“Now I think you would make a rather fine tyrant.”
The words hang heavy in the air, and Asterius tries to force his brain to understand what exactly that is supposed to mean, before the High Seraphim continues, seemingly more than happy to explain, “Until Maria chooses her husband, her husband of my choice,” he specifics, and Asterius has the sudden damming revelation that even the protagonist is nothing but a puppet to this man, “You shall rule the heavens in fear. And don’t worry about Messis- I was planning on removing her shortly anyway.”
All that Asterius can say is a strangled, “What?”
Sanctus chuckles, seeming amused at Asterius’s mounting fear and confusion. The hand on his jaw moves up, twirling a loose piece of Asterius’s hair, “It will be a glorious year don’t you think? A true taste of power, maybe we can even play a bit of pretend I’ll let you dress like the Royal Sun, you do look so nice in gold.”
It is a compliment, but it doesn’t feel like one, it is said in the right tone and carries the right words to be flattering but all it feels is disgusting. Sanctus speaks of him not as a person, much less a god, nothing but a pretty doll, a puppet in his play.
“Sadly, though you will need to be punished for your tyranny. A little trip to the Flame Prison. Do you think your demon will be happy to return? He was practically born there after all. I’m sure it will be a sweet reunion.”
Asterius wishes he could still see Cadeyrn, if only for the reassurance that the demon was still alive, it feels like his world has collapsed and it's just him and Sanctus. His fear must be obvious because Sanctus tisks, hand slipping down to lightly enclose around his throat. Asterius tries very hard to not think about how easy it would be for the High Seraphim to just squeeze. To kill him here and now in such a personal and violent way.
“Don’t worry though, I’ll clear your name. We can’t have fate go answered too long,” and he hums as if pondering something as inconsequential as the shape of a wayward cloud, “maybe just a month or two. And if you are especially good, I’ll let that demon out after a few dozen years.”
At his confusion Sanctus laughs, even in this horrifying moment, it’s a laugh like tolling bells, deep and beautiful, “Of course any crime you commit will be one your followers are complicit in,” he explains almost joyously, “ahh I suppose that would mean you will be in need of a new seraphim anyway. You can show me your newfound skills after your little performance then.”
‘System,’ he begs, forcing his breaths to stay even and measured, ‘System is this-‘
[Story will progress as normal.] It announces, little window popping up in between him and Sanctus, causing the image of the seraphim to twist and blur with a green tint. [All deviations currently in effect will not impact the ending. Despite the High Seraphim’s words, this is still Maria’s story. Asterius will be stripped of his godhood, and upon completion of the novel, Host will return to Host’s world.]
The reassurance works, and he finds his next breath coming a little easier. This was “Bride of the God Emperor.” Asterius knows how this story ends, which means he doesn’t have to worry. Sanctus might think he’ll be able to do those things, but not so long as this was Maria’s story.
“Oh?” the High Seraphim questions, forcing Asterius to bend back slightly as Sanctus leans in, “I don’t think I like the look in your eyes little Starling.”
Before Asterius can say anything, Sanctus removes his overheated hands and Asterius drops to the floor in an undignified heap, his legs having given out underneath him. His vision blurs, from the sudden vertigo and the still unshed tears. There’s a gentle clattering of metal as a few of his hair ornaments go scattering across the floor. The angels trapped inside free themselves with a shrill chime, darting over to tightly circle his head. But they make no other sound, unnaturally quiet as they cling to him, burrowing into his hair.
Looming above him, Sanctus carefully scans Asterius’s face. The heat is back, forcing itself into his blood, causing his head to buzz and static, a voice in the back of his brain telling him to obey and bow. Asterius holds his ground, never breaking eye contact with Sanctus.
The angel’s smile grows even crueler, a joy alighting among the rage. “There’s still the issue of your punishment of course.”
Asterius swallows down his fear, “If the High Seraphim thinks-,”
“Quiet.” And his tone is sharp and weighted. Suffocating silence pressing down on his tongue. It feels like the order is branded into his skin, a shackle around his throat, where he can still feel the ghost warmth of Sanctus’s hold on him.
“Maybe I’ll go get that muse you are so fond of,” and Asterius feels his heart drop, dread filling the weightless floaty confusion of the order still echoing in his head, “and of course I’ll invite your dear little brothers too, we can even bring Ilona as well. It will be such a nice family gathering,” he coos like a grandmother arranging thanksgiving dinner, all soft and gentle and tone filled with a leaking disappointment and guilt.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“What story shall we tell them this time?” he asks all syrupy sweet, like a rotten caramel apple, “Shall I copy your father? Make all of them think you were the one to hurt them?” he asks soft and gentle, leaning down to loom over him.
“Surely you remember,” Sanctus taunts clearly seeing the confused horrified expression Asterius isn’t fast enough to hide, “It was right after you stepped out of bounds and tied that filth to your soul.” And he doesn’t give a name, but Asterius knows he means Cadeyrn. “Well, Starling? Shall we start right now?” and he leans back up, towering over him, wings stretching even further up, bending so they are pressing down on Asterius’s shoulders, “I think we should begin with your sweet little sister-,”
For a second Asterius forgets he’s Asterius, and he’s Willima again. A forgotten memory violently tugged free from his mind as he sees his real sister, Beth, crying and all alone-
“Please-!” and pushes through the weight of the order, the words burning his tongue as he forces them out. Clutching desperately onto the silks of High Seraphim’s pants to stop him from moving away and fulfilling that terrible promise. Asterius knows he’s begging but - ‘even Sanctus can’t really go this far can he?’ He doesn’t need to look at the window flickering to life next to him to the answer, ‘Yes, yes he can.’ “Please don’t Sanctus-“
He shuts up as Sanctus kicks his leg out, dislodging Asterius and sending him back to the floor. There’s a ringing in his ears, and he can’t tell if it's from his own head or the chimes of the angels still circled around him like a glittering veil. The warmth becomes oppressive and despite how Asterius tries he can’t force his muscles to work, completely helpless at the High Seraphim’s feet.
“You are a god,” Sanctus reminds, reaching down and pulling Asterius up by his hair. He lets the small squeak of pain slip free, and Sanctus almost seems more annoyed. The white-hot energy in his veins burning him from the inside out. “Do not beg Starling,” and it’s the first time Sanctus’s face has shifted to something like disgust as he looks at him, Asterius wishes he can say it didn’t fill him with guilt and self-hatred. “It is unbecoming of one of your status, and especially do not beg for useless pawns.”
“Speak,” Sanctus orders, tightening his grip on Asterius’s hair a fraction tighter. The chains around his throat falling away to be replaced with a burning itch, “what should you say now little Starling? Don’t tell me I even need to train you back into your manners?”
He doesn’t think he could say anything even if he wanted to. He can’t think, won’t think.
But he has to say something-
Asterius nods the best he can from how he’s grabbed, the words slipping out before he can stop them, “Yes sir.”
The images are too horrifying to even imagine. He knew, he knew things were bad but this-. ‘How- how could Sanctus even-,’ he forces the thoughts to end, feeling panic rising with his fear, twisting up his veins and weighing down his bones. The warm pressure on his mind almost becomes a physical weight, the heat coiling in his blood scalding. The panic crawls higher up his throat, somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he can feel his eyes start to water.
‘No,’ he thinks, desperately fighting to scrap together enough of himself to keep the conversation going. ‘I can’t break down right now,’ he thinks, forcing his body to obey through the syrupy feeling of false compliance. Panicking would do nothing but spur Sanctus on, possibly making him even crueler, Asterius can’t risk that happening.
“I’m sorry,” and it’s the only thing he can think to say. Asterius still doesn’t really know what’s going on, but he has to say something. He truly is sorry, sorry for putting Cadeyrn and Pluma through this, sorry that the original had to live through this pain for centuries, sorry that he’s willing to do whatever Sanctus orders if only so he doesn’t do even a single thing he just listed.
The High Seraphim huffs, cruel smile morphing into the familiar mocking kindness, hand gentling in his hair to softly card through the silver strands, tone fond and loving once more, “You have failed me little Starling, but I’ll let you have another chance to prove yourself.”
Relief floods him like a hurricane, unwelcome and violent, even if the relief is a good thing, the delivery is wrong. The tension bleeds out of his muscles without his consent, his own mind and body fighting him, making him play the part of the pitiful obedient god Sanctus wants him to be.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be an unfortunate accident, a tragedy really,” He says, keeping his tone soft and light, gentle and almost caring. Like a teacher helping a child through their homework, patient and supportive.
“It will quickly be concluded that foul play is at hand. You, my pitiful dear villain, will do your job, and you will take the blame for the crime. Don’t worry,” he soothes, the hand in his hair slipping down to his back and Asterius jolts as he is brought in for a hug. He tries to pull back, to fight the grip, but the heat turns molten again, forcing his hands to stay still, “I won’t let them punish you, you will be safe little Starling. I could never let anything happen to you.”
Thankfully he lets go, pulling back enough that he can scoop up Asterius’s limp hands, cradling them gently in his own, “but they will all know that you did it. That divine blood stains these soft breakable hands.”
His grip tightens a fraction, leaning in just a breath closer, so they are sharing the same air, “Do you understand?”
Asterius nods, forcing out a tiny, “Yes sir,” when Sanctus tightens his hold on him, demanding an audible answer.
“Good,” and Sanctus almost apologetically rubs over his wrists, soothing any lingering pain. One of his hands travels up to caress the spot where the strings were removed. He tenses waiting to fill the weave forced into life, but he just rubs at it, a quiet warning. “I’ll tend to this another day,” he promises, voice still filled with care that Asterius wishes didn’t feel genuine, “Get some rest for your big day tomorrow, Starling.”
He pulls back, and Asterius almost falls over, unaware that Sanctus had taken most of his weight during that exchange. The angel smiles at the fumble, eyes soft and enduring, “Be good,” he reminds leaning down to give Asterius one last pat on the head, “I’m afraid I have duties to fulfill now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Once again Asterius wishes that his words didn’t force his body to relax, the soft syrupy heat in his brain happy and content.
As he starts to walk away, he pauses, “Oh, and maybe you should keep your wayward pets on a tighter leash,” and Asterius feels the tension snap back into him, “would be such a shame if they ran into trouble without you again.”
And with a flutter of red-gold feathers and a burst of golden sunlight, Sanctus is gone.