Chapter 1: The beginning of the end

꧁࿐DECREASH࿐꧂

Tiptoes... tiptoes... tiptoes... Run!

Lightning split the heavens, casting a fleeting glow across her face before the darkness swallows it whole.

Beyond the tall windows of the winding hallways, the storm raged, a relentless sound that rhymed with the frantic sound of two feet pounding against the floor.

Ryalyn raced the hallway, gliding through the darkness with the wild grace of something not wholly mortal.

Her pale blue nightgown flared behind her, striving in the air like a banner in the wind.

Every flash of lightning revealed fragments of her, a trembling hand, wind-tossed hair, and wide eyes haunted by fear, before the darkness claimed her once more.

Upon the stone wall her shadow raced beside her, thin and wavering, like a restless spirit struggling to keep pace with her physical form.

Just then, a scream ripped through the castle, scattering the night's silence like shattered glass.

“Queen Ryalyn, halt in the name of the king of Decreash!

The guard's command rang through the corridor as he went after her in fierce pursuit, yet at the sound of the voice, her steps only quickened.

"No…nooh.”

Her voice broke as she cried out to the man ahead; they were at the edge of their ruin; it was inevitable.

Behind her, the sound of pursuing guards echoed through the passage, their boots striking the floor with dreadful nearness.

The man ahead, a noble knight in bearing, grappled as his leg drove him through the long hallways.

Sir Trevor.

That was his name. A knight who had sworn his life to the Crown. He had always possessed the charm of enticing women's hearts almost as swiftly as his sword won battles.

Yet he had sinned against the throne. He had committed what would be called an abomination; he had lain with the queen.

For that forbidden lust, the crown now hunted him, demanding his life as payment for the grievous offense. His very breath was an insult to the king of Decreash.

Sir Trevor was far ahead of Ryalyn, half-dressed and disheveled, his form wavering in the corridor lit up with fire torches.

Unfortunately, he wasn't given time to dress properly after he was caught entangled with Ryalyn on her bed.

What's worse?

He had murdered a maid in cold blood after she had raised an alarm, just to cover up his sins.

They rounded another bend, plunging into a passage lined with iron sconces, their flames trembling as the wind howled through the castle.

Ryalyn's strength began to give way. Each breath came shorter than the last. Her onyx eyes widened with terror as the footsteps behind them crept ever closer.

The guards were almost upon her. She could all but feel their hands closing around her throat. Yet even as she fled for her life, her mind betrayed her.

It wandered to the hours she had desperately wished to forget. Sir Trevor's touch. The feeling of his hands on her thighs flared in her thoughts, the stolen kisses exchanged and his mouth pampering her body.

These were all she could see, even as she took flight, trying to run for her dear life.

A single night of forbidden passion...and now the entire kingdom was hunting them for it.

She ran blindly, driven purely by will to see another day, but it was all over in a heartbeat.

The guards caught hold of her, stopping her flight with a harsh grip on her wrist. They moved as a unit, quickly securing her until she was forced to her knees and held firmly on the ground.

Like a fallen angel cast from grace, her tear-stained eyes trailed off in the direction of Sir Trevor. Her heart sank when she saw the king's armored guards closing the distance.

With trembling despair, she looked away, and in that moment, she was bundled by two guards, her delicate skin bruised in the process.

At first she refused to yield, but regardless, they dragged her along on her knees, her head hanging down, hair over it, matted and damp with sweat, hiding the humiliation in her eyes.

Ryalyn, the third queen of Decreash, often called the queen of beauty, was hauled along the dazzling floor of the hallway to the throne room.

The chain pinned to her wrist rattled, the iron biting against her pale skin. Truly it was a shame that a queen of her caliber fell quickly from the ladder of glory.

The maids in service couldn't take their eyes off the scene; they pretended to be busy, but really, their eyes were glued to what was happening.

They even dared to ravage their gaze at her spitefully, the same maids who used to kiss her feet.

Dragged through the towering doors of the throne hall, she was cast before the highest seat of power in all the realm.

The throne of Ragaleon Von Clegane.

Her chest rose and fell violently, each breath a desperate struggle as she fought to draw air through her trembling lips.

Tears clung to her lashes, her nose reddened from the cold and fear that had seized her. Her crystal-blue eyes remained fixed upon the floor, refusing to meet the gaze of a man so feared that even his name sounded like an incantation.

But such defiance was not hers to make. The minute she was dropped to her knees, the fingers of a guard closed around her chin, forcing her face upward until she had no choice but to meet the gaze of her husband…the king.

The seconds their gaze locked, her spirit nearly departed from her body, she could have sworn that Ragaleon’s golden-brown eyes, usually as distant and lifeless as winter skies, came alive with something she had never seen before.

Ryalyn's lips parted, yet for a moment no sound escaped. Her throat was raw, her voice reduced to a fragile whisper. Her weary eyes wandered across the room, searching for anywhere else to look, anywhere but him.

Anywhere but the king.

“You allow your queen to be treated in such a disgraceful manner?”

She managed to say, trying to break free from the hand of the guard, still holding her face firmly, fingers pressing along her jaw and forcing her gaze upward. Every attempt to move only tightened the hold, sending a dull ache through her.

“Ryalyn Jesopath, do you plead guilty?”

The voice of Priest Tailbone weaves through the air, but his words only made her laugh; it was a mocking laughter born out of deep agony.

The laughter died on her lips the moment a body was dumped on the floor beside her. Held firm in the iron grip of a guard, she forced her gaze to the side, and her heart seized.

It was Ser Trevor; he didn't make it. The guards had caught up to him before he could make an escape.

He was almost unrecognizable, battered, broken, and stripped of his clothes to the waist, his pale skin evident with the pattern of a whip.

The same knight who had held her only hours before was now thrown before the court like a trophy of the king's justice.

For the first time that night, Ryalyn felt something far worse than fear.

Regret.

“What, have they done to you?”

Moved deeply by his condition, she found herself questioning aloud, and a faint smile touched his battered face.

“Nothing too much to bear,” he whispered. “Every mark was worth it.”

Those were the last words he could say before his eyelids fluttered closed and his body finally surrendered. He slumped to the ground, leaving Ryalyn frozen beside him.

Her eyes widened in dismay as her gaze returned to the king.

“Make it quick…”

The words left her with a cold resolve, tears blurring her vision as she faced Ragaleon.

“It should be a clean cut,” she continued, sniffing uncontrollably. “If our heads are to roll upon this ground, then do it now. Take our lives and be done with it.”

It was tormenting, watching how little Ragaleon seemed affected by the scene unfolding before him. His weary eyes remained fixed upon her, but they held no emotion, only a cold, unsettling dread.

His silence gnawed at her thoughts, pushing her closer to the edge of reason.

“Ryalyn Jesopath, I repeat… Do you plead guilty?”

The voice belonged to the council priest stationed beside the king. Draped in a crimson robe, with a black thread bound around his head, he stood as the voice of Decreash’s laws.

In his hand rested an open book, its pages bearing the ancient decrees and judgments of the kingdom.

Ryalyn tore her gaze away from the king and looked toward the man she had shared a bed with only moments before. A tired smile touched her lips.

“I am guilty,” she confessed, her voice carrying no trace of remorse. “But there is nothing left to plead for… not if, in the end, I do not leave this world with this man beside me.”

Ragaleon's face went blank. His golden eyes burned with a terrible intensity, like the final glow of a dying flame that refused to surrender to the darkness.

His jeweled fingers drummed lightly upon the arm of the throne, an almost imperceptible warning of the storm hidden beneath his composed exterior.

Yet he offered no words to the woman who had dared stain the honor of his dignified harem.

He straightened up and lounged upon the throne with careless ease, the crown upon his head tilting perfectly into place, lending him an almost unearthly grace.

“Kill the knight.”

Those were the only words he spoke, and he spoke them while looking directly at her; he wanted to witness every trace of ruin that would cross her face.

He was not disappointed.

Terror swept over her features so suddenly that it seemed to hollow her form within.

"No…"

Her voice quivered as tears spilled down her cheeks, her gaze fixed on Ragaleon with a desperation she could no longer conceal.

But before she could say another word, the sharp sword of a guard standing beside Trevor struck fast, his sharp blade severing his neck in a single, sudden motion.

Blood sprayed into the air as the severed head hit the stone floor and rolled away, leaving a streak of blood behind.

Whatever strength had kept her upright abandoned the bed at once, and her body went slack with shock.

Her fingers stiffened as they pressed against her face, her mouth falling open in disbelief.

A suffocating silence swallowed the chamber. For what felt like hours, Ryalyn struggled to form even a single word, her voice lost to the devastation unfolding before her.

Then, without warning, a piercing scream tore from her throat. She broke down, her cries turning into sobs that echoed through the halls.

“What have you done?”

Her voice quaked as tears burned in her reddened eyes. She crawled to where the body was, gaze falling upon the man she had so dearly cherished.

The priest’s eyes remained fixed upon the scene, yet no remorse touched his face. He had grown accustomed to the king’s cruelty for far too long and had learned to bury whatever pity remained within him. He only desired for the matter to come to an end.

When Ragaleon saw how she clung to the lifeless body of her lover, he rose from his throne. Descending the dais, he walked slowly toward her, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. By the time he reached her, the guards had already forced her upright.

She was a crying mess, completely undone by grief. As his familiar scent reached her, she lifted her bloodshot eyes toward him.

“Just end this. Kill me.” She pleaded, desperation thinning her voice. Her skin had gone pale, and it seemed as though all the blood in her face had been drained away.

In an instant his hand shot forward and closed around her neck, strangling her fragile form.

He watched her struggle, with a terrifying calmness, as she scratched at the fingers on her throat, his nails digging into her skin. Then he leaned down, his voice dropping to a murmur right against her ear.

"I will not give you the satisfaction of having your blood on my hands."

He stared forward into the empty room, a suffocating beat passing before he added,

"You are dead to me."

Then, he simply let go. Deprived of his support, She sank to the floor, stunned by the coldness of his dismissal, her hand instinctively clawing weakly at her throat, her chest heaving as she fought to drag air back into her starved lungs.

Without looking back down at her, he turned away.

"Take her to the dungeon," he commanded, his voice perfectly smooth, unaffected by the intense confrontation that had just transpired.

Blindly, Ryalyn reached out, her trembling fingers tangling in the hem of his cloak. "It was never meant to be," she pleaded, the words spilling out against her better judgment. "You and I."

At first, he didn't break his stride. With a fluid, almost bored motion, he caught the hilt of a nearby guard's sheathed sword and drew it out.

With a lethal grace, he sliced it through the fabric she held, and the severed piece fell useless against her palm.

She watched his retreating form, still holding on to the piece of linen in her hand.

"The day you decided that,” his voice trailed as he stepped out of the hall, “was the beginning of your end.”