“So…” Bròn began as he materialized from beneath the shadow of an end table in my office. “Who was she?”


    “Who was who?” I asked, raising my head from the book I’d been reading. A long and mind-numbing biography on Shahin’s father. I was trying to find even the smallest piece of information that could give me leeway in the upcoming meeting I was anticipating.


    “The Lass ya saw at that villa. A real looker.” He replied, sauntering to a seat beside me.


    I put the book down, adjusting myself in the armchair I sat in. Bròn always seemed to watch me with the same fascination one would have when observing a wild animal on display. Pure entertainment lined his expression as he sat in the chair beside mine, the afternoon’s light illuminating his red eyes. Carnelian and true Scarlet. In truth, the memory of the night I’d spent with Jamila made me want to throw up my lunch.


    “A pain in my ass.” I answered, eliciting a laugh from Bròn.


    “How was she?” He asked. “In bed.”


    I almost choked, the immortal was so brazen. The question was like a jab in the gut—totally unnecessary, but his eyes told me he wasn’t requesting an answer. He was demanding one.


    “She…knew what she was doing.” I said hesitantly, loosing a breath after the words left my mouth. Jamila was rabid when she brought me to her room that day. Like I’d released a wild beast that sat within her, frothing at the maw.


    “‘Er body was probably a sight for sore eyes. Not that there was much left to see in ‘at dress.” He jested. I recoiled at the statement.


    “God, Bròn…” I muttered. “You’re disgusting.”


    “You’re the one who snogged ‘er!” He argued, eyebrows raising as his teeth flashed a smile.


    “I did it because I had to.” I explained, leaning into the back of the chair.


    There was no way out of it. If I wanted to ensure all my loose ends were tied, I had to appease Jamila for her to appease me. It was the first time I’d ever slept with a woman for a reason outside of my own desire, and I felt disgusting for it. On a positive note, my body wasn’t in agreement with my mind during the act—which played to my favor. I suppose her physical allure outshone the pure hatred I had for the woman I intwined with.


    “Ya did something that ya can’t undo now, Lad. But I got another question for ya.” He broke me from my train of thought.


    I hummed in response before he spoke again, my knee falling into a rhythmic bounce.


    “Who’s it gonna be?” He smiled.


    I didn’t have to think twice about the answer: it was Hala, hands down, if she even accepted me after sleeping with the one woman responsible for tarnishing her reputation so early on. I looked at him, and he nodded in understanding.


    “I spent me fair share of time amongst you lot. Fickle, yer emotions are.” He stated. “Spent thirty years roamin’ the brothels, sleeping with all kinds’a women until I met my Bonnie.”


    I tweaked an eyebrow.


    “‘Er name was Kili. A woman from Zarvan—a seamstress.” He began. “She’s the one who made me the robe I got on, now.”


    I eyed the robe, dark as night with silver embroidery along its panels. A piece of art from a different time period, meticulously tailored to fit each peak and valley of his body. It was clear that whoever made the garment was more skilled than even our own seamstresses, as I studied the lapel’s accents from afar: red, the exact same shades as his eyes. Gold chains formed bullion knots at the cuffs, not a fray or imperfection on the garment as a whole. Skill wasn’t at play with his robe’s creation—it was devotion. It had been crafted by someone entirely devoted to the immortal.


    “By Gods was she beautiful…quiet, easy going, never one to argue. Very different from the woman yer heart’s set on.” Bròn continued with a hint of whimsy. “Always wore such fine robes—ones she made, herself.”


    I saw his eyes glimmer with sadness, recalling the last human to cherish him as a lover. My heart ached for the entity, incapable of imagining the pain that must come with immortality. The friends, lovers, and acquaintances lost; while still being forced to endure the sands of time.


    “That was the last time me heart worked.” He said, his voice thick with emotion.


    “What happened to her?” I dared ask.


    “Old age, just like the rest of ‘em.” He said shortly. “I sat with ‘er ‘til the end. Watched her draw ’er last breath. I stopped goin’ for humans after that.”


    I scratched my nose as I broke eye contact with him. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    “Do you think…” I managed to find the words buried deep within me. “Do you think she’ll ever return my feelings?”


    Bròn flashed a smile, his demeanor shifting back to one of deviance. The way his teeth glimmered in the light made him look all the more haunting—all the more like a predator.


    “She seemed pretty glamoured by ya up on ‘at roof, Lad.”


    “But am I worthy?” I asked as a follow-up. “Am I truly worthy of her heart?”


    “Some things, even The Powers That Be ain’t entirely sure of yet.” Bròn answered. “It’s all in how ya make yer decisions.”


    I sighed, feeling my chest grow hollow. I’d still struggled with coming to terms with the fact that I wasn’t seen as a peasant anymore—even after Jamila retracted the things she’d said during our teenage years; recalling how she begged for forgiveness with each thrust I pushed into her.


    “I never meant those things, Abyad.” She said breathily, our bodies meshed against each other under her bedsheets. “This. This is what I wanted.”


    I shook my head, clearing my mind of the memory—the pure lust and yearning in her voice; the way her sighs sounded like a melody that beguiled me. She was so lucky to have been so beautiful, else I never would have reached a climax.


    “Ya know,” Bròn said, interrupting my thoughts once more. “There’s always the option of a harem.”


    My eyes snapped to his with a fury, and he let out a low chuckle.


    “I know, I know; yer people don’t take kindly to courtesans. Just a thought.” He winked.


    I picked up my book and began reading again, shooting him a vengeful glance every so often as he watched me with amusement. We had been talking for so long that I’d almost forgotten the contents of the book I was forcing myself to sift through. Nothing but words of praise for the Markovni family filled the spine of that biography, wishing blessings upon them as if they were a family of Gods.


    “Careful, Lad. Ya don’t wanna go sparrin’ with a Cursed One as a mortal.” He said after a particular glare.


    I grumbled, slamming the book shut and shucking it onto the table between the chairs. The pressure within me was immense, making me stand from my seat and pace like a caged animal. Bròn watched me with a glint in his eye, leaning into the chair’s back as if I were some sort of act brought to him for his own enjoyment.


    “Take ‘er up on that roof again. I won’t peek ‘is time, I promise.” He winked.


    Everything in me wanted to lunge for that smug bastard. If he wasn’t immortal, and capable of things left undocumented, I’d have done it. I swallowed the violence that stirred within me, shaking my head as I walked towards the door. Namir was waiting for me by now, and I didn’t plan on making him wait. He had been more on edge than usual, his temper on a hair’s trigger. I understood, though, considering the vitriol Hala had spewed at him last month. The two were on horrible terms, and it was all one-sided hate. The King valued his daughter as much as he valued his own wife—more than he valued all else in the Kingdom. He hated the tension between them, often confiding in me that he hoped that one day Hala would find it in her heart to forgive him. I never doubted that she would.


    I made my way down the steps, towards the ground floor. It was a particularly warm day. My shoes clicked against the marble flooring, drawing the attention of different servants. I smiled at them, which they returned in kind. I had memorized these faces by now—the servants in the Grand Building were a lucrative crew. Trusted more than any others, these maidens and eunuchs were probably the longest standing servants in all of Mahsul. Many of them were women who’d raised me, and men who watched as I walked through the halls rubbing sore spots after training. They knew who I was, just as I knew who they were. It wasn’t often that a new face made it to this building.


    I cleared my throat as I stood before the Throne Room’s door, its birch wood’s patterns something I could paint with my eyes shut. With an internal sigh, I pushed the doors open. Namir sat atop the throne, looking far more amused than usual. In his hand, he held a single piece of paper. He and Asad would lock eyes occasionally, leading Namir to chuckle as he looked at his brother. Asad returned each glance with a half-hearted smile, and I wondered if Namir had fully lost his sanity as I approached the dais.


    “Abyad!” He said jovially. “He’ll be here in six months.” The smile the King wore was alarming, his under eyes heavily shadowed from lack of sleep. I’m sure mine had a similar appearance, but the way his near-black hair jutted out from his scalp made it all the more apparent that the man hadn’t been faring well.


    “He sent this letter and left not long after its disembark from Otlak. Get a look at it!” He gleamed as he offered the papyrus out to me.


    I squared my shoulders, ascending the dais for myself and taking the letter. I read it skeptically, my eyebrows furrowing the more I read it.


    Al’Namir,


    It is with a heavy heart that I understand your woe. Al’Hala was the love of my life, the reason behind my eyes opening each morning. Her presence livened up the palace in a way that could never be recreated, and when her health took a turn for the worse I prayed to the Gods every night for her recovery. She spent many days beside me as I played piano, or painted; discussing her love for her people and enjoyment in knowing that Mahsul was still safe. She was so happy by my side, in fact, that she never found herself asking to return—begging me to let her pass peacefully at our palace here in Otlak. Since the day we wedded, we never spent more than a night apart. I will be sure to aid your Kingdom to our greatest ability in order to rectify my wrongdoings, offering my best quality efforts to repair our relationship. Your daughter’s life will not go without memory, for each day I tell our subjects how pained I am by her passing. Her love of life and passionate eyes will forever hold a place in my heart, lighting the way to peace for us all.


    I will be headed to Mahsul by late fall. Expect my presence by the time your squash plants begin bearing fruit. With me, I will have our best mediators in order to come to a just agreement in handling this matter. Please accept the last necklace she wore as a reminder of her elegance and beauty.


    Best Wishes, Deepest Condolences,


    Shahin Markovni


    What I read wasn’t a comical message. It was a mockery of Hala’s time in Otlak. The love of his life? Praying to the Gods for her recovery? I sneered at the words written so carefully on the paper, my eyes meeting Namir’s once more. The fire inside of them was dim, but still ablaze—erratic.


    “What’s so funny about this?” I asked.


    Namir held up a golden necklace with irises painted onto the gold, chuckling as the light reflected off of the intricate design of the piece. My hand reached out, and took the necklace. I studied its quality, noticing how its varnish was almost pristine. It seemed entirely unworn, like it had been freshly crafted. I looked at Namir, still confused by his entertainment in the necklace and letter.


    “Don’t you remember, Abyad? Hala threw a hissy fit over the maidens recommending irises to her when she walked down the aisle!” He exclaimed, smiling softly at the memory of his daughter’s outburst.


    I nodded, offering a small smile in return to the King’s question. I supposed Namir found the necklace entertaining because he wasn’t able to connect with his daughter yet, considering their current relationship. He was still hung up on the version of his daughter that loved him fiercely, and acted as his mirror. Bròn crept out from a column’s shadow, eyeing the King with both concern and fascination. I put the necklace in my pocket, and handed the letter back to Namir. He and his brother chatted about how ridiculous the letter was, as Bròn reached his hand out to read it for himself. As I turned on his heels to investigate the necklace’s origins further, I could hear Namir recalling the story of the irises to Bròn through breathy laughter. Entrusting the immortal with the King’s sanity, I turned the lever to the door and pushed it open. Back into the halls, I went.