impatient thirst for bloodlust

The Alpha King’s Runaway Mate

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Chapter 6: impatient thirst for bloodlust

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Prince Damian has just donned his mask, prepared to head to the ballroom, when his commander, Storm appears in the doorway.

He’s wearing a grim, if mildly exasperated expression, eyes solemn and glinting like steel in the moonlight.

“The festivities may have to wait, just a moment,” Storm says lightly, though his cheerful tone still manages to belie a dark edge.

Prince Damian stills.

“I’m afraid there’s a matter with an...uninvited guest.”

The two of them share a hint of a frigid smile.

When Prince Damian arrives at the cold, dank holding cells underneath the castle - seldom used, and the existence of which is very well hidden from most of the unsuspecting inhabitants of the palace - he finds a man bruised and bloody and shackled to the wall in the first cell.

Damian gazes at him through bored, lidded eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad time,” he says. “We’re a little busy to entertain you the way such an esteemed guest should be.”

The man looks up, and upon glimpsing Damian’s- no doubt, recognizable - features, grows even paler than his already white pallor.

The mask does nothing to conceal the looming, heavy weight of Damian’s presence.

The man looks as though he’s seen Death, itself.

(He isn’t wrong.)

“P-Please,” he begs, in what is quickly becoming a tiresome and overly repeated song that Damian finds entirely dull. “Please, I d-didn’t h-have a choice-”

He ignores him in favor of glancing once towards Storm, a question in his raised brow.

He nods. “We’ve already sent out a message to King Mattel, it’s expected to reach him in 2 to 3 days.”

Off preparing for his death day while leaving the dirty matters for Damian, he notes with sardonic amusement. 

Damian turns back to the man, though he takes one careful, large step backwards.

The man has not a second to spare, before the shadows, coalescing from every dark corner of the room, lunge.

He dies instantly, leaving behind nothing but a violent spray of blood, bursting from the gaping wound in his neck.

Damian clucks his tongue in irritation.

He looks down at his shoes, splattered with red, and sighs. “Now look at what you’ve done,” he says to the soundless, unmoving corpse. “Already running late, and now I’ve to change, as well.”

Storm quirks a smile. “Eager to return to your Princess’s side?” he teases.

Prince Damian steps past him with a disinterested gaze. “If there are any others,” he murmurs. “You know what to do. Send out another eagle to Mattel and make sure to add that it’s an important issue”.

His commander grins.

***

SOUTHERN PLAINS

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In the south, in a castle fortress that towers atop a rocky terrace, three men commence the planning of war.

“So Prince Damian has chosen to align his country with that cursed atrocity who calls himself Mattel, then,” Lord Arthur drawls, a silken murmur. At the table’s head, he sits elegantly upon his chair, draped comfortably along one arm with his legs crossed.

“It is more than I expected from them,” Edgar, Lord Arthur’s younger brother, hums. “For a while, I rather surmised they’d attempt to abstain altogether, and would have to be put down like the dogs they are once we’ve settled the dust.”

Arthur’s lips curve into a small, amused smile.

For two men who’ve just learned that the last player on the board has chosen to join the other side, they are remarkably, unnaturally calm.

To an observer, it may even appear that the courtroom members of the southern plains seem almost pleased at the outcome, as puzzling as it may be.

“Pity, that they’ve chosen the wrong side,” Arthur says. “That lovely brain of Prince Damian’s bride to be would have been a nice trinket to keep.”

“They will all burn with no one remaining among the rest of them,” a third voice - far more brash than the first two - joins the conversation.

At his seat across from Arthur, Prince Imari of the western plains leans forward onto the table, his expression dripping with bold eagerness. “Mattel’s kingdom will be the first to fall to ashes, for their foolishness.”

Edgar rolls his eyes. “And you will be the one to eliminate him, then? Not wait for his curse to knock at his door?. That’s cowardice if you ask me.”

In a head to head confrontation - the only kind of confrontation that Imari is known for - it is well settled that Prince Imari cannot hope to outmatch King Mattel. 

Imari snarls. “With our two houses, he will go down, or we’ll start with Damian’s kingdom perhaps?.”

“You fail, yet again, to look further than your own nose,” Arthur’s voice - as pleasant and unhurried as ever - murmurs. “Do you think it makes sense, for us to expend our resources now, felling Damian’s region - the least of the three threats - when it will then leave us weaker to handle Mattel?”

The word Mattel - unlike Arthur’s usual leisurely drawl - is sneered, laden with such malice that it produces a jarring effect in contrast to his normal cadence. 

King Mattel.

The Cursed Beast.

The alpha who holds the power to control another alpha; the unholy Gift that, in a direct conflict, will likely overwhelm any other.

King Mattel, having the highest privilege of being one of the most powerful werewolves and being a dominant alpha at that.

“Then we get Mattel,” Imari shrugs. 

“Your impatient blind bloodlust will be the reason it is your head that rolls. Do you expect us to go and confront Mattel now, when he is safely at home, protected by the greatest military force of all the houses combined?”

Imari’s nostrils flare with anger at Arthur’s scorning tone. “Then what,” he grounds out, eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you suggest we do?”

Arthur leans back in his chair, lips curling into a sharp, predatory smile.

“We wait for our dear king to find his mate first.”

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TBC

~please leave a gem if you got to this point~