Chapter 111 They'll Pay
May the gods save the Duchess. A human murdering a supernatural was unheard of. The punishment was death by torture. The arrival of men capable of turning the tides showed up, but what use were they against a witch? The castle was not their battlefield. The entire world was a magician's domain. To give, you must take. Magicians' magic was fueled by the life force of an organism.
When Ophelia murdered one Alpha after the next and destroyed one Vampire Head after the other, no one knew where she was taking the life from. It was certainly not her body, glowing with health and etherealness. It was certainly not the Mavez knights who didn't even feel an inch of pain.
Ophelia's magic came from within. She needed nothing, but herself and her blood. The Direct Descendants were the true magicians, requiring no help, but themselves. And today, Ophelia proved their theory true.
The intruders could not run. They could only glance back and forth in alarm and shock. The woman's palms lit up brighter than the moon, a ghastly pale white that shimmered with purple. Her eyes were no longer human, and neither were the words coming out of her mouth. Killorn was back from the battle. Instead of relief upon seeing his wife, a different feeling stirred inside him.
Beetle was the first to speak. "Alpha..."
No one dared to say a single word. Their Luna's dress was torn, tears streaking down her face, her eyes glazed over. No one had ever seen such a tragic expression, except upon the face of a mother burying the child she outlived. The Mavez knights had come dashing here, ready to overcome any challenge, but were proven useless in front of their Lady Duchess.
"What in the seven hells?" Everest breathed out, also making his way to the hallways.
A false alarm for a monster invasion.
"Oh my!" Janette gasped, hands slapping over her mouth in disbelief. When the lord and lady of the castle retired, people were stunned and speechless. They hurriedly got out the mops and buckets of water, ready to clean the floor.
"Three rounds of bathwater, immediately." Killorn took his wife upstairs as the servants scrambled to fulfill his order. He placed his wife on their shared bed. The surface was enormous, but her dress continued trickling until it pooled around her.
Killorn said nothing to his wife. There was nothing to say that'd make her listen. He had witnessed the monstrosity she could commit. The strange word she said reminded him of the time she read the god's language of their bed pillars. He swallowed, fingers digging into his fist, drawing his own blood. Suddenly, Killorn felt her softness. Gentle, slim hands grabbed at his bleeding palm. She murmured something under her breath. The cut healed. Just like that. He glanced at her, stunned and speechless. His face was a mixture of disbelief and remorse. "Ophelia?" Killorn softly croaked, dropping to his knees before her. He grabbed at her hands. They were hot as coal. He nearly flinched in pain, but he held on. She was still in a daze.
Killorn gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched. Then, he bowed his head. A husband should never kneel before their woman. A woman was always expected to do so, to serve her husband, to worship his feet, to peer up at him like he was god's reincarnation in itself.
Killorn found himself as a man before the shrine of a goddess. He exhaled, his large form concaving in. He remained in that position in stillness. When the first round of baths came, Killorn cut the dress off of her. It fell in heaps on the ground, weighed down by whatever the material absorbed.
Remnants of the greedy cowards floated to the surface when Killorn submerged her. He got in, despite the bright pink water. With a linen cloth, he wiped his wife's entire body, and then his. She didn't object, but she didn't agree to it either. Through furrowed brows and darkening eyes, he cleaned her.
The water was still a muddled pink in the second bath. This time, Killorn poured water down her hair. He watched as beaded droplets glided off of it as if water-resistant. Killorn had never seen this phenomenon. Her hair remained bright as the moon, glistening. When he gathered strands upon his tanned hands, his throat tightened. Her hair glowed. Killorn called for the third bath. The water was clear and clean. She remained a doll, mute and limp. He poured in the scented oil and wash, gently running a new cloth upon her soft skin. The temperature was just right. She rested in between his powerful thighs. His arms possessively wrapped around her womb. "Ophelia," Killorn murmured, lowering his forehead to her shoulder. She shifted, showing an inclination to him. He embraced her until not even water could get between their bodies. In the silence of the night, where the candles swayed upon their bathroom, the moon bright and eerie in the sky, Killorn made a vow. "They'll pay."
Killorn's voice was as treacherous as the crimes Ophelia committed. Dark. Dangerous. He gripped her delicate fingers tightly. They were all going to pay.
The Crown. The werewolves. The Vampires. Killorn intended to declare war.
