Chapter 2: My Kingdom
The royal palace of Trangdar, usually a beacon of stoic northern pride, was steeped in the heavy, intoxicating aftermath of my confirmation celebration. The ballroom, once echoing with the clinking of goblets and the laughter of dignitaries, now lay abandoned, littered with the remnants of my eighteenth birthday.
I lay in my chambers, the velvet canopy of my bed offering no comfort. The words of Count Sapien echoed relentlessly in my mind like a cursed mantra: "I sense god's blood flowing in his veins." And then, the whispered promise of regret. The Cyprians were fanatics, a nation swallowed by the dark, but they were not known for empty threats. I stared at the stone ceiling, listening to the rhythmic patrols of the night guard outside my window. The air felt unusually thick, carrying a strange, metallic tang that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
The holy gene within me, the very anomaly I despised and kept hidden, hummed beneath my skin. It was an involuntary reaction, a primal warning system that my lack of faith could not suppress.
The first sign of the nightmare was not a clash of steel or the ringing of alarm bells, but an unnatural, suffocating silence. The rhythmic footsteps of the courtyard patrol simply ceased. Then, a sound tore through the dead of night—a guttural, wet tearing of flesh followed by a screech that belonged to no known beast in the North. It was the sound of a nightmare made flesh.
I threw off my covers, my heart hammering against my ribs, and rushed to the heavy oak door of my chambers. Before my hand could even touch the iron-wrought handle, the castle was plunged into absolute pandemonium. The alarms finally blared, but they were immediately drowned out by a chorus of inhuman roars.
I pushed open my door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor. The scent hit me first—copper, voided bowels, and the sickly-sweet chemical stench of Cyprian venom. At the far end of the hall, illuminated only by the flickering torchlight, I saw them.
They were no longer men. The Cyprian soldiers were grotesquely swollen, their veins bulging black against pallid, stretched skin. Their eyes were solid pools of obsidian, devoid of reason, empathy, or humanity. The venom had accelerated their muscle mass to impossible proportions, elongating their limbs and tearing their dark uniforms to shreds. They did not carry swords; they did not need them. Their hands ended in jagged, bone-like protrusions, and their jaws snapped with the ferocity of rabid wolves.
The royal guard of Trangdar, men who had trained their entire lives to protect the crown, were utterly decimated in seconds. I watched in paralyzed horror as Ser Vantor, the captain of the guard, charged a Cyprian beast with his broadsword raised. The Cyprian did not even bother to dodge. It took the steel blade directly to the chest, the metal screeching against hardened, venom-laced bone, and simply swiped its massive, clawed hand. Vantor's head was separated from his shoulders with a sickening crack, his body crumpling to the floor as a geyser of crimson painted the tapestry of my ancestors.
It was not a battle; it was a slaughter. A bloody, indiscriminate massacre.
The monsters moved with terrifying speed, scaling the stone walls like insects, dropping from the chandeliers onto fleeing servants. I saw maids and nobles alike ripped entirely in half, their screams choked off as the feral Cyprians feasted on the carnage. The marble floors became a slick, treacherous river of red. The walls were painted with the visceral remains of the people I had sworn to protect just hours prior. My stomach heaved, and bile rose in my throat. I had to find my family. I had to find my father, my mother, and Bridget.
I sprinted down the secret servants' corridors, my bare feet slipping on the cold, blood-slicked stone. The castle was shaking, the very foundations trembling under the weight of the Cyprian onslaught. I made my way toward the guest wing, praying to a God I didn't believe in that Bridget had managed to lock herself away.
I burst through the hidden doorway into Bridget's suite. The heavy wooden doors to her room had been pulverized into splinters. "Bridget!" I screamed, my voice cracking.
I found her in the center of the room. The elegant Queen of Colstar, who had danced with such carefree joy, who had downed flagons of ale with a boisterous laugh, was unrecognizable. The room was utterly demolished, a testament to a desperate, violent struggle.
Bridget, despite her drunken state, had fought. A shattered silver candelabra lay near her hand, covered in black Cyprian blood. But standard human strength, even fueled by adrenaline, was nothing against the venom.
Two Cyprian beasts stood over her. They had not just killed her; they had dismantled her. Her beautiful, ocean-blue silk dress was shredded and soaked in a dark, horrifying red. One of the monsters held her severed arm, tossing it aside like discarded meat. Her torso had been ripped open, her ribs exposed to the cold night air, torn to pieces with a brutality that defied comprehension.
I fell to my knees, a silent, agonizing scream tearing at my vocal cords. My sister, the woman who loved the ocean, was gone, reduced to a grotesque display of Cyprian cruelty. The beasts turned their obsidian eyes toward me, snarling, but the sound of an explosion from the King's chambers drew their attention, and they bounded out the window into the night.
Tears blinded me, mixing with the sweat and blood on my face as I forced myself to my feet. Father. Mother. I left Bridget's ruined chambers and dashed toward the royal apex of the castle.
The King's quarters. The grand double doors were off their hinges. Inside, the room was a war zone. King Arthur of Trangdar, the passionate ruler, the loving father, stood in the center of the carnage. He was bleeding from a dozen grievous wounds, wielding the ancestral greatsword of our lineage. He was surrounded by four of the venom-infused abominations.
"Devin! Run!" Arthur bellowed, catching sight of me in the doorway. His voice was raw, desperate.
"Father!" I cried out, stepping forward, but the holy gene flared violently in my chest, pinning me to the spot in a wave of overwhelming, paralyzing dread.
A Cyprian lunged. Arthur cleaved its arm off, but the beast didn't even flinch. It drove its remaining claw deep into my father's thigh. Arthur roared in pain, bringing the hilt of his sword down on the creature's skull, shattering it. But the opening was all the others needed.
They descended upon him like a pack of starving hyenas. I watched, helpless, entirely broken, as the King of Trangdar was overwhelmed. They tore at his armor as if it were parchment. They ripped at his flesh, separating his limbs from his torso with sickening, wet tears. They tore him to pieces right before my eyes, his final, gurgling breath choked with blood. The crown of Trangdar clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop just inches from my feet, stained with the lifeblood of the greatest man I had ever known.
The monsters, satiated for the moment, began to drag the remains of my father away, their dark masters likely demanding proof of the royal family's demise. I crawled into the room, my mind fracturing under the weight of the trauma. The room was utterly destroyed.
"Mother..." I whispered into the void. "Eleanor."
I dragged myself to their private adjoining chambers, expecting to find her body. I expected to see the medical anomaly, the profound sub-human Queen, lying in the same horrific state as my sister and father. But the room was pristine. The bed was unmade, but there was no blood. No signs of struggle. The secret escape hatch behind the vanity remained securely locked from the inside.
Queen Eleanor was nowhere to be found.
It made no sense. Had they taken her alive? Why leave no trace? Had she anticipated the attack and fled? The questions swirled in my shattered mind as the sounds of my burning kingdom echoed in the distance. I knelt amidst the ruins of my life, the blood of my family coating the stones, and the holy gene within me flared once more. But this time, it was not fueled by faith in god. It was fueled by an absolute, consuming hatred.