The sunlight timidly fought its way through the morning mist, its tendrils curling lazily over the city’s water canals. Nita squinted, struggling to keep up with Nicholas, though the new clothes weighed her down with every step. Today was the first time he’d brought her along to the royal council, yet instead of feeling proud or excited to finally step out from the underworld, she felt like a clumsy child again. The dress Nicholas insisted she wear was heavy and impractical, its dark fabric hanging awkwardly on her thin frame, while the skirt twisted around her legs with every step.
A doll dressed up for a ball. A true lady, mocked Flaethrun, his voice hissing in her head.
Over the past months, she had grown used to his ceaseless presence and sarcastic hum. She no longer pushed him away, though at times it felt as if he wrestled for control. Occasionally, his thoughts pressed so forcefully that her head throbbed, as if unseen hands were squeezing her consciousness into the farthest corner. Then her vision would blur — light flickered before her eyes until darkness enveloped her. Only the cold or physical pain could bring her back.
"These clothes aren’t me," she muttered quietly.
Exactly, Flaethrun purred with a wave of satisfaction washing over her.
But Nicholas cast her a disapproving look, quickening his pace. Nita tightened her lips. She did everything she could to hide from Nicholas the fact that she heard Flaethrun in her head.
Other warlocks couldn’t hear their demons like this, and she wasn’t sure what Nicholas might do if he found out. The last thing she needed was to be locked away, some failed experiment under his watchful gaze. He guarded the full extent of his powers jealously, and though she understood Flaethrun’s manipulation of shadows and space was rare and powerful, she had no idea if it was a match for Nicholas’s own abilities.
They climbed up the slope leading toward the castle grounds, leaving behind the old wooden and stone houses for grander estates with sprawling gardens. The waking city buzzed softly, and Nita’s gaze flicked over people exchanging pleasantries as they passed. She recalled the first time she’d walked through Rovisk for the autumn equinox festival, absorbing every face and color with awe. Today, all she felt was a cold emptiness. By the time they reached the castle gates, the sun had burned off the mist, unveiling Rovisk gleaming in the morning light.
The castle courtyard was quiet and almost empty, flanked by two ancient yew trees, guarding the main entrance like silent sentinels. Nicholas, however, guided her toward a side wing, up the stone steps still damp with morning dew. A servant opened the door for them without a glance. As they crossed the threshold, Nicholas paused, inhaling deeply as if savoring the air itself, his gaze lingering over the aged tapestries on the walls, and he nodded to himself.
See him? Flaethrun chuckled in her mind. He truly believes this place belongs to him.
Finally, Nicholas glanced over at her, his face twisting with displeasure. She could tell he had a plan — why else would he bring her here today?
Maybe he just wanted you to get some fresh air. Or maybe-
Enough! she cut him off before he could drag her into his verbal games.
"Don’t speak unless you’re addressed," Nicholas commanded coldly. "And believe me, no one here cares who you are unless I say so."
She nodded in silence, following him to the tall, ornate doors of the council chamber.
And who are you, Nita? Flaethrun began to whisper in her mind, each word pronounced with exaggerated theatrics. Answer me — are you a warlock, an ordinary girl, a madwoman?
Her only response was to tighten her lips.
Nicholas entered the hall with a stride full of natural authority. Nita hesitated, her eyes drifting across the enormous chamber. A massive, dark-wood table dominated the center, matching the paneling that lined the walls. Heavy iron chandeliers with wax candles hung from the ceiling, now unlit. Bright morning light streamed through large windows, glinting off the jewels adorning every neck and finger in the room.
Everyone’s but yours, Flaethrun’s voice teased again.
Nita looked around in wonder as nobles, dressed in vibrant hues of fine fabric, gathered in hushed groups. Muted voices and occasional laughter filled the space, yet no one seemed to notice her, as if she were invisible — just as Nicholas had predicted. Yet she felt as though every eye was on her. Her new dress, despite being finely made, couldn’t compare to the resplendent gowns of the other ladies.Her hands began to sweat, and the stiff collar of her dress chafed against her neck. As she moved further into the room, the glances were swift, nearly imperceptible smirks flashing across polished faces before turning away. She stood tensely beside Nicholas, who seemed seamlessly at home among the crowd. Yet she noticed how they looked at him — not with respect, but with contempt thinly veiled behind formal courtesies.
Look at them, Flaethrun’s voice echoed with a dark amusement that simmered like poison within her. They’re brittle as wax dolls, yet they think they’re better than you.
Nita bit her lip but didn’t respond. She felt as if her skin was too tight, and the pressure in her chest intensifying with every gaze that passed over her as though unseen ropes constricted around her.
You could crush them. All of them. Right now-
A loud click and creak interrupted Flaethrun’s thought. At the opposite end of the chamber, the nobles parted to make way for a very old man. His frail form was like a bent tree on the verge of collapse. Two attendants carefully supported him, waiting patiently for each of his shaky steps. His face, a pale mask of wrinkles, seemed scarcely alive.
The nobles bowed respectfully, and Nita watched them in bewilderment. Why do they bow to this frail creature?
Stolen novel; please report.
Because he’s the king, Flaethrun’s sneering whisper answered in her head.
She glanced at Nicholas, catching the restrained hatred in his eyes, though he too inclined his head - just slightly. She mirrored him with a cold nod, devoid of respect.
The nobles took their seats at the table, beginning their council. Nita stood beside Nicholas, who maintained his usual air of calm superiority, though she could feel the tension radiating from him. His gaze drilled into each noble at the table. They clearly didn’t want him here - and he was very aware of it.
The meeting dragged on, insufferably dull. They discussed everything from the latest budgets for military supplies to troubling reports of a plague spreading in the border villages near the lands of the Elders. The council debated whether to burn infected villages to prevent the disease from reaching the court. Words of feigned concern for the common folk mingled with cynical suggestions that such a disaster might free land for new settlers — mainly war refugees, of whom Rovisk had more than enough.
Occasionally, it seemed the old king had fallen asleep; his head dipped, and his eyelids drooped. Yet whenever anyone spoke too boldly, his eyes sharpening momentarily with an poisonous stare.
Eventually, she lost track of the conversation, the words around her fading into background noise as her gaze lazily moved from one noble to another. Flaethrun muttered nasty comments about each noble, occasionally suggesting she simply kill them all to relieve her boredom. She had to stretch her back more and more frequently, her legs burning from standing so long. Just then, her eyes met those of a young man sitting near the king. His sharp features and slightly tanned skin stood out, vibrant against a sea of pale faces. Dark hair framed his face with exacting elegance. He was the epitome of human beauty and virtue — his eyes gleamed with intelligence and kindness, a gentleness that startled her. Her mind froze, caught in his gaze. It was direct, inquisitive, yet kind and somehow familiar. Then he smiled. Barely a hint, but just enough to confuse her and make her quickly look away. She felt her cheeks flushing, fingers instinctively smoothing her disheveled hair - untidy, unlike the elegant styles of the other women. She suddenly felt like a ragged ghost among them.
Not worth blushing over, Flaethrun sneered smugly. That’s the king’s grandson, Prince Irij.
How do you know? she snapped.
Unlike you, I listen, he replied dryly. Just look at how they turn to him — all the smiles, the lowered heads. The king won’t last long… and then, long live the new king. Flaethrun’s voice dripped with malice.
She risked a second glance at the prince, but he was already deep in conversation with a companion, paying her no mind.
Voices around the table rose. It seemed the meeting was ending — the nobles leaned back in their chairs, and some were already rising to leave.
"Oh, just a moment!"
One noble raised a hand, signaling the others to sit. "We almost forgot about Nicholas!"
Laughter rippled through the room, and the old king’s cloudy eyes settled on the warlock. Nita noticed the twitch at the corner of Nicholas’s mouth, and her stomach twisted. She knew that gesture well.
"Nicholas dares to join us again, and he brings… something he calls his hope."
This time, the nobles’ laughter was openly scornful, thick with amusement and disdain. All eyes turned to her, and Nita instinctively clutched her cloak closer.
Kill them! Flaethrun’s voice screamed in fury. Crush them for their scorn!
Her hands trembled, but before she could compose herself, Nicholas spoke, his voice as cold and sharp as ice. "Yes. Hope."
His words echoed through the hall, and the laughter abruptly ceased.
"Hope?" scoffed an elder noble, leaning towards with a smug smile. "Oh, Nicholas, you and your warlocks… are just relics of the past. Once you protected us, now you’re parasites, clinging to our kingdom with no use and no respect."
Nicholas’s lip curled in a contemptuous smile as he raised his head. "Did you say something about parasites, Lord La Chaut?" His voice was quiet, yet in the hall’s silence, it thundered. I assure you, these ‘parasites’ stay where they’re useful. In the catacombs, among books and demons that you and your degenerate kin remember as those that once kept you alive."
The nobles exchanged uneasy glances, their faces darkening. One younger noble closer to the king cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes. "If this… product of the catacombs" — he nodded dismissively at Nita — "is your idea of strength, Nicholas, let her prove it with a proper trial."
The others nodded in smug agreement, murmuring approvingly.
Nicholas’s smile was dangerous, like the edge of a blade. "And if she succeeds? What will the crown grant warlocks then?" His eyes remained fixed on the old king, as though he expected a response only from him. The nobles glanced at each other, some sneering while others remained silent without interest.
Nita suddenly understood why he had brought her. She was a little sacrificial animal, purposefully unrefined and neglected, made to appear pathetic and insignificant. Nicholas had intended this all along – she was his pawn, meant to be overlooked, until she proved herself and made him appear all the more powerful.
So that’s why he let you look like a stray dog, Flaethrun taunted. To make you an easy target for them to write off… His voice softened as though he’d moved closer, whispering his next words directly into her ear. But sometimes it’s useful to be underestimated.
Her throat tightened with anxiety as she absorbed the bitter realization. For a fleeting moment, she had dared to hope she was here as an apprentice. No — he’d brought her as an empty canvas for them to pour out their spite and disdain. And later, when they put her to the test and she succeeded, he would claim he had always believed in her success.
Pathetic plan, so typical of him, Flaethrun scoffed. He could have chosen a far subtler path. But no, he’d rather parade you as his puppet. Will you let him use you like this?
"What do you want?" the king’s voice rasped.
Nicholas’s eyes gleamed with triumph. "What rightfully belongs to warlocks — dominion over the Elders."
The king’s wrinkled mouth twisted into a sneer, as if Nicholas’s demand half amused and half offended him. "We shall see."
Then he turned his gaze on Nita. His eyes were dull and bloodshot, but something primal within her flinched and recoiled. "You will accompany the soldiers to the eastern front. Let your presence prove that you are worthy of your powers."
Although his creaky, aged voice lacked firmness, the moment he spoke to her, something stirred intensely within her. An invisible grip closed around her mind, agony splitting through her skull. With each throb of her heartbeat, the pain extended from her temples, reaching farther. Flaethrun writhed and twisted.
Don’t let him! Don’t let him control us!
His defiance weakened, crumbling under the king’s pressure. She wanted to resist, to run or scream, but her body betrayed her. The pain grew sharper, embedding itself in her consciousness like shards of glass. She gasped and shut her eyes.
Just then, she felt Nicholas’s hand on her shoulder, a firm grip that could only mean one thing — a command.
Her voice shook as she forced out a single word.
"Yes."
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