Black Blood

-B2- Chapter 17

The panic that shoots into my body at that sight is perhaps as bad as the one I arrived running with. My hands begin to tremble, my legs begin to shake and my thoughts run away with me.

If anyone in this village did not deserve this, it was Nalu. The loving, kind and caring woman has had enough on her plate. An unexpected death at my father's hand does her no credit in any way. The woman had more in her future, more to achieve. It is too quick, too unnecessary and, above all, intensely unjustified. Why did my father choose her? Any other death would have been better, more justified.

I stare in total shock at the burning corpse. The white dress is scorched to nothing more than black half-hanging pieces. If you hadn't known Nalu always wore white, you wouldn't know what she was wearing. Her blonde hair is decayed and her white skin is carried away by the flames. There are piles of white flowers along the burning piece of wood, each one almost touched and pulled along by the fire. She was loved by the people and it is visible. Dozens of elves can't seem to stop crying and the pile of flowers only gets bigger.

I don't want to realise it, I can't realise it. I don't understand, I don't want to understand. I can't wrap my head around how I'm not the one lying there. Is it pure luck that they didn't invade Alisha's house? Did they see me but did nothing? Or are they so stupid as to miss me? My father is smarter than that.

'Lady Celeste,' I am pulled out of my thoughts. Slowly I turn to the servant standing behind me. Instead of the grey-brown attire, which I also had to wear for a month, she is wearing a black dress. Her brown hair is also put up in a bun. It takes me a moment to realise that this is the same lady who walked through the temple last night with a tray of drinks.

'The king is expecting you in his chamber,' she informs me before taking a small bow. Walmoet, I seemed to have almost forgotten about him. I remember well the last time Christiaan invaded the village. My gaze automatically slides towards the oak tree, where the last person is just being removed from the noose. The scars may have faded, but the thought has not.

I glance at Novak one last time before slowly disengaging from him. The look he gives me says enough, despite everything, he is there when I need him. With small steps and buckling knees, I make my way through the ever-growing crowd. I realise I am walking in nothing more than a nightgown. It may not be the best attire to see your prospective husband in, but my head does not allow me to change.

As soon as I walk into the dead quiet and empty temple, tears almost hit my eyes. In the middle of the open space, three servants are scrubbing the blood off the floor, on the stage are dozens of white burning candles and for the first time there is no music playing. Death visits are always more intense for the bereaved than for the person themselves. Every nation has its own way of dealing with it. Mages bury their loved ones, mermaids return them to the sea and wolves burn them. Ancient forest tribes are the only ones who celebrate death.

I swallow before moving on towards Walmoet's room. It was always off limits, a door with a lock. It was also always hard to miss. The white door is the width of two normal doors, has large hanging handles of iron and more engravings of plants than all the doors put together. What is new is the guard standing in front of the door. Even the guard wears a black uniform. My white nightgown stands out from all the black.

The young man looks straight ahead, though I see his green eyes shoot my way for a second. His blonde hair is pulled back tightly and the shiny sword in his hand just barely touches the floor.

'The king is expecting me,' I inform the man. He lets his eyes quickly glide over my body before opening the door. With my heart in my throat, I step into the room, something I clearly should have waited for. The moment my eyes find my husband-to-be an ornately decorated white plate hits the white wall. The piece of porcelain steps apart, leaving dozens of pieces on the floor.

Out of reflex, I take a step backwards and would prefer to run back out the door. The guard seems to have other plans. Before I can turn around, the man closes the door and I am left with Walmoet.

The black-clad king stands silently staring at the shards for a second before turning to me. It is the first time I have seen the man without his upper body bared. The black cloak is decorated with embroideries of plants, but not nearly as dressed up as his normal clothes. Apart from the embellishments, the only thing that interrupts the black is the silver buttons. The black trousers are tight and drab. His green eyes shoot with emotion. Aggression, sadness but above all frustration.

His eyes shoot over me and the aggression in his gaze grows. Before I can utter anything, the man walks in my direction in great strides, stops less than half a metre in front of me, raises his hand and I receive a hard slap to my cheek. I immediately grab at the burning skin, staring at Walmoet. I don't utter a sound, don't move a millimetre and look straight at him. The surprise is perhaps greater than the shock. I was prepared for a not too friendly reception, but what follows next I was not prepared for.