A Court of Flame & Shadow - Eris x OC

The Sewer

After dinner, Eris only made sure Beron made his way to the dungeons before going back to his own rooms. He collected the three pouches of food, a skein of water, a rope, and his two daggers, donning a dark cloak over his current clothes. Glamoured into the shadows of the hallway, waiting for Beron to emerge from the stairwell, Eris had time to mull over his thoughts again.

He was risking everything to save one life. It all started because he had wanted to go against his father – first to figure out why he was lying, then to stop him from gaining more power. Nyoka had said that by capturing Vel, Beron could remain High Lord forever. But if Vel died, her powers would presumably die with her. And Eris knew she wouldn't break. Even with her bones sticking out of her back she had defied the High Lord with every ounce of her being. Some strange feeling bubbled in his blood – respect, pride? He'd been on both sides of those chains and he'd never seen a spirit so unbroken in a body so thoroughly brutalized. But still, all she could do was die. And Beron would burn and boil and rage, but he would ultimately lose his advantage. Hells, Eris could even sneak in and kill her himself, to make sure there were no surprises. It would be much less risky than his current intention. And yet ...

Eris placed a hand over his forearm, willing warmth to travel down to her. He wanted to save her, no matter how minuscule their chances were. He had been telling himself she would make a valuable ally – whatever her power was that could keep someone on the throne eternally. Being owed a debt by someone like that would undoubtedly prove useful. And yet ...

Eris was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. Two pairs. The guards were returning to their posts. He waited, counting the seconds, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He made sure his glamour was still strong. Surely enough, he heard and then saw the High Lord come up the steps of the dungeon. A scowl was plastered on his face and his hands were balled into fists so tight that his knuckles were white, no blood in sight but the stench was unmistakable. Eris, still as death and holding his breath, wondered what his father's blood would smell like when he opened his throat – would he bleed red or would his blood mimic the rot in his soul?

He waited until his father was out of earshot and then waited a few long minutes more. Then, he slipped down the stairs on cat-light feet. One level, two, three, down and around. Five levels, six, seven, the darkness grew deeper, the air colder. Ten levels, eleven, twelve, the smell of damp stone and rotten things welcomed him back. Fifteen levels, sixteen, seventeen, he wondered if this is where he would end up if his plan failed. He reached the bottom on the twentieth level and took his daggers out. The handles were cool but familiar against his palms. The echo carried the voices of the guards to him. And something else. Drip.

"How long until she's dead do you think?" one of them asked.

"A long time. I think the High Lord will bring in healers if it looks like the Mother might take her." Drip.

"I don't think he will trust anyone else enough to bring them down. Hells, our squad is the only one standing guard here." Eris knew the male was referring to the High Lord's personal guard. There were twelve of them in total, all of them picked for their ambition, cruelty, and general lack of scruples. Some had magic, but they were mainly trained in combat. Drip. "I bet she'll be dead within a fortni-." Eris's dagger sliced the air and found its target just above the first male's vocal cords. The moment he let the weapon fly, the prince was already on the move towards the other guard. As the first dagger struck, he slit the throat of the second male. They both fell to the floor with a thud. Eris made sure they were dead before checking their pockets for anything of use. No keys – Beron likely held the one and only key for the chains. A slight setback but one that he'd anticipated. Drip.

He stepped into the room slowly, taking in every detail. Drip.

The scene before him was even more gruesome than the day before. Vel was still hanging by her hands in the middle of the circular room but there was now so much blood on the floor – reflecting the cruelty of the High Lord of the Autumn Court. Right under her feet stood an overflowing bucket. Drip. Collecting blood. There were countless vials of it on the table, next to the tools Beron had used on her – a mallet, a whip, a knife, a branding iron.