The air reeks of death.
Burnt flesh. Copper. Rot.
I stumble on the scorched earth, surrounded by corpses, soldiers scattered like broken dolls. Some are hacked clean in two, intestines spilling across the dirt. Others… gods… others are little more than pulped flesh, as though something had ripped them apart from the inside.
Something clatters at my feet. I glance down. A sword. My sword. The hilt slick, dripping red. My hands… they are drowned in blood.
"V…va…le…rian…" A wet, broken sound.
I whirl and the scream rips from my throat before I even know it.
The Crown Prince of Silvermoor drags himself from the debris, or what is left of him. Half his skull is gone, brain matter slopping down the side of his face. His jaw hangs crooked, throat torn out by sharp teeth. His legs… shredded, mangled bone and meat.
And still, his hand reaches for me. Fingers trembling. Eyes cloudy, grey, yet burning with hate.
"Y-you… did… this. Mur…der…er."
Only then do I taste it. In my mouth. Metallic. Sickly sweet. Blood. Flesh. Skin between my teeth.
The scream claws free again as I wipe at my mouth, my chin, my hands, scrubbing, scraping, tearing at my skin. But the blood does not go. It seeps. It stains. It clings.
And soon, my scream takes on a new pitch as the ground rumbles beneath me and cracks, the earth splitting so wide, I do not get a chance to jump before an abyss appears under me.
I fall into the darkness for what feels like an eternity.
Then I crash, slamming into what feels like concrete. Pain explodes in my back and I moan, curling into my side. Blood sluishes against black marble as I struggle to my feet, but something lingers heavy in the air, forcing me back to my knees with a gasp.
"There you are."
The voice comes from everywhere. Behind me. Before me. No. It's in my head--above me. My eyes fall upon the tall diaz of a throne room more magnificent than any I have ever seen in my life.
But my eyes are immediately drawn to something...uncanny. Impossible. My lips part in awe, cheeks immediately flush with heat as I behold the thing seated upon the throne. Thing--because he couldn't possibly be real.
He looks to be in his late twenties, though the very air that surrounds him screams at something ancient, ageless, defeating the notion of time. An idol carved of darkest desire and nightmare. His long hair falls in a silver tumble over one side of his face, a crown of gold sitting askew on his kingly brow. He wears dark silks richer than any I have ever seen on a noble, a great coat that must cost more than the Prince's fine horse and a set of jewelled rings on his elegant fingers that keep thrumming on the golden arm of his seat.
Eyes of mystic topaz--violets and tints of gold--narrow on me and out of mere fascination, I tilt my head.
And startle when I notice his ears. They're pointed, like sharp pin pricks.
If he is a monster, then he is the most terrifyingly, beautiful one I've ever seen. And yet, there is something monstrous about the way he looks at me. The weight of one look. The heaviness of his aura is sickening enough to my stomach clench. And my eyes feel like they might bleed if I look upon him any longer.
And though I have never laid eyes on him before, none who ever did living to tell the tale of what he looked like, something I side me recognizes him.
The Dark King of Ebonheart. Lucien Draemont.
"This isn't real," I whisper, blinking back bloody tears from my eyes.
He smiles. Slowly. Almost tender. And then he stands.
The sheer height of him steals the air from my lungs. Seven feet of perfection sculpted to terrify, his shadow falling over me like a stormcloud.
"Often, those who curse my name find me in their dreams," he says, voice like silk over blades. "And yet… you." His head tilts, eyes narrowing with fascination. "I cannot seem to read you."
He leans closer, and though every instinct screams to run, I am frozen, paralyzed with fear. I recall nothing of the months spent training. I recall nothing of the first thing to do when in the thrall of the enemy. I don't even remember my own name.
"Tell me," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. "Am I what you expected, kin-killer?"
My body trembles violently and tears run down my cheeks, that irrational terror owning me completely.
"I smell the fear on you." He inhales deeply. "But I also smell such deep hatred. Tell me, do you always have such deep feelings for your enemies, or am I an exception?"
The words tear out of me. "I'll kill you."
For a heartbeat, silence falls.
Then his laugh, low, rich and beautiful, shakes through the chamber, reverberating in my bones. His fingers extend towards me with flourish. "Come to me."
I cry as my feet begin to move of their own volition. One step. Two step. I scream at myself to do anything else but his bidding. But nothing works right. I can't control my limbs. Or my mouth for that matter.
My body stops only when I am before him, nothing but a child before an ancient atrocity. His hand closes around my shoulder, deceptively gently as he picks me from the ground like a child's doll, my feet dangling in the air, his strength crushing my bones.
"Such fire," he croons. "It is no wonder you dreamt me into being."
His lips brush my ear and heat flushes along my skin in spite of fear, his aura so deathly, it fills my body with the need to embrace my own doom. "But be careful what you wish for, wolf. Sometimes the abyss answers back."
And before I can scream, his fangs sink into my neck.
Agony erupts, white-hot, and I choke on the wet sound of my own flesh tearing. He drinks, he tears, his bite is a ripping kiss of death.
My throat bursts open--
And I wake up.
Screaming.