of Sword and Flame

Chapter 11: Pluck

 A pair of delicate white snow boots approached the creaky gate, the wearer fixing a fluffy winter coat as she gazed at the guards on either side. She blinked a few times, the reaction caused by the soft snowflakes hitting her upper lashes. The rusty gate swung open, the horrific creaking causing her to clap her hands over her ears in protest.

The guards next to the gate pulled their spears away, allowing her to cross the threshold and stare up at the palace. That hideous red stared back, like dried blood stuck to each crevice. No wonder everyone hated this place. Nothing about the sharp silver spires felt welcoming; if anything, it felt threatening just to be standing there innocently, like you were being put on trial for breathing too sharply.

Eryssa fixed her skirt with a heavy sigh, knowing she had stalled enough time. She entered the courtyard beyond the gate, the thick crunch of snow following her everywhere as she made her way through the maze of statues. Her hands clasped together in prayer as she passed a mighty-looking leader set in stone, cracks all over her form, yet no fallen chunks yet. Eryssa prayed for strength, the same verse she always used. At this point, the Saints must be sick of her. It seemed the world was always in agreement about that.

Many dim hallways later, she arrived at his office, eyelids already drooping in preparation for the boring conversation to come. She glanced at the guards at the door. To her surprise, they silently opened the doors. No reciting any rules, no warnings of safety. Just swung those heavy doors open. As the vines in the center of the doors broke apart, it unraveled the state of the room before her eyes.

The room was in complete disarray. Everywhere she looked, there were torn, crumpled, and clean papers alike. And in the center, there he sat slumped in his chair, scribbling so hard his quill nib snapped off.

She took a step into the office. Her feet touched a crumpled paper, causing a crinkling sound to echo throughout the room. King Malum's head snapped up, and he rose at once. He tossed his broken quill down, eyes lifting to lock with hers.

"Ice Enchantress," he hissed, and Eryssa stepped back. He looked...Saints, he looked like death herself. "Where have you been!" His voice boomed with every word, and Eryssa had the acute realization that this was the worst possible time she could have entered. Still, she put on her best smile and bowed. She knew how these sorts of things worked—how these sorts of men worked. The fury-filled men of Vorin all had one thing in common: they bent to her whim. Even King Malum, who was far too invested in his anger to ever see use in Eryssa's looks or body for himself, bent to her whim for her usefulness to him. He knew she affected people in a way that none of the other Reapers had, and that made her the only Reaper who could get away with almost anything—besides Kyra.

"I was off on your mission," she replied sweetly. Her voice dripped with cinnamon and sugar, a caramel sound that was so unlike what she used to speak normally. But this was a special case, considering she had to do everything she could to keep from angering him (further, at least).

"A mission that was supposed to take a total of four days!" The king slammed his fist against the table, causing an hourglass weight to sway back and forth like a drunken sailor.

Eryssa frowned, her soft green eyes narrowing with concern. Just what had she missed in the past week? She opened her mouth, but before any words had formed, she was interrupted by the crashing sound of King Malum's hourglass hitting the floor. She flinched at the impact, staring at the now shattered pieces coating the thick red carpet.

"Sorry," she mumbled sadly. Her gaze remained on the glass as if, somehow, those freshly cut pieces were her fault, too. The king kicked the pieces out of his way, roaring for someone to go get a maid. Then he walked over to Eryssa, a frown still pulled into his skin, the rivets dipping inwards due to age, stress, and poor genetics.