills, a man shouted, “Kairo! I can sense her magic!”

Crowned 7 - Facing the Music.

 

Elvira let go of the utensils and immediately ran up to Clary’s side for washing her hands.

Clary, numbed to a stand-still, let herself be pushed to the side while Elvira washed her hands.

“We must go,” Yuna declared, only for Clary to shake her head vehemently.

“I—I don’t think I can go…” Clary whispered, her gaze stuck on the vegetables in front.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to force yourself…” Elvira whispered while patting Clary’s back, “You don’t have to go.”

“B-but, Lira…” Clary sniffled, brows joined together and lips in an upside-down frown.

“Not everyone has to be brave, not at the cost of yourself,” Elvira smiled.

Yuna nodded as she hastened towards the door, “It’s alright Clary, we understand. Let’s go, Elvi.”

Elvira left one last reassuring pat on Clary’s back before jogging out of the kitchen. Clary stared at their backs before nodding to herself, “I’ll manage their chores here,” she said, flaring her nostrils. She wanted to go…she wanted to help Lira, but her body stiffened at the thought of being near to any of Helif’s parties.

The mere word shot her seven years back, when she was the newest collection in Helif’s basement. She remembered his leering gaze running over her body as he brandished her in front of a table full of grinning men and women.

A band of musicians played slow music behind her as she was forced to step on the table, clad in a short frilly dress and serve the nobility all night long. Glass after glass of burning liquids were poured down her throat until she was delirious enough to forget all sense. She did not know what happened to her as the lazy piano keys turned into chirping of the morning birds.

All she remembered was waking up on the table, unclothed and hurting all over.

Clary clenched her teeth as she went back to washing the vegetables, praying in her heart that Lira would not have to face the same fate as Yuna and her.

In the hallway, Elvira said, “I will go outside, you should alert the head butler.”

“The head butler? Even the laundry maid could care less when it comes to people like us,” Yuna scoffed.

Elvira could only grit her teeth in agreement.

“I’ll distract them, you search for Lira and run, yeah?” Elvira proposed.

Yuna sighed as she nodded. Ever since Elvira had arrived, five years ago, she had been taking the falls for Clary and Yuna. Every time the Count would want to corner Clary or Yuna, Elvira would jump in, get hit or be horribly degraded as distraction.

A while ago, Yuna had confronted Elvira about it, only to receive the reply, “I don’t mind, I have nothing to lose anyway.”

When she saw Elvira running out of the glass doors, leading to the Garden and Gazebo, without looking left or right to care for what’s coming – Yuna could only clench her teeth.

Elvira wasn’t brave, she realised, Elvira just did not consider herself as a person worth consideration.

Her hasty steps over the grass were a stark comparison to Yuna’s careful ones. She ran boldly, shoulders squared and head held high while Yuna crouched behind tall grass, shoulders curled and keen eyes stalking the shadows of the night.

 Elvira scowled as spotted Lira standing beside a grinning Count Amaria. He had his hand over the small of Lira’s back, fingers gently caressing her squirming waist. He was about to introduce Lira to the party in the Gazebo, when Elvira jumped in.

“Milord! You haven’t introduced me to your friends!” she grinned and lodged herself under Count Amaria’s arm, elbowing Lira out of her way, “Why are you wasting your time on new scum when you can have all of experienced me?” she giggled, fanning her face.

“Ugh, this girl!” Count Amaria scowled as he pushed her out of his arms, “Don’t you know your place?!”

“I do, master,” Elvira grinned and dropped to his feet. “Won’t you keep me for your friends, master?” she faked a mewl, fluttering her eyes at the grinning crowd. Thankfully, she had chosen to wear a high-collared, full sleeved servant outfit with her uniform stockings and shoes.

“No—get away, you’re hideous,” Count Amaria bellowed and tip-toed to look for Lira. “Where’s the pretty one gone?”

Unbeknownst to him, Yuna had carried Lira inside.

“Why look for the pretty one? She’ll cry and whine, be reluctant all night long,” Elvira jumped up to stand in the Count’s face. “I’m better,” she winked and walked up to a guest, “I can be very entertaining,” she whispered as she ran a hand over the guest’s chest, nearing his abdomen, she said, “You can test me.”

“I like this one!”

“Yeah, she seems fun!”

“Forcing isn’t enjoyable. She’s so willing, she’d do it all sober.”

Elvira winked at the guest who praised her.

Count Amaria sighed as he took a seat at the head of the table, “You folks do not understand,” he pressed his lips in a line, “She’s hideous all over.”

Elvira merely blinked flirtatiously.

“It’s okay, I like her face. She could do it all clothed, wouldn’t you, slave?”

Elvira fluttered her eyes and acted coy, “Why not? My bite grooves will only stimulate you.”

“Bite marks!” a guest exclaimed, leaning onto the table, he urged, “Show us.”

“They’re…” Elvira giggled, “They’re quite harsh.”

The crowd roared into laughter while Count Amaria rolled his eyes.

“Kinky lass.”

“How harsh?”

“Show me all of your marks, slave.”

Elvira obliged as she slowly rolled her sleeves. The slow piano and saxophone took over the silence as a dozen of depraved gazes waited for her to expose herself.

As soon as both her sleeves were above her elbows, Elvira raised her hands for all to see.

Instantly, the men began coughing, whispering and evading gazes.

“They’re not bad, just Kindler bites. You know them? Creatures of the dark! Their bite spreads their cause but somehow, I survived!” Elvira grinned.

The piano and the saxophone escalated into a giddy pace as people began shuffling backwards.

“Don’t back away, my saliva only hurts on a full moon,” she bluffed.

Instantly, everyone’s heads flipped to look at the two moons in the sky. One of them was a full moon and the other a crescent.

“G-um, just serve us drinks. Be—”

“Better yet, leave us be. We had something important to discuss tonight, did we not, Count Amaria?”

“Indeed, we did,” the Count sighed as he glared at the back of Elvira’s head, “The Northern Plains have been subjuga—why are you still here? Leave.”

“Yes, Milord!” Elvira exclaimed, a little too happily. She was about to run away when a cold voice halted her.

“Hold up, I can still entertain you all with her. Since she interrupted us, she has to pay a price.”

Elvira gulped, clenching her jaw, she turned back to face Count Amaria. His dark eyes caught a glint of the lanterns and gleamed deviously.

For as long as his soiree lasted, Elvira’s screams were the supporting vocals to their background music. Right outside the gazebo, Count Amaria had Elvira kneeled over the prickly grass while one of the guards lashed her back.

Guests drank, shouted, sang and were eventually taken away by their servants. Count Amaria too was taken inside, before his drunk mumbling could ruin public relations or reveal national secrets. All the while, Elvira laid on the damp grass, pricking and soothing her gashed back. The lasting notes of the music were heavy companionship along with the stars and the two moons.

The universe was so silent…or maybe it was screaming, like her, and nobody was paying attention.

The next day, the sun would rise and everything would stay the same. Her smiling face, the sparkling pond, the jumping fishes, the breezy garden, they would all stay the same.

“Some days…I’m grateful my scars exist.” Elvira informed the sky. A smile graced her face which eventually turned into a grin as she spotted her birth star twinkling. “Ah…Mirai, you cheeky traitor.”

“Elvi? Is that you?”

Elvira sat up and winced at the suddenness of her own actions. She groaned before replying, “Ye-ah, I’m here, Clary, it’s all clear.”

The girl jumped out of distant bushes, her blonde head glowing under moonlight. She ran up to Elvira’s side with a box of medicines in her hand.

“Was I that loud?” Elvira grimaced.

Clary rolled her eyes as she kneeled beside her friend, “I’m sure the entire empire heard it.”

Elvira seethed as Clary unzipped her dress and pulled the fabric off her body.

“Do you have any sense of self-preservation?” Clary scoffed sternly.

“My apologies, your highness, I shall do better next time,” Elvira joked.

“Wrong answer!” Clary exclaimed at the bloody sight of Elvira’s back, “There should be no next time!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

Clary applied ointment over Elvira’s scarred back, cringing and wincing every time Elvira did.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked, apologetically.

“Surprisingly, not so much,” Elvira grinned.

 

Because, a continent away, a blue-eyed boy writhed in pain.

“Is it hurting still?” the boy beside him asked.

The boy in bed shot up and scowled, his face shadowed by the darkness of the room, “It freaking feels like I was lashed!”