4. BRING HER NOW!

Kaerith's feet slapped wetly against the slick floor, leaving a muddy footprint behind her, blood and grime peeling from her shredded soles. The air here felt like damp rot, with suffocating microorganisms clinging to her skin. 

They led her far beneath Murnokh, past the ironbound doors and stairwells slippery with moss...past walls where old nails still held the bits of shackles... past lamp niches that barely brightened the gloomy room.  

They arrived at the Wound Maidens' Quarters, a chamber carved from raw stone with a ring of women surrounding it. They were slaves and lower-class hollows.

Their faces were grey, their hair was lanky and matted, and none of them spoke.

Dark streaks smeared over the Quarters' walls, and the only source of lighting came from a fire pit—low, sickly green flames. Above it hung a cauldron full of heavy steam curling in tendrils.

The smell made Kaerith sick to her stomach; the water inside was filled with tainted bitter herbs, crushed bone ash, and bloodroot that turned the churn rusted red.

They surrounded her, one reached for her chain and gave it a strong pull. Kaerith staggered forward.

Another stripped away the blood-stiffened silks that clung to her body. The fabric tore away, and her skin pulled where dried blood had matted against fabric from the lashes across her back that hadn’t healed.

Kaerith bit down, blood pooling in her mouth. Her violet eyes burned as they pushed her towards the cauldron. One woman grabbed her shoulder, another her hair, and they both pushed her down, burying her arms and shoulders in the scalding water. 

The heat burned her raw, bleeding flesh, and the contaminated water seared like acid as it touched the open sores. Then they seized her arms, forced her head down, and started scrubbing.

The brush tore open her wounds, blood trailing into the water.

One of the Woundmaidens grabbed her hair, yanking her head back while she scrubbed a damp towel over her cheeks, across the bruises on her ribs. 

The water turned wine-colored, as the blood and dirt slid off her flesh. Kaerith tightened her jaw, her eyes blazing as she swallowed the pain. 

When they were done, they clothed her. 

One focused on the whip marks crisscrossing Kaerith's ribs, pressing her fingers into the broken flesh. The ache shot through her body. 

They wore her a fresh piece of silk; it clung to her hips, her breasts, and her shoulders — not a single male hand touched it.

“The Beast doesn’t like his food spoiled,” one of the Woundmaidens muttered under her breath. 

The others said nothing—they weren’t meant to speak.

Another young girl approached, her face gaunt as she carried a small bone comb and a pot of kohl. Without meeting Kaerith’s eyes, she began to work the comb on her hair with steam and water.

She didn’t braid it; she let it loose to fall behind her back.

She dipped two fingers into the kohl, smearing dark lines under Kaerith’s eyes. 

“Stand.” Marita, the head maiden walked in.

Before they could make it to the doorway, General Rhazien, the mind flayer walked in, his ruined face lit by flickering green fire.

His face was bare of skin, blood leaked from his fresh cuts, but he grinned.

Rhazien’s boots scraped against the rocky floor as he took a few steps inside. In one hand, he twirled a dagger, the blade catching the firelight. 

Then, he stopped before Kaerith and crouched low, his ruined face inches from hers. Her hands trembled as she looked away from him, throwing her face to the side.

The room fell silent, and the Woundmaidens shrank away, heads bowed, leaving Kaerith alone with the general.

He smelled of charred flesh, rot-root oil, and bitter old wine. His scent hit Kaerith’s nose, leaning closer to her as she lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze.

His pale eyes glistened like broken glass.

He rasped, “You’ll bleed to death just like the rest of them,” the words scraping out from his throat.

He trailed the dagger’s tip along her stomach down to her thigh, tracing the hem of the silk.

“That’s why you are here, runt. Just another cunt to appease his cock.”

Kaerith’s pulse hammered in her chest. 

“Listen carefully, little runt,” he hissed.

“You speak only when the King commands it. You look at him only when told. You never scream… unless he asks you to.” He grinned wider. “But he likes it when they try not to.”

His cold gaze slid over her face, down to her throat.

“Your body is his. No one else dares touch you. If you break these laws, you’ll beg for death. And it will be denied.” He paused, scratching his jaw. “You’re not worth it. I hate your existence.”

Kaerith whispered. “But, you just touched me.”

He raised the dagger, twirling it between his fingers. “This?” His gaze lingered and paused on her lips. “I can never touch you, you filthy bastard.”

Rhazien’s voice dropped, a cruel amusement flickering in his pale eyes. “You’ll scream, little wolf.”

As his breath brushed past her ear, something colder raged under her skin. A presence heavier and darker. It wasn’t Rhazien.

He’s here.

Kaerith’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his presence—the Beast's presence.

Rhazien leaned in, close enough she could feel the heat of his breath.

“Fear clings to you,” he whispered, inhaling deeply as his face tilted as if savoring it. “And it smells… beautiful.”

Kaerith’s teeth pressed together as her hands clenched into fists in her lap, forcing a trembling breath out.

Even as Rhazien spoke, Kaerith felt something far worse watching from beyond the dark. She felt a pulse. A hunger. It wasn’t Rhazien. 

It was the other one—the one they called the Beast.

His shadow stretched across the chamber as he stood, his armor creaking.

“To the court,” he snapped.

The Woundmaidens seized Kaerith’s chain and dragged her toward the door, through the twisting tunnels of Murnokh, past rusted gates and bone lanterns.

The fortress breathed around them, and for a moment Kaerith wondered who sighed.

Was it the stones?

They got to the Feast Pit. It was a vast, domed hall, its ceiling lost in smoke, and the tall pillars, made from bones, rose up to the roof like pale trees.

The Court of Bonefire had gathered, and at the high table sat the Dreadborn lords—generals, warlocks, and mistresses, their eyes dead like corpses. 

Lady Vythea sat at King Gorvane’s left, her skin white as snow, her crown of bone roses gleaming in the firelight. Her cold gaze peered at the fire.

The generals sat in silence; Thornek’s rusted jaw twitched as he glared at Maelok the Leech.

Hollow slaves crawled across the floor, pouring black wine and carrying platters of charred, steaming meat. Some slaves were led on leashes, while others moved freely.

Kaerith was dragged to the Ravaging Pit — a basin at the center of the floor, filled with thick blood that had a foul smell.

The chains clinked, and eyes followed her as she was forced across the hall, her bare feet smearing blood.

The warriors yanked Kaerith to her knees at the pit’s edge.

Mistress Syrra approached her through the crowds, her long limbs like a spider, veiled from her head to toes in glistening silk. 

Her bone-tipped fingers, held a crystal glimmering like a fragment of frozen light.

“To mark what belongs to the King,” Syrra intoned.

She raised the crystal, then pressed it against Kaerith’s throat.

First, it felt cold, then, Kaerith felt a flare of heat. And suddenly, the crystal shattered.

The shards scattered all over the floor as a red line appeared on Kaerith’s neck where a piece of it cut her.

The hall fell silent at first, then gasps and murmurs rippled through the court.

Syrra’s jaw dropped. Her pale eyes were wide behind her veil as she stared at the broken remains in her palm.

“Impossible,” she whispered.

Kaerith placed her palm against her throat, where blood dripped down from.

A courtier murmured, “It shattered… only the Boundborn can shatter the crystal.”

High above the court, on the Throne of Bonefire, Gorvane sat still.

The King of Murnokh.

King Gorvane stayed motionless, his obsidian eyes pinned on Kaerith.

The bone throne rose behind him like jagged fangs, its arms carved from the skulls of traitors.

He didn’t move or speak, but Kaerith felt him.

She felt him inside her like a smoke, creeping through her ribs and curling around her heart.

Fear. Shame. That ache you hide. His voice hammered in her ears.

Her throat tightened and knees buckled.

The words were not spoken, yet they clawed through her mind.

The beast beneath Gorvane’s skin was unseen but restless as hunger stirred in him.

Then Gorvane rose. The whole court fell silent. Every tongue stilled, and cups paused at the lips of the people.

His voice scraped through, summoning the enforcer of his will.

“Narkhul.”

General Narkhul stood at once, his face grim. The chains on his arms rattled as he stepped away from the table.

Lady Vythea’s jaw clenched, her face twisting as she rose too.

No one had called her name, but she followed, her steps echoing softly against the floor.

Together, they followed him from the chamber.

The chamber’s stones seemed to quiver as Gorvane turned, his steps sending tremors through the floor as Narkhul and Vythea followed.

They strolled into the Whispered Hollow— a secluded room within the throne of the bonfire where Gorvane and his inner court met, where sounds didn't escape.

The walls were lined with faces of old traitors pressed into the rock, their mouths forever open. 

Gorvane stood by the cold hearth of the room. Narkhul stood at his side, chains wrapped around his thick arms, while Vythea faced them, her face pale as the bone roses in her crown caught the little light flickering.

“She goes to my chambers,” Gorvane’s voice growled through the silence.

Vythea stiffened. “It is forbidden,” she hissed. “She is not prepared. She must endure the rites under the full moon before—”

Narkhul stepped between them, his voice low. “The King’s word binds us, Vythea. Do not test him.”

“I do not care!” Vythea’s fingers tightened at her sides. “If you take her now—”

Suddenly, something inside Gorvane was let loose.

His eyes flared up. Claws burst from his hands, splitting through his flesh. His jaw cracked as a deep, shuddering growl rumbled from his mouth.

Narkhul lowered his head, bowing at once.

Vythea’s face twisted as she took a step back. “Gorv—”

Gorvane’s voice lashed through the chamber.

“Bring her. Now.”