Wings of Serpents

Chapter 10

•••

Moments before the separation;

A hissing sound swished through the air, clearing the blur from a set of deep hardened eyes. "Fall..." the prince choked out, "...Back" he sucked the air missing from his lungs back in and tried to stand, slipping as he put pressure on his palms, a pool of blood surrounding him. The slaughtered cattle. They were cattle he told himself and he slaughtered them like animals, to him they had no names, they had only a mark, a mark telling him they have to die. Two guards, still breathing gathered their own strength and took an arm each of the Prince's and lifted him up. "We must go." The prince commanded the two.

"What about the Lord? Sir." The one began to speak out in protest.

"What about him? are you going to tell him?" He asked the one, his eyes then darting to the other, with an intensity in them much like his father's. The prince asked "are you?".

The one's eyes dilated and widened, "no, sir." He submitted.

"No, sir." The other agreed.

"We can considered them dead," Lucien took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring briefly; he applied pressure to the soles of his feet, announcing his height over the guards. "They're dropping straight into the dead zone, they will not make it two miles, and neither will we, if we do not leave this ship." His eyes hardened. "Now follow me." He said with a hoarse voice, the air taking its time to have it's affect.

"Yes, sir." They said in unison and followed him.

•••

The York's throne sat elevated by a dais connected to rounded white stone steps connected to the marbled stone made up of the whole throne room. Lord Kasavar sat on the high throne adorned with sliver and amethyst detailings against its black structure, at the head of the throne, thorns sticked out of the top and it is foretold, anyone not suited to sit upon the throne, touches the thorns and it will draw blood, and the one who is suited for the throne will not lose a single drop of blood from its thorns.

Lord Kasavar peered down at the two young female servants by his feet, one holding up a sliver tray known to be of one of the last presidents of the old world, which held fresh fruit, strawberries and blueberries grown from the York's very own hydroponic farms, for most fruit it takes years to yield a decent harvest and the Lord is the first to indulge in its labour. He plucked the strawberry from the tray and sunk his pearly white teeth into it. The juice collecting on the hairs of his moustache, Lord Kasavar's grimaced and one of the servant's, rushed in with a handkerchief and gently patted the area dry. Lord Kasavar brought his rough hand up and the servants raised from their kneeling position. "You are to tell me that my daughter will not have a single decent piece of fruit on her birthday."

"My Lord, perhaps the plant we harvested was defected."

"Perhaps so," he said with distasteful mockery. "Return when you have something remotely edible and something I will not expel the contents of my lunch when I bite into it."

The servant girls stood, taking a bow before silently leaving. Out from the doors where they left at the end of the throne room, a guard at his post popped in, immediately taking a knee in front of his Lord. "My Lord, the last expedition has returned."

"Send him in."

The guard obliged.

"Father."The exasperated Prince with swollen dark circles spoke as the doors were closed behind him.