Empress of Self-Ruin

Chapter 20: Tempest in a Teacup

The night air was cold and sharp, chilling my bare skin and erupting goosebumps along my arms, yet it was strangely comforting.

The castle was too eerily quiet, and my mind was numb. The moonlight spilled in from the high windows, casting the castle in a conflict of light and shadow.

I made sure to avoid the light. It made my brain louder, made me squint my eyes and frown from discomfort. It made me feel too clean and exposed.

I wasn't clean.

I didn't pay attention to where I was heading and just let my feet carry me, and before I realized it, I was already there.

Arsen's aides and the royal physician seemed a bit shocked to see me visit so late at night, but they got over it fast and went back to being professional.

"How is he?" I asked.

"His Majesty needs a lot of rest," the physician said. "His body is a bit weak at the moment. It seems like His Majesty hasn't been sleeping well. He's clearly not eating well, either. He's even rejecting some of the medicines. It's almost like—it's almost like his body has given up," he whispered the last part as if scared that his words would offend me.

I just nodded, but I didn't tell him that he needed not to worry. After all, I knew those feelings all too well. I was experiencing the same thing myself. I was just better at hiding it.

"I can stay with him if you think that will help," I offered.

His expression brightened slightly at my words and he nodded approvingly.

I entered Arsen's bedroom alone and sauntered to the elegant, teak-wood bed in the center of the room where he lay sleeping. Even from a distance, I could hear every hiss of pain and ragged breathing.

I stopped before his bed, staring down at his sleeping form.

There was a time when I would welcome any monster lurking in the shadows and take on any unholy entity if it meant I could stand next to him—if it meant that he would be mine and I could be his for eternity, but well—the god of this world made those sounds so silly now.

My eyes roamed all over his body to inspect his condition myself. Arsen was shirtless. The smooth expanse of his chest was pale and lean, clinging tight to his collarbones, faintly outlining muscles he had no doubt acquired through the hours of sword training accumulated over the years.

And yet, all of it was marred. Arsen usually never overexerted himself, but recently, I had heard that he became a little too obsessed with training.

Bruises spread all over his body: purple and blue ones, fresh and dark, and older ones that had already started turning yellow. They disappeared under the waistline of his trousers, curving around his hips.

They were ugly and garish against the whiteness of his skin, sickeningly stark. Small cuts scattered over the swell of his ribs, which had hollowed out, almost like he had starved himself as if to punish himself. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin under the moonlight—and I couldn't look away.

I couldn't help a smile tugging at the corner of my lips—a little stronger thumping in my chest.

What is this? Excitement? A thrill?

I mean, look at him! He's weak, too!

Look, he's dirty too!

Look, he's just like me!

"Oh dear, now we have another thing in common," I mumbled. And it was comforting. The fact that I wasn't the only one who felt like this. Yes, it was bloody comforting.