PART 4: THE KING'S CURSE.

Achlys heard footsteps approaching her cell.

She raised her head and found Alastor, the annoying nobleman — Lance — and an older woman with silver hair and calm, unreadable eyes. Elaris.

The doors creaked open.

Before she could move, the same chains that once bound her in Alastor’s chambers snapped around her wrists again, cold and merciless — a cruel reminder of her first pain in this forsaken kingdom.

She grunted but still refused to speak.

“I see now why you didn’t want to kill her,” Elaris sighed softly as she stepped closer, holding the same dagger Alastor had used to slice his palm — still stained with his blood.

Achlys’s body tensed as Elaris drew near, but the chains held her firm.

What are they doing? Her heart began to pound painfully in her chest.

Elaris knelt behind her, eyes tracing the tattoos that marked Achlys’s back and shoulders. “Poor thing,” she murmured, her voice threaded with quiet sympathy. “How many lives have they forced you to take?”

Lance looked away, folding his arms.

Alastor only stood there — watching, studying his prisoner with a calm that felt far too deliberate.

Elaris suddenly tore open the back of Achlys’s tunic.

“What the fuck are you doing, you witch?” Achlys spat, trying to pull away.

“I’d watch your tongue,” Elaris said coolly, “unless you want me to tear it out.”

The chains yanked Achlys backward, slamming her knees to the ground. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her patience thinning.

“So the mime speaks?” Alastor teased.

Her chest tightened. She wanted to retort — but before she could, the first cut sliced into her back. Elaris’s blade traced symbols in her flesh, each accompanied by a whispered incantation.

Achlys screamed.

“Why are you doing this? Just kill me instead!” she cried.

Elaris’s hand didn’t waver. The dagger bit deeper, again and again.

The pain was unbearable — a burning agony that consumed her nerves. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she held them back, grinding her teeth until she could only whimper.

Is it not over yet? Gods, forgive me for defying you…

It was worse than any pain she had ever known — even the tattoos carved into her skin during initiation had never hurt this much.

“It’s done,” Elaris finally said, standing. “I’ll tend to her wounds next — in my chambers.”

“That will be by dawn,” Alastor said sharply. “For now… let the pain sting.”

Elaris only sighed, leaving the cell in silence. The door clanged shut.

The chains released Achlys, and she collapsed to the cold floor.

Alastor smiled faintly. “This is the pain your victims felt — every time you killed them.”

Then he turned and left.

Achlys curled up, hugging her knees. A guttural scream escaped her lips — a sound of anger, grief, and humiliation all woven into one.

The next morning, the guards hauled Achlys to Elaris’s chambers.

Elaris stood beside a table scattered with herbs and vials. “Set her on the bed,” she told the guards.

“We’ll be outside, my lady,” one of them replied before leaving.

Elaris approached with a bowl of water and a small towel.

“Don’t come any closer,” Achlys rasped.

Elaris ignored her. “Lie down — not on your back.”

“I’m not fucking dumb,” Achlys muttered, but obeyed despite herself.

Elaris began cleaning the dried blood from her wounds. Achlys flinched.

“Stay still,” Elaris warned gently.

“Don’t you people have a healer or something?” Achlys hissed.

Elaris chuckled softly. “That’s me.”

When she was done cleaning, she applied the herbal paste.

“I would have healed you with a spell,” Elaris said, her voice calm, “but His Majesty insists you still feel the pain.”

Achlys stayed silent for a while. The air between them was heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Then Elaris asked quietly, “What’s your name?”

Achlys frowned. “What do you people want with me?”

“I asked first.”

Elaris lightly tapped her shoulder, earning a grunt.

“Achlys,” she murmured at last.

Elaris paused, her hands freezing for a brief moment. “A rather haunting name… Achlys.”

“I’m aware.”

“Now my turn — what do you want from me?”

Elaris sighed. “King Alastor wants to see if you can be of use.”

“Of use? I almost killed him,” Achlys said, confused.

“There are clean clothes in the bath,” Elaris said simply. “You can ask the king yourself.”

Later, the guards escorted Achlys through the hall — unchained this time.

They led her into Alastor’s study.

“Leave us,” Alastor ordered. The doors shut behind them.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a faint smile, “I won’t chain you this time. Sit.”

Achlys stayed standing, her gaze cold and unyielding.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Elaris said your name is Achlys, am I correct?”

Silence.

“It seems you prefer pain before you speak,” he said, a teasing smirk forming. “I can give you that kind of pain… the kind you won’t regret.”

“Disgusting,” she whispered.

Alastor laughed quietly. “You’re ready to talk now?”

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“To lure your foolish king to me.” His grin was sharp, cruel.

“You’re the foolish one,” Achlys shot back. “And you call yourself a Lethal Lord.”

“I didn’t give myself that title,” Alastor said softly, stepping closer until his shadow fell over her. “The gods did.”

“Keeping me here is pointless. Just kill me.”

Alastor’s laughter grew darker. “Oh, you’ll see the heavens… but not in that way.”

A flush crept across Achlys’s neck, and she hated herself for it. “You’re pathetic,” she muttered.

“And you’re irresistibly attractive,” he replied, eyes glinting.

“What would your people say if they saw their king flirting with an enemy?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Meanwhile, in Vaeloria, King Cyrus was pacing his chamber.

“Not a single word from Achlys,” he said bitterly. “She’s never delayed before.”

“She could be captured,” Elder Lance suggested gravely.

“I suggest we consult the High Priest.”

“Already ahead of you,” Cyrus muttered, striding toward the doors, fury and worry burning behind his eyes.

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