The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 22 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 23; Pillaging
Thomaz the Tyrant King stood tall in his iron-chained chariot, pulled by horses with blackened eyes and mouths foaming red. His grin was carved deep across his face, wide and wrong, a grin that had seen too much death and wanted more. His eyes sparkled with glee as the villagers of Pincreme scattered, screaming, clutching their children as they ran barefoot through mud and ash. Babies wailed. The air stank of smoke and fear.
Behind him, his soldiers descended like wolves. They ripped through homes with blood-slick blades, snatching jewelry, carved icons, and sacred books, tossing what wasn’t useful into the fires they lit with cruel laughter. A scripture burned mid-air, its pages curling like dry leaves as it floated down into the dirt.
Among them walked Rubian, slow, calm, unbothered, as if the massacre were a garden stroll. Grey fire smouldered in his hands, flickering soundlessly like ghosts. He tossed the flames casually into thatched roofs, watching them erupt in sudden violence. His eyes, pale and rimmed in shadow, reflected the burning homes like twin mirrors of damnation.
In the corner of the village, unseen in a broken barn, crouched Jeremy, a sleek black were-cat with a strange ginger crest that curled like flame across one side of his face. His yellow eyes narrowed as he watched. No one in Pincreme knew his truth. To them, he was a stray. But Jeremy saw everything. He saw the cruelty. The indifference. He saw Rubian’s magic carve death into the air.
Rubian passed near the barn. Jeremy hissed low, his back arching, claws flexing in the dirt.
Rubian paused. Smirked.
Then moved on.
He stepped into a small cottage that hadn’t yet been ransacked, its door ajar, untouched, almost inviting. Inside, the air was quiet and still. A young woman stood there, frozen in fear, her long golden hair tangled from running, her breathing fast and shallow. Her figure was elegant, sculpted, though trembling now.
Rubian tilted his head as he stepped in, eyes scanning the room, books still on the shelves, a carved idol untouched, a half-eaten loaf of bread on the table. He smiled, sly and cruel, not from desire, but from power. From domination.
He crossed the room in one step, seized her by the throat. He dragged her into the back room and threw her down onto the bed, not with lust, but with purpose.
“You live here?” he asked, voice like coal under pressure. “What secrets are hidden in this place?” He said with a smirk.
She gasped, clutching her throat, trying to speak.
Rubian leaned in, close enough for her to smell the smoke on his breath.
Outside, Jeremy crouched lower, his tail lashing. His muscles tensed. His eyes didn’t blink.
Rubian pressed his weight onto the woman, his face inches from hers, breath hot and sour. His hand moved hovering over her body stopping just above her breasts, then slowly moved just above her stomach, heat rolling off it in waves. “Such a shame,” he whispered, voice like boiling tar. “You're beautiful enough to be a queen. My queen, perhaps... if I were the sort who married.”
His eyes darkened to a swirling smokey grey, and the air around his palm shimmered. The woman screamed, writhing as the heat began to sear through her dress, branding her without contact. She clawed at the sheets, kicking, but he didn’t even flinch.
Then, movement. A blur of fur.
Jeremy sprang from the shadows like a thrown dagger, his sleek black body a streak of silent fury. His claws raked deep across Rubian’s back, thin red lines slicing through cloth and skin alike. Blood spattered the bedframe. Rubian shrieked, not in pain, but in raw, murderous outrage.
With a snarl, Rubian twisted violently, magic pulsing from his limbs. The bed exploded into the air, crashing sideways into the stone wall. The woman was thrown from it like a ragdoll, her body slamming hard into the corner, crumpling with a sickening thud. She didn’t move at first.
Jeremy vanished into a heap of discarded clothes, his breathing low, his eyes locked on Rubian. For a heartbeat, everything was still.
Then, her chest rose. Barely. Jeremy exhaled through his nose in silent relief.
Rubian stood in the center of the room, trembling with rage, blood running down his back. His fingers grazed the wounds, and came back red. He grinned.
“That little beast,” he muttered.
But something else caught his eye, a glint, like moonlight beneath water. As he stepped forward, he saw where the bed had been dragged across the floorboards, a crack between planks. Something shimmered there. Curious.
With a sharp motion, he tore the boards loose, splinters flying.
There, nestled in dust and forgotten cloth, lay a delicate necklace. It shimmered faintly, not with light, but with presence. Inlaid with tiny opals and sapphires, the gems pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.
Rubian’s expression shifted. Gone was the predator’s grin, replaced by something colder. Calculating.
He snatched the necklace from its resting place and held it up to the dying light filtering through the window. The magic thrummed against his skin, subtle, but old. Ancient.
He turned once toward the woman’s crumpled body. Then, without a word, he strode from the house.
Outside, Thomaz the Tyrant King stood watching the flames rise, arms crossed, eyes gleaming. He turned as Rubian approached, handing over the necklace without ceremony.
“It was buried beneath the floorboards,” Rubian said simply. “Protected. Hidden. And still humming.”
Thomaz surveyed the carnage, his twisted grin fading into a snarl.
"Round up the villagers!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the crackle of flames. "I want them all here… in the center!"
His soldiers obeyed at once, hounds unleashed. They dragged the last cowering survivors from alleys and cellars, seizing them by their hair, throats, ankles, whatever they could grab. Screams echoed as men, women, and children were hauled across the scorched ground, shoved to their knees beneath the ruined town square.
"You will fucking bow before your king!" Thomaz roared.
Trembling, the villagers lowered themselves into pathetic, groveling postures. Faces pressed to the dirt. No one spoke. No one dared breathe too loudly.
Thomaz raised the necklace high, the sapphires and opals catching the light of the burning village behind him. His eyes scanned the broken crowd.
"Who does this belong to?"
He pointed at a thin, hollow-cheeked man near the front.
The man shook his head wildly, tears spilling from his eyes. "N-not mine— please, I—"
Thomaz didn’t even look at Rubian. He just nodded.
Rubian stepped forward like a ghost. Silent. Efficient. His blade slid across the man’s throat in a clean arc. Blood sprayed the ground.
The villagers screamed. Some tried to run. The soldiers clubbed them down without hesitation.
Then, from the shadows of a burned-out cottage, she appeared.
Staggering. Bloody. Clutching her stomach where scorched flesh peeked through torn fabric. Her blonde hair was matted and singed, her face pale from pain — but her voice, when it came, was steady.
“It’s mine.”
Gasps broke through the crowd.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she said, voice tight. “Passed down for generations… my king.”
Thomaz's head turned slowly. His expression darkened as he descended from the chariot, the necklace swinging from his hand.
The dirt crunched beneath his boots as he approached her.
“You,” he growled.
Ophelia didn’t move. She could barely stand.
Thomaz’s hand shot out, wrapping around her throat. With unnatural strength, he lifted her into the air, her legs kicking, her breath caught in a choking gasp. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, but his grip was iron.
“I know who you are,” Thomaz snarled, his voice a venomous whisper. “Ophelia Garrick.”
Her eyes widened, the name stabbing through the fog of pain.
“You were my first fuck,” he hissed. “And now... you’re going to give me everything.”
He held the necklace up beside her face.
“Starting with this.”
“When you fucked me,” Ophelia said, her voice rough but defiant, “you were a gentleman… not an asshole.”
A beat of silence. Then Thomaz laughed, sharp, jagged, and cruel.
He let go of her throat, and she crumpled to the ground like dropped meat.
“That was a long time ago, little kitten,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “The boy you knew is dead. This is who I am now.”
From behind a toppled planter, Jeremy crept forward, slow as breath, claws extended, his black fur blending with soot and shadow. His ears twitched, every muscle coiled.
Thomaz circled her like a wolf.
“How did you get that burn on your stomach?”
Ophelia spat at the ground. Then raised a trembling arm and pointed straight at Rubian.
Rubian didn’t flinch. He gave a lazy shrug, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I wanted her to be my wife. She said no.”
Thomaz raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you liked bitchy blondes.”
Rubian chuckled. “I like it when they fight back. Especially in the bedroom, my king.”
The soldiers roared with laughter.
Thomaz’s expression snapped. He turned on them with a snarl, eyes flashing.
The laughter died instantly.
He turned back to Ophelia, now curled on her side, her burned dress falling off her shoulders showing more of her bruised body and blood covered cleavage.
Her breaths were shallow. But her eyes, they still burned with defiance.
And she wasn’t talking.
Thomaz crouched beside her, the necklace dangling from his fingers like bait. But no matter what he asked, about its power, its history, its origin, Ophelia gave him nothing. She didn’t know.
Thomaz stood with a growl. “Tie her up,” he snapped. “To the tree trunk. Let her watch what loyalty costs.”
Two soldiers yanked her to her feet. She cried out, stumbling, but they dragged her across the village square and tied her to the wide, gnarled oak at its center, the old execution tree.
“Rubian,” Thomaz said, handing the necklace to his warlock with utter disgust, “kill everyone else. Burn them. Bleed them. I don’t care how.”
The soldiers looked at each other, almost surprised. The crowd of villagers began to sob, tremble, plead.
“But leave her alive,” Thomaz added, his voice low and venomous. “It’s her fault this happened. Hiding banned magical artifacts from her king.”
Rubian's hand curled around the necklace. The gems pulsed faintly against his skin, like a heartbeat waiting to awaken.
“I’ll make it quick,” he said with false kindness. Then added, with a twisted smile: “For some.”
The villagers screamed as soldiers moved in with blades and torches.
And behind the broken pots, Jeremy bared his teeth.
Jeremy had waited long enough.
He knew he couldn’t kill the king, but he could wound him. Humiliate him. Make him bleed.
His yellow eyes scanned the square, calculating every angle. Then, like a black blur, he darted forward, silent and swift, dodging between burning carts and toppled barrels. Smoke curled around him as he leapt onto a low, crumbling rooftop. Flames licked at the beams beneath him, searing the edges of his fur, but pain meant nothing now.
He crouched. Focused. Then launched.
The were-cat flew through the smoke-choked air, claws extended, and slammed into Thomaz’s chest. The impact knocked the tyrant king off his feet, crashing to the ground with a heavy thud.
Before the soldiers could react, Jeremy's claws raked across Thomaz's face in four deep, curved lines, from forehead to jaw, blood blooming instantly.
“You’re a fucking prick, Thomaz,” Jeremy hissed through bared teeth.
Thomaz howled in rage.
The soldiers surged, blades drawn.
“Kill it!” one shouted.
But Jeremy was already gone, slipping between legs, ducking under a swinging axe, sprinting like liquid shadow. Rubian raised his arm, grey fire crackling into existence. He hurled fireball after fireball, the air shimmering with heat, but every one missed. Jeremy twisted, leapt, ran straight through the chaos like he belonged to it.
“I FUCKING HATE CATS!” Thomaz roared, staggering to his feet, blood streaming down his face.
The four claw marks carved across his regal features were raw and red, cutting deep through skin and pride.
“Who’d have thought a cat would do something like that?” one soldier muttered, still shaken.
“Yeah,” another nodded. “Fast little demon.”
Rubian snarled. “Not a cat. A were-cat. A shitty, bastard, annoying were-cat.”
The soldiers fell silent at the venom in his voice.
Rubian didn’t need to explain further. The name alone made most of them shiver.
“Get back to it,” he barked. “The king gave his orders.”
They obeyed. Blades flashed. Fire spread. Screams rang out and were quickly snuffed. The remaining villagers were butchered like cattle, their only crime: being born in the wrong place.
And the village of Pincreme, ancient, once peaceful, was now erased in blood and flame.
Ophelia watched it all, tied to the charred trunk of the old tree, silent tears tracing down her soot-covered cheeks. She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She just watched.
Until Rubian returned.
He approached slowly, arrogantly, like a victor coming to claim a prize. He gripped her chin with fingers like iron and forced her face upward. Then, without warning, he kissed her, cruel, rough, lips like ash and stone.
She winced, struggling, but he only smirked.
“Last chance,” he said, his breath hot and sour. “Will you marry me?”
Ophelia’s eyes, red with smoke and pain, hardened with disgust.
She spat in his face.
Rubian recoiled slightly, but only chuckled, a low, humorless sound.
From the chariot, Thomaz growled, “Leave the bitch alone, Rubian!”
Rubian turned as the king dabbed at his face with a bloodstained cloth. Thomaz picked up a dented copper plate from the debris and held it up, using the reflection to examine the damage. The four jagged gashes carved by Jeremy’s claws stared back at him like a curse.
He flinched, recoiling from his new appearance knowing full well these were going to scar.
He tossed the plate aside and climbed up onto his chariot. Rubian mounted his black warhorse, gripping the reins with one hand, the pulsing magical necklace still clutched in the other.
“Move out!” Thomaz roared.
The soldiers formed ranks, two columns, front and rear, flanking the king’s chariot as it rolled forward. Rubian followed, his cold gaze never once glancing back.
The pillaged village smoldered in silence behind them.
And there, broken, and bound, slumped Ophelia, unconscious and barely breathing, still tied to the blackened tree trunk. A single breeze stirred her blood-matted hair.
Chapter 23; Pillaging
Thomaz the Tyrant King stood tall in his iron-chained chariot, pulled by horses with blackened eyes and mouths foaming red. His grin was carved deep across his face, wide and wrong, a grin that had seen too much death and wanted more. His eyes sparkled with glee as the villagers of Pincreme scattered, screaming, clutching their children as they ran barefoot through mud and ash. Babies wailed. The air stank of smoke and fear.
Behind him, his soldiers descended like wolves. They ripped through homes with blood-slick blades, snatching jewelry, carved icons, and sacred books, tossing what wasn’t useful into the fires they lit with cruel laughter. A scripture burned mid-air, its pages curling like dry leaves as it floated down into the dirt.
Among them walked Rubian, slow, calm, unbothered, as if the massacre were a garden stroll. Grey fire smouldered in his hands, flickering soundlessly like ghosts. He tossed the flames casually into thatched roofs, watching them erupt in sudden violence. His eyes, pale and rimmed in shadow, reflected the burning homes like twin mirrors of damnation.
In the corner of the village, unseen in a broken barn, crouched Jeremy, a sleek black were-cat with a strange ginger crest that curled like flame across one side of his face. His yellow eyes narrowed as he watched. No one in Pincreme knew his truth. To them, he was a stray. But Jeremy saw everything. He saw the cruelty. The indifference. He saw Rubian’s magic carve death into the air.
Rubian passed near the barn. Jeremy hissed low, his back arching, claws flexing in the dirt.
Rubian paused. Smirked.
Then moved on.
He stepped into a small cottage that hadn’t yet been ransacked, its door ajar, untouched, almost inviting. Inside, the air was quiet and still. A young woman stood there, frozen in fear, her long golden hair tangled from running, her breathing fast and shallow. Her figure was elegant, sculpted, though trembling now.
Rubian tilted his head as he stepped in, eyes scanning the room, books still on the shelves, a carved idol untouched, a half-eaten loaf of bread on the table. He smiled, sly and cruel, not from desire, but from power. From domination.
He crossed the room in one step, seized her by the throat. He dragged her into the back room and threw her down onto the bed, not with lust, but with purpose.
“You live here?” he asked, voice like coal under pressure. “What secrets are hidden in this place?” He said with a smirk.
She gasped, clutching her throat, trying to speak.
Rubian leaned in, close enough for her to smell the smoke on his breath.
Outside, Jeremy crouched lower, his tail lashing. His muscles tensed. His eyes didn’t blink.
Rubian pressed his weight onto the woman, his face inches from hers, breath hot and sour. His hand moved hovering over her body stopping just above her breasts, then slowly moved just above her stomach, heat rolling off it in waves. “Such a shame,” he whispered, voice like boiling tar. “You're beautiful enough to be a queen. My queen, perhaps... if I were the sort who married.”
His eyes darkened to a swirling smokey grey, and the air around his palm shimmered. The woman screamed, writhing as the heat began to sear through her dress, branding her without contact. She clawed at the sheets, kicking, but he didn’t even flinch.
Then, movement. A blur of fur.
Jeremy sprang from the shadows like a thrown dagger, his sleek black body a streak of silent fury. His claws raked deep across Rubian’s back, thin red lines slicing through cloth and skin alike. Blood spattered the bedframe. Rubian shrieked, not in pain, but in raw, murderous outrage.
With a snarl, Rubian twisted violently, magic pulsing from his limbs. The bed exploded into the air, crashing sideways into the stone wall. The woman was thrown from it like a ragdoll, her body slamming hard into the corner, crumpling with a sickening thud. She didn’t move at first.
Jeremy vanished into a heap of discarded clothes, his breathing low, his eyes locked on Rubian. For a heartbeat, everything was still.
Then, her chest rose. Barely. Jeremy exhaled through his nose in silent relief.
Rubian stood in the center of the room, trembling with rage, blood running down his back. His fingers grazed the wounds, and came back red. He grinned.
“That little beast,” he muttered.
But something else caught his eye, a glint, like moonlight beneath water. As he stepped forward, he saw where the bed had been dragged across the floorboards, a crack between planks. Something shimmered there. Curious.
With a sharp motion, he tore the boards loose, splinters flying.
There, nestled in dust and forgotten cloth, lay a delicate necklace. It shimmered faintly, not with light, but with presence. Inlaid with tiny opals and sapphires, the gems pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.
Rubian’s expression shifted. Gone was the predator’s grin, replaced by something colder. Calculating.
He snatched the necklace from its resting place and held it up to the dying light filtering through the window. The magic thrummed against his skin, subtle, but old. Ancient.
He turned once toward the woman’s crumpled body. Then, without a word, he strode from the house.
Outside, Thomaz the Tyrant King stood watching the flames rise, arms crossed, eyes gleaming. He turned as Rubian approached, handing over the necklace without ceremony.
“It was buried beneath the floorboards,” Rubian said simply. “Protected. Hidden. And still humming.”
Thomaz surveyed the carnage, his twisted grin fading into a snarl.
"Round up the villagers!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the crackle of flames. "I want them all here… in the center!"
His soldiers obeyed at once, hounds unleashed. They dragged the last cowering survivors from alleys and cellars, seizing them by their hair, throats, ankles, whatever they could grab. Screams echoed as men, women, and children were hauled across the scorched ground, shoved to their knees beneath the ruined town square.
"You will fucking bow before your king!" Thomaz roared.
Trembling, the villagers lowered themselves into pathetic, groveling postures. Faces pressed to the dirt. No one spoke. No one dared breathe too loudly.
Thomaz raised the necklace high, the sapphires and opals catching the light of the burning village behind him. His eyes scanned the broken crowd.
"Who does this belong to?"
He pointed at a thin, hollow-cheeked man near the front.
The man shook his head wildly, tears spilling from his eyes. "N-not mine— please, I—"
Thomaz didn’t even look at Rubian. He just nodded.
Rubian stepped forward like a ghost. Silent. Efficient. His blade slid across the man’s throat in a clean arc. Blood sprayed the ground.
The villagers screamed. Some tried to run. The soldiers clubbed them down without hesitation.
Then, from the shadows of a burned-out cottage, she appeared.
Staggering. Bloody. Clutching her stomach where scorched flesh peeked through torn fabric. Her blonde hair was matted and singed, her face pale from pain — but her voice, when it came, was steady.
“It’s mine.”
Gasps broke through the crowd.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she said, voice tight. “Passed down for generations… my king.”
Thomaz's head turned slowly. His expression darkened as he descended from the chariot, the necklace swinging from his hand.
The dirt crunched beneath his boots as he approached her.
“You,” he growled.
Ophelia didn’t move. She could barely stand.
Thomaz’s hand shot out, wrapping around her throat. With unnatural strength, he lifted her into the air, her legs kicking, her breath caught in a choking gasp. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, but his grip was iron.
“I know who you are,” Thomaz snarled, his voice a venomous whisper. “Ophelia Garrick.”
Her eyes widened, the name stabbing through the fog of pain.
“You were my first fuck,” he hissed. “And now... you’re going to give me everything.”
He held the necklace up beside her face.
“Starting with this.”
“When you fucked me,” Ophelia said, her voice rough but defiant, “you were a gentleman… not an asshole.”
A beat of silence. Then Thomaz laughed, sharp, jagged, and cruel.
He let go of her throat, and she crumpled to the ground like dropped meat.
“That was a long time ago, little kitten,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “The boy you knew is dead. This is who I am now.”
From behind a toppled planter, Jeremy crept forward, slow as breath, claws extended, his black fur blending with soot and shadow. His ears twitched, every muscle coiled.
Thomaz circled her like a wolf.
“How did you get that burn on your stomach?”
Ophelia spat at the ground. Then raised a trembling arm and pointed straight at Rubian.
Rubian didn’t flinch. He gave a lazy shrug, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I wanted her to be my wife. She said no.”
Thomaz raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you liked bitchy blondes.”
Rubian chuckled. “I like it when they fight back. Especially in the bedroom, my king.”
The soldiers roared with laughter.
Thomaz’s expression snapped. He turned on them with a snarl, eyes flashing.
The laughter died instantly.
He turned back to Ophelia, now curled on her side, her burned dress falling off her shoulders showing more of her bruised body and blood covered cleavage.
Her breaths were shallow. But her eyes, they still burned with defiance.
And she wasn’t talking.
Thomaz crouched beside her, the necklace dangling from his fingers like bait. But no matter what he asked, about its power, its history, its origin, Ophelia gave him nothing. She didn’t know.
Thomaz stood with a growl. “Tie her up,” he snapped. “To the tree trunk. Let her watch what loyalty costs.”
Two soldiers yanked her to her feet. She cried out, stumbling, but they dragged her across the village square and tied her to the wide, gnarled oak at its center, the old execution tree.
“Rubian,” Thomaz said, handing the necklace to his warlock with utter disgust, “kill everyone else. Burn them. Bleed them. I don’t care how.”
The soldiers looked at each other, almost surprised. The crowd of villagers began to sob, tremble, plead.
“But leave her alive,” Thomaz added, his voice low and venomous. “It’s her fault this happened. Hiding banned magical artifacts from her king.”
Rubian's hand curled around the necklace. The gems pulsed faintly against his skin, like a heartbeat waiting to awaken.
“I’ll make it quick,” he said with false kindness. Then added, with a twisted smile: “For some.”
The villagers screamed as soldiers moved in with blades and torches.
And behind the broken pots, Jeremy bared his teeth.
Jeremy had waited long enough.
He knew he couldn’t kill the king, but he could wound him. Humiliate him. Make him bleed.
His yellow eyes scanned the square, calculating every angle. Then, like a black blur, he darted forward, silent and swift, dodging between burning carts and toppled barrels. Smoke curled around him as he leapt onto a low, crumbling rooftop. Flames licked at the beams beneath him, searing the edges of his fur, but pain meant nothing now.
He crouched. Focused. Then launched.
The were-cat flew through the smoke-choked air, claws extended, and slammed into Thomaz’s chest. The impact knocked the tyrant king off his feet, crashing to the ground with a heavy thud.
Before the soldiers could react, Jeremy's claws raked across Thomaz's face in four deep, curved lines, from forehead to jaw, blood blooming instantly.
“You’re a fucking prick, Thomaz,” Jeremy hissed through bared teeth.
Thomaz howled in rage.
The soldiers surged, blades drawn.
“Kill it!” one shouted.
But Jeremy was already gone, slipping between legs, ducking under a swinging axe, sprinting like liquid shadow. Rubian raised his arm, grey fire crackling into existence. He hurled fireball after fireball, the air shimmering with heat, but every one missed. Jeremy twisted, leapt, ran straight through the chaos like he belonged to it.
“I FUCKING HATE CATS!” Thomaz roared, staggering to his feet, blood streaming down his face.
The four claw marks carved across his regal features were raw and red, cutting deep through skin and pride.
“Who’d have thought a cat would do something like that?” one soldier muttered, still shaken.
“Yeah,” another nodded. “Fast little demon.”
Rubian snarled. “Not a cat. A were-cat. A shitty, bastard, annoying were-cat.”
The soldiers fell silent at the venom in his voice.
Rubian didn’t need to explain further. The name alone made most of them shiver.
“Get back to it,” he barked. “The king gave his orders.”
They obeyed. Blades flashed. Fire spread. Screams rang out and were quickly snuffed. The remaining villagers were butchered like cattle, their only crime: being born in the wrong place.
And the village of Pincreme, ancient, once peaceful, was now erased in blood and flame.
Ophelia watched it all, tied to the charred trunk of the old tree, silent tears tracing down her soot-covered cheeks. She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She just watched.
Until Rubian returned.
He approached slowly, arrogantly, like a victor coming to claim a prize. He gripped her chin with fingers like iron and forced her face upward. Then, without warning, he kissed her, cruel, rough, lips like ash and stone.
She winced, struggling, but he only smirked.
“Last chance,” he said, his breath hot and sour. “Will you marry me?”
Ophelia’s eyes, red with smoke and pain, hardened with disgust.
She spat in his face.
Rubian recoiled slightly, but only chuckled, a low, humorless sound.
From the chariot, Thomaz growled, “Leave the bitch alone, Rubian!”
Rubian turned as the king dabbed at his face with a bloodstained cloth. Thomaz picked up a dented copper plate from the debris and held it up, using the reflection to examine the damage. The four jagged gashes carved by Jeremy’s claws stared back at him like a curse.
He flinched, recoiling from his new appearance knowing full well these were going to scar.
He tossed the plate aside and climbed up onto his chariot. Rubian mounted his black warhorse, gripping the reins with one hand, the pulsing magical necklace still clutched in the other.
“Move out!” Thomaz roared.
The soldiers formed ranks, two columns, front and rear, flanking the king’s chariot as it rolled forward. Rubian followed, his cold gaze never once glancing back.
The pillaged village smoldered in silence behind them.
And there, broken, and bound, slumped Ophelia, unconscious and barely breathing, still tied to the blackened tree trunk. A single breeze stirred her blood-matted hair.
