He pulled his arms into the sleeves of his blue tailcoat and fixed the golden cufflinks above his wrists. The shutters of the high tower window pushed open so that he could lean out upon it. Over the green pasture, he saw grazing in the fields of the horses and cattle. He looked South to see the empty grove but, as he turned, he found that the sanctuary could not be seen - even so far above the world. It was as if, beneath the trees, they hid themselves from his gaze. He pursed his lips and rolled his mother’s ring in his palm with the tip of his thumb.

“Tall fucking tales. Always listening? What a load of shit.” He paused. “Corpses can’t listen from the grave.”

He tightened the ring in his fingers and raised his arm and pulled it back. Before he sent the ring spiralling to the trees and soil below, he dropped his hand and stared at it for a while. Orpheus put the ring in his coat pocket and set his back to the wall.

“Fuck.”

From beyond the door, he could hear the rattlings of plate armour and the coordinated footsteps trailing behind them. As his door was thrown wide he stood up and turned to face it. He watched the duchess, Eris Dagon, move from the doorway before the line of her armoured guards. On her cornsilk face, the long strands of chestnut hair fell beside her cheek, twirling in the oil that lathered them. They served to frame her leering expression.

“What have you done? You dog. You convince my daughter to defect from her duties? I will have you put down,” she said. The black dress moved at her sides.

He folded his arms along the sill of the window and stared out of it.

“You ignore me? You have beaten the heir to the throne, you have rejected the principles of your people, and you have disrespected the Dagon and Blackwell family name. And now my daughter conspires against us hand, and foot, with a prisoner? What have you done?” She stepped forward.

“Piss off. I’ve done nothing worth your whining and shitting,” replied Orpheus. As he stood the guards began to unsheathe their swords and as Eris raised her hand to settle them she drew back after a moment and regarded him as she left.

“Keep your clowns on their fucking leashes unless they’d like to drink their mead from their fried opened asses come dinner.”

“Childish threats,” she said, “This will not be the end of your punishment, Orpheus Blackwell. Within what is allowed of my power, for as long as you walk the world, you will pay,” she said.

Orpheus rolled his eyes and held his head in his hand. “You’re only a dolled-up mouthpiece for a fucking tyrant and his daughter.”

—

Granite tiling lay perfectly symmetrical below his feet, cross-patterned out to each of the grand mosaic windows at either side of him. Towering pillars broke the pattern with their flat white hue that reflected much of the light from the mosaics above, each one surrounded by black-armoured guards. Red, orange and yellow seeped through the stained panes above and imprinted the Blackwell insignia across the tiles: a gate wrapped in barbed chains. A wilting rose caged behind it.

Orpheus stood at the centre of the imprint, the colours clashing with the blue and gold of his newly fitted robes. With hair tied back, he looked up to a throne of solid black. Gold and white engravings weaved their way up each face of the black stone like roots or vines. Boots set, arms to rest, back straight. Upon the throne sat his father, Urien, and beside him the duchess, Eris.

She glared down at him with her chin raised, grinding her teeth together in repulsion. Her eyes shortly moved to a man that approached from the side. Draping black silk trailed from his robes as it slid along the faces of the tiles. He had no less meat to his bones than a skeleton, peering through sunken eyes and speaking from a mouth that pulled loose skin from his cheeks. He was the duke’s councillor and court mage, Utarum.

“Orpheus Blackwell, first son of the Blackwell house, you stand here before the Duke of Daeson, His Grace, Urien Blackwell. Before we begin on the subject of your crimes, you are permitted to show your respects,” Utarum announced to the nearly empty throne room, his hands clasped underneath his low-hanging robes.

“Father,” Orpheus uttered in monotone, his posture unmoving.

The councillor’s eye twitched to the sound of steel being drawn. The guards bore their arms.

“You dare?” Utarum’s hands moved from their sleeves as he puffed his chest.

The bone protruding man soon raised a hand, as if to cast a spell, but Urien raised his own and waved him off. He was unamused but cared little for his theatrics.

“Proceed.”

Utaram returned his hands between his sleeves and loosened his posture but a scowl remained beneath the wrinkles of his forehead.

“You’ve committed treason of the highest offense: the attempted murder of the heiress apparent, Her Highness, Clio Lilura Dagon-Blackwell. What say you, in your defence?” Utarum asked.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Heir,” Orpheus echoed, his hand raising to his brow to massage his face. He grumbled in disbelief, before thrusting his hand to the side and snarling. “The heiress apparent?! That thing is not even-”

The breath from his lungs had suddenly expelled, collapsing upon each other and leaving his chest empty for air. He clutched his coat and vest, trying desperately to pull away the tightness that befell him. Orpheus fell to his knees. Spit dribbled from his lips as he gasped for air, his face plastered with a hot red and eyes beginning to bulge. Black mist began to escape from his mouth, curling around his teeth and writhing like it was alive.

“Lost for words?” Eris asked with a grin.

He coughed and heaved, struggling until the mist finally dispersed. He held his head to his forearm, using it to keep himself from falling flat to the floor. When he’d finally caught his breath, he raised his head.

“This family and its cursed secrets,” Orpheus said as he rose to a knee, “You’ll all-”

“We’ll all what, Orpheus Blackwell? You are powerless before the court. You are naught but the last dying breath of the Red Duchess,” Eris replied.

“Fuck your court with a bloody handbag. Where’s the power in the hands of bloody snakes and lizards?”

“The court is the most gifted it has ever been, Orpheus Blackwell. From the greatest minds of Daeson, we have gathered. And your very own sister, my esteemed daughter, will command our forces as far as Zidenia. The power, Orpheus Blackwell, is not in the ruthless use of magic, no, but, child, diplomacy. Without it, you have never been fit to rule.”

“I don’t care for your esteem or your political ambitions,” he said. He pursed his lips and spat on the granite floor. “If I could rip the stone from the earth. If I could cast mountains to sea–what then, is your diplomacy?” Orpheus turned his finger to her and clenched his fist as it rose. “I’d sooner wipe the Dagon from the world with a stroke of my hand.”

There was a brief silence. Then she spoke.

“Very well,” said Eris, “You are welcomed to try.”

“That is quite enough,” the Duke said. His eyes turned forward, past Orpheus and to the shadows of the entrance. Doors, made of hulking stone, stood ajar; light bled through to reveal only a glimpse of the world outside. “Send in the barbarian.”

A guard shuffled at the entrance, gripping the door's edge and exhaustingly pulling them apart. The door shook. Small fractures of the stone split as a sudden force struck it - sending the door screeching across the tiles that sat under it.

A clattering of arms preceded the silhouette that emerged from the light, the elephantine sword at her back swaying with each step; a red ribbon sailed from its pommel. The fur lining beneath her armour formed the outline of a wild beast as the glower upon her face soon revealed itself to match.

“Daughter,” Eris said as Kezaiah entered the light beneath the Mozaic panes, halting a step in front of Orpheus. Her hands crossed as her head fell back in nonchalance.

“Duchess,” Kezaiah replied.

“Dame Kezaiah!” the counsellor stepped forward in outrage, “You stand in the presence of-”

Kezaiah’s gaze drifted over to him. She spoke no words to him, and yet silence became him. He quivered a moment, prone to the bloodlust that oozed from her.

“Were you born to the same litter, I wouldn’t question it,” Urien remarked before turning to Orpheus. “The Dame will escort you South, to the Duchy of Praerus, where you shall reside - indefinitely. Furthermore, you shall not be permitted to return to the territories of Daeson, whether it be land, sea or air. You are to spend your days, frankly, doing whatever it is you do these days, within the Tower of Storms.”

“What rubbish. Banish me? To some infantile boarding school?” Orpheus vocalized his disbelief but his father’s attention had already shifted to the barbarian.

“You are to return upon his admittance, and you are to return post haste. Am I understood?”

Kezaiah did not reply.

“Am. I. Understood?” he said again.

“I’m good,” she replied, shaking her head lightly. “Think I’ll stay there a while.”

“Excuse me? You have a duty to this family, daughter,” Eris’s face had gone flush, rampant with embarrassment. She took a step forward and pointed to her. “You are, first and foremost, a Dagon!”

Kezaiah conjured every drop of saliva and gunk from her nasal and heaped it into her mouth. She spat upon the insignia imprinted on the floor, then peeled the same insignia from her chest plate - bending the pins that kept it there. It clattered against the granite.

“Guess not.”

Urien shot to his feet, clenching fists at his side. The muscles across his face tensed as the duchess called for Utarum. His malnourished fingers summoned a ball of fire to hover in his palms, illuminating his face above its orange heat. He stood there poised to light the two ablaze. Meanwhile, the guards had once again drawn their weapons, rushing forth from their posts to form a blockade behind them.

“Do you understand what it is you’ve done, barbarian?” Urien asked.

Kezaiah’s hand extended over her shoulder. Leather gloves clutched the hilt of the giant sword that hung from its buckle, pulling it loose and up into the air. Then it fell. Thrusting it downward, she plunged the sword into the granite as if parting the stuffing of a pillow. The weight of the blade shattered the tiles beneath it, opening a crack that zig-zagged up the stairs to the duke’s feet. Static crackled and sparked from her sword with the electricity streaming from her hands.

“Do you?”

A silence befell the court, leaving even Urien hesitant to ignite the battle. Kezaiah glanced around for a second, then looked back to the Duke. Pulling her blade from the small cavern it had made, she turned and dragged it along the cracks in the floors - letting its screech echo through the chamber.

“We’ll be leaving then,” she announced from over her shoulder, brushing the guards aside and making for the exit.

Orpheus waited a moment longer, looking at his father as he stood there, unable to take a step. He watched as Urien returned his gaze downward to him, though no words left his father’s mouth. So he turned and left after Kezaiah, not once looking back to the broken throne or the duke who’d claimed it.