Cruel Empathy ✓

The Puppet Master

***Solmin***

Solmin saw a red mark on the bench of the carriage. It must be a drop of blood. The edges around it, jagged and uneven. He saw it grow slowly and transformed from one drop to two. His mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. The sharp outlines blurred, and all his eyes saw were red.

Flowing red, dripping red. Red on the ceiling. Red on the floor.

Red on his hands.

He blinked and then it was gone.

The carriage made a sharp turn and he toppled gracelessly to the floor. He let out an unintelligible yell and cursed his coachman. He pushed his hands underneath him, but he only stumbled again.

His blood began to quicken.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

There was the red. There was the quickening of his blood. Then-

"Stop!" He bellowed.

The carriage came to a halt and he fell forward. His nose collided with the floor beneath him. It wasn't broken, it only throbbed a little. The horses had stopped, but the floor was still moving. Around and around. Spinning.

He slowly rose to his knees, then to his feet. He wavered a little. Control. He let the red take over. He pulled open the door and slightly stumbled out into the road. The men were trained not to notice these slight weaknesses. He took a deep breath, steadied himself. Mask the weakness, show the strength.

His peripheral vision was fuzzy, but he could focus into the tunnel. He brought one foot in front of the other. Again and again, until he saw the coachman sitting straight ahead refusing to look at him. His heart fluttered with pleasure. He loved the power he had over them, over all of them. If he told him to jump, he would. If he told him to take his blade and pierce himself, he would do that too.

"You-u boy!" The coachman turned to face him. Fear danced in his eyes, and Sol delighted in it. "I want to know why your head is in your ass?"

"Warlord?" There was a tremble to his voice.

"Your head. It is in your ass," Sol sputtered at him.

"I'm s-sorry, Warlord." Sol quickly stepped up to the coachman and grabbed him by the neck and pushed him to the ground.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He looked down and his hands were covered in blood. The young man was a bloody mess on the ground.

Sol stared at the body but instead saw an image of his mother sprawled out beneath him.

There was the red. There was the blood. Blood on his hands. Blood on the floor. Red all over her.

He blinked and she was gone.

He didn't care to see if the young man was alive or not. He pointed to one of the nearby riders.

"Take care of this. I need a new driver." He swirled back around on his feet and swaggered back to the door. Knowing full well that they would obey him.

He situated himself back on the bench and closed his eyes. He needed to stop the spinning.

His mother's face flashed before him again, her amber eyes, lifeless. Then she changed into his Velasande. He reached out to touch her but she disappeared before him, transforming again into his daughter. She was holding her side, screaming about the Fates. His eyes sprung open.