A mass of writhing, glistening insects crawled over a dead giant rat, their tiny legs scratching over each other with a nauseating skritch.
Allison, the daughter of one of the royal ministers, saw it in the alley. Her stomach turned, and tears welled up in her eyes.
The sour stench filled the air, curling into her nostrils like a toxic fog. But the stench wasn't the problem. It wasn't what had affected her. It was the fact that her own man had cheated on her—with someone else.
Her cold red eyes adjusted to the dark. She clenched her jaw and ran past the alley, enduring the pain and the grotesque image. A voice rang out from behind.
"Allison!" Sivan called, chasing after her.
He saw the image of the rat and the crawling insects. A wave of nausea punched up his throat as he pushed past it, still chasing her.
He finally caught up and grabbed her hand.
"It's not what it looked like! Let me explain," he panted, trying to hold onto her.
"This is not the first time," she snapped. "I'm tired of this. Tired of having a cheating man. So go your way. And by the way—this engagement is cancelled."
"Really? You think Percival would marry you?" He spat, voice venomous. "Stop being delusional. He won't."
Allison shook her head and walked away.
Sivan didn't follow. He just stared as her reflection faded into the shadows.
"You'll regret this," he muttered aloud.
Drunk and angry, he wandered back into the village path. His steps were unstable, staggering left and right. Suddenly, a carriage appeared beside him, silent and eerie.
The rider's face was hidden under a dark hood. The carriage was ancient and ghostly,
It was unlike the others. The wood was painted a dark, rotting black, its wheels creaking with an eerie groan as if they carried more weight than they should.
Faded symbols were scratched along its side, and the windows were covered with heavy iron bars and curtains. A faint stench drifted from it, sharp and metallic, like dried blood. The horses that pulled it were pale, their ribs showing, their eyes dull and soulless.
It looked less like a carriage for nobles and more like a carriage for the dead.
The air shifted from its warmth to cold ice. A sudden chill ran down Sivan's spine and it felt strange, the carriage was different from the usual ones, he thought, but with the fight he had with Allison and how drunk he was, he couldn't think straight.
"What is your destination, stranger?" a voice asked. It sounded like thunder rolling through the sky, yet hushed, like something dead whispering.
Fear almost swallowed him whole. But he didn't think much. He was too drunk.
"Home," he mumbled, stepping into the carriage, settling on the creaky seat.
The carriage moved quietly. For a while, there was only silence.
Then it missed a turn.
"You passed the turn!" Sivan called out. "That's my home—the mansion!"
Silence filled the air; the rider never said a word. The only time he spoke out was when he asked for his destination.
"That's my house!" He shouted louder, now scared. Still, no response.
The temperature dropped further. His breath became shallow. Suddenly, shadows began to gather at the far end of the seat, forming into something eerie beside him; the shadow stood still and sat like a human.
Sivan stiffened and struggled to believe what he was seeing.
"I'm drunk. I'm imagining things," he muttered. But deep down he knew it was real. The shadow did nothing but just sat still, creating an atmosphere of horror.
The carriage slowed at a three-junction road and three figures emerged from the shadows like nightmares pulled from the earth — silent, towering, cloaked in robes that clung to them like mist.
They had no feet, no hands — only long, blackened sleeves and hoods that hung over a darkness deeper than night. And from within that darkness, their eyes burned red like coals — not with life, but with something dreadful.
They moved without sound, yet each step made the ground feel colder, heavier, as though the world itself was afraid of them.
Time slowed around them. The wind stopped.
The air smelled of ash, iron, and forgotten graves. In a second, they circled the carriage like wolves closing in on a kill. Not rushing, there is no need for that because they already knew Sivan was theirs.
They were not spirits.
They were not demons.
They were collectors.
Ancient, ruthless, sinister and unstoppable .
They did not speak, they only watched.
And that was worse than words.
Sivan saw it clearly. The teeth, rows and rows of tiny, sharp, writhing teeth that created a grotesque display. An unshakeable sense of dread devoured him, and fear rooted itself into his bones.
Sivan screamed. His cries echoed through the silent road.
And then, he was gone. The carriage vanished completely, and there was no trace left.
*******
Percival paced back and forth in front of Fanaza's door with his arms folded; his thoughts were restless. She was still asleep. He didn't know if he should knock or walk away.
Suddenly, the door opened.
Fanaza stepped out, smoother and rosier than ever. Her eyes met his.
She hissed and turned away.
"Am I that tiny you couldn't see?" Percival's voice rang out, slightly offended.
"Oh. My bad," Fanaza said softly and brushed past him.
He reached out and pulled her back gently, closing any gap between them.
"Wife," he whispered. "I just want to talk. No need for the attitude."
A few maids passed. They blushed and whispered among themselves.
Fanaza pushed him away. "I don't have time for this. I'll be late for training."
"I'll walk you."
"Sally will walk me."
"You mean the same Sally I saw leaving for the market today?" He raised a brow.
Fanaza stayed silent and walked away; her thoughts were clear. Why is he acting nice all of a sudden? She remembered the disgusted expression he gave her the first time they met, as if she was a pest. What changed?
She heard his footsteps coming closer from behind.
She stopped abruptly, making him almost bump into her.
"Why are you following me? It's making me uncomfortable. And the stares from the maids don't help. Do me a favour and walk off."
"No."
Fanaza groaned and held her gown tighter. She turned and dashed off, her pace quick and graceful.
Percival stood looking stunned. He knew he was never going to chase her; she was fast, and people could get the wrong impression.
"Wife," he muttered, watching her retreat. He sighed, annoyed.
Stefan approached.
"How's it going?"
Percival scoffed. "Trust me—I hate this more than anything. I'm only doing it because Father asked me to. I would never stoop this low for someone like her."
A few nights ago, King Loban had summoned him, telling him to treat Fanaza better. She was lonely, scared, and worried about the new reality she was about to face. Maybe some love would make her feel more welcome.
He was only doing what his father said, and chasing after her like that wasn't his own will.
Few minutes passed, Percival and Stefan entered the king's courtroom. To their surprise, a nobleman was already on his knees, tears in his eyes. They were in the middle of a deep conversation.
"Your Majesty," Stefan bowed. Percival simply watched.
"So, your son never returned last night?" the King asked.
"No, my King. And not just him. Other noblemen and women have gone missing. Villagers say they saw a strange carriage, different from any they've seen. And carriage riders say their business has dropped sharply."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know, my King. All I care about is finding my son."
"Percival," Loban called. "Investigate this case. Find out about these carriages. Anyone not licensed by the royal court, bring them to me."
"Yes, Father," Percival said before he walked out with Stefan.
The nobleman hesitated. "My King, I forgot to mention…"
"What is it?"
"The carriage … It looked like Lazarus
Zominick's. The one he rode during the war."
"That's impossible. That carriage was lost long ago, and it was cursed." the king's heart raced.
"If the rumours are true… then, my King, we are dealing with something beyond our powers. You and I both know what we did behind closed doors."
The king froze. A chill ran through his veins.
The name echoed in his mind. Something buried in fear stirred, but he kept silent.
Lazarus Zominick.
******
Stefan and Percival were about to leave the palace. Their horses were ready outside when Fanaza passed by. Percival spotted her and walked over.
"What?" she asked, rolling her eyes.
"I'll be going outside the palace; I have a mission."
"So?" She replied flatly.
"Do you want to come?"
"My prince… it could be dangerous." Stefan cut in.
"No, it's just to a nearby village." Percival's voice rang loudly in her ears:
Fanaza didn't hesitate. Her heart lifted. She was ready to do anything to get outside the palace, even if it meant going out with him.
"Okay," she said quickly.
They both went to the stables; she stood in front of a massive horse. It was too tall; she knew she would have an issue mounting the horse.
Before she could move, Percival lifted her easily and placed her on the saddle. She murmured a protest, but he was already mounting behind her.
His chest brushed against her back, and his breath was warm against her neck.
"Don't worry, I won't bite," he whispered into her ear, smirking. "Hiyah!"
The horse galloped forward.
The silence between them was too strong and thick; Fanaza had no choice but to speak out softly.
"What is this mission about?"
"You'll know when we get there," he said close to her ear again.
"Could you move back a little? I can feel your breath all over me."
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"You wish." She hissed, making him smirk again.
Fanaza glanced back. He wasn't in his war armour. So it's not too dangerous, she reassured herself. Still, the cold wind cut into her, and she shivered slightly.
Percival stopped the horse suddenly.
"Stefan, take off your coat."
"But my prince, it's cold—" Stefan said.
"Take it off," he commanded.
Grumbling, Stefan removed his coat and handed it over.
"You don't have to," Fanaza muttered. "I can handle the cold."
"Oh, this isn't for you, sweetheart. I'm allergic to cold," Percival said as he put on the coat.
Fanaza hissed under her breath. He never cared. Rwaine would have gone naked just to keep her warm.
They reached the village, but had to stay in an inn. The air was still, and the place was too quiet; you could hear a pin drop.
A man approached them looking nervous. At a first glance at him, one would guess right.
"My prince, we didn't expect you so early. We haven't prepared much." He bowed deeply.
Percival gave him a disgusted look, his nose wrinkling as if the man were filth.
"I wasn't expecting an additional person," the man added, eyeing Fanaza.
"Make her feel at home," Percival ordered, walking away with Stefan.
"Thank you," Fanaza whispered as the man, Oreyan, gestured for her to follow.
He led her down a hallway to a modest room.
"I'm so sorry, my lady. I wasn't expecting you to accompany the crown prince. Sir Stefan said you two were getting married soon. Would you mind… sharing the bed with him tonight? Until we prepare your room."
Fanaza's stomach twisted. Share… a bed?
"But don't worry. The prince doesn't use it much. He stays at the playhouse nearby."
"What's a playhouse?" she asked.
Oreyan flinched slightly. He laughed nervously. "It's just… a place where nobles relax."
Fanaza raised an eyebrow, and he left quickly.
Once alone, she dropped onto the bed.
Minutes turned into hours, and as the day turned into night, she had not heard any word from Percival.
Her mind kept returning to the Playhouse. Curiosity got the better of her.
She stepped outside. The air was cold and silent. She saw a young lady spreading clothes outside; Fanaza stood still for a second and walked towards her.
"Excuse me, do you know about a place called the playhouse?"
"Yes. You mean the house of pleasure?"
Fanaza blinked. "What?"
"It's where men and women meet. For pleasure." The girl smiled again.
So that's where Percival went?
"Can you take me there?" Fanaza asked.
"Sure." The girl dropped her basket and led her.
The stench hit Fanaza as soon as she got to the playhouse: liquor, sweat, smoke, and lust.
Music played faintly as bodies moved in dim light—dancing, grinding, and laughing.
Women sat on men's laps. A few were half naked and seductively looking for men who would become their prey.
Percival was at the centre of it all; he was surrounded by women who kept on pouring drinks into men's mouths, laughing and brushing their hands across their chests.
Fanaza stopped at the entrance; her heart sank.
"This is where I stop. I can't go in," the girl said.
"Thank you." Fanaza said and stepped in alone.
Her eyes scanned the room. Her heart pounded. So this is what he chooses over me?
She turned to leave—when a man stepped in front of her.
"You're beautiful," he said, eyes devouring her. "I couldn't stop staring."
She turned away quickly, as she was sure the man had removed all her clothes with just his eyes.
But he grabbed her wrist. Hard.
"Let me go. That hurts."
"Don't play hard to get," he said, pulling her closer. "Just one night. I'll take care of you."
His hand slid to her shoulder. She slapped him.
The music still continued, and heads turned in their direction, but everyone seemed not to care; they looked away and continued with their own business.
The man growled and shoved her hard to the floor. She gasped, her body hitting the ground in a violent thud.
"You need to be taught a lesson," he growled, yanking her up again.
"Help! Somebody help!" She cried, struggling, her voice shaking.
Across the room, Percival saw her. His vision was a bit hazy due to the fact that he was drunk. He blinked, and he was sure that was Fananza.
The man pressed against her, his fingers digging into her arm.
Fanaza screamed again.
Then smack!
The sound came out of nowhere.
Percival's fist landed on the man's jaw, snapping it sideways. Before anyone could react, a sword flashed in his hand.
No one knew how he got the sword. A loud shhnk sound was heard, and the man's head rolled onto the floor. Blood spattered across Fanaza's face.
She froze for a second before loud screams erupted from her throat. The crowd watched for a few seconds, and everyone still went on with their own business. Beheadings weren't rare here. It happened every time.
Percival stood over the dead man. His chest heaved as he turned to Fanaza; he wasn't himself, and without a word, he grabbed her wrist.
"Let me go! Let me go!" She screamed, pulling his hands away from hers.
He lifted her up over his shoulder and stormed away.
"Stop it! Put me down!"
She had no idea where he was taking her, but he kept on going, and suddenly he kicked open a door, entered into a private room, threw her onto the bed, and locked the door, throwing away the keys.
Fanaza got up fast, but he shoved her back into the bed.
He wasn't the nice prince anymore; he looked dark and scary, like he wanted to devour her.
"No! No!" she screamed.
He climbed on top of her, breathing heavily. His mouth found her neck and he kissed them roughly, he was too aggressive she had developed few red marks on them.
"Please stop. I'm not ready. Please…" She sobbed.
He didn't listen; his hands found their way to his belt, and he unbuckled it.
"Percival—PLEASE!"
"Please don't do this. I haven't done this before… I'm not ready." She pleaded with hot tears streaming down her eyes.
Still nothing.
She immediately shook; his hands tore her blouse, revealing her white underwear and her smooth, fair chest. She gave up, and at that moment, she knew he was going to do it; he was going to defile her.
Tears kept on streaming down her face, her voice barely above a whisper; all that could be heard were her sobs.
Then, he paused.
Her sobs echoed in the silence.
He looked down. Her eyes were full of terror, her blouse was half-torn, her lips were trembling, and her neck was decorated with marks.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hands stopped moving.
He breathed in sharply, realising what he had done. He almost lost control, and he was close to hurting her.
He moved away from her, and two words came out of his mouth. Something he had never said to anyone.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.