THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  Solvanel was in the middle of a whirlpool.

  The instrument raced circles in the sand, drawing up a cloud of dust which inhibited his vision. Or at least, it seemed to think it would.

  The crook hummed on his back with impatience, simply itching to scold a disobedient child. But its master ignored the call.

  My eyes can see through everything!

  Therefore, the swiftness of my palms is sufficient to slap you silly!

  He traced the weapon perfectly, adjusting to the speed of the azure bolt.

  Feet planted firmly in the grains, ready for a strike… that never came.

  When the buzzing went across the sand and shook their skulls, both the shepherd and the needle lost interest in the battle.

  A pair of Essaifamés landed on nearby rooftops, each one large enough to block out the sun, had it the courage to shine over this forsaken place.

  Segmented torsos thick as beams, hind legs cocked like siege engines, and stained-glass wings that folded in translucent sheets veined with smoke-dark lines. Chitinous armour reflected dim light in oily waves. And their antennae swept the air in slow, searching arcs.

  Saint tightened his grip on the axe. “Looks like I’ve been lounging around for too long. What happened to the days when you used to kill something, and it stayed dead?”

  The shade gasped. “Oh my, what a looker! That angular jaw with that long, pretty, black mane. You remind me of that delicate little emperor whom I strangled centuries ago. Hmm… Come to think of it, it wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of boy-toys to warm my cold, dead bodies after a long day of slaughter.”

  “I’ll pass on that one. I don’t date girls with a body count higher than mine.”

  The mercenary covered his mouth delicately. “Aww! And funny, too.”

  The Essaifamés chittered alongside it, as if they could have possibly understood the joke.

  What they already had in size, their murky breath doubled in sheer ravenousness, their mandibles working on nothing, grinding as if tasting the meat from a distance.

  The needle drilled the air with rage.

  ____________________

  MOINS AFFAME DU BANQUET

  Rank : D

  Corpse of Cedrick Goodhall.

  Currently inhabited by an ancient grudge.

  Character

  ???

  ???

  ???

  Abilities

  APPEL DU BANQUET

  Un corps affamé par la cruauté de ce monde reviendra se repa?tre de sa chair.

  Given a taste of her hunger, corpses are called into the kingdom of the dead.

  MèRE DE LA MORT

  Dans la mort, tous les hommes sont égaux. Mais certains hommes sont plus égaux que d'autres.

  Due to the sheer power of her grudge, the being inhabiting this body exerts the highest order of control over the unburning.

  TOUCHE DE DéCADENCE

  Une peste qui affame.

  The effects of the Black Hand have been amplified by the power of death.

  Those inflicted by her touch undergo rapid deterioration.

  ____________________

  After peering into the shade’s composition, the shepherd’s main concern thus far was confirmed. Without the demoness to subdue the grudges of the covenant, the original laissè-soi had awakened.

  “I warned you not to kill that man.”

  “Eh, I can take her.”

  “And you. Is it not clear that the locusts grow stronger through feasting?”

  The instrument referred him to the previous drawing.

  Solvanel’s lips parted again.

  Ultimately, he shook his head.

  Stuck between these two in a place like this… these Heavens really ought to show him some pity.

  “Oooh!” The body she inhabited shuddered, a sudden and scandalous chill, like a bucket of fair water doused on a fair maiden’s spine during a lover’s romp. “If you wanted to catch a peek, all you had to do was ask. So, do you like what you see?”

  The shepherd’s response came belated. “…me?”

  “Of course. I know the feeling—when a man undresses you with his eyes. But you? You stripped me downright bare.” A soft, distorted giggle. “Do you like what you see?”

  “How did you-”

  “Call it a woman’s intuition.” The hollows of her eyes warmed with a purple glow. “Go on—take another look.”

  The crook hummed a tune of caution on his back. “Thank you. I refuse.”

  “Oh well. I don’t mind playing a game of hard to get.”

  Cracking the stone of its rooftop perch, one of her subjects shot down at the meagre slabs of meat. Dust rained from the buildings as stained-glass wings flitted. Antennae tasting the vibration of their heartbeats in the air.

  “Get behind me!” Solvanel obstructed the drunkard.

  He lamented the bar of silver still reforming in his right pocket. His weapons, a tired body and a stick with no special abilities of its own.

  Then, the shepherd remembered…

  As it tore through the air, buzzing a frequency that resounded in his head and his nape, he raised the crook, golden strands of light gravitating to his chest. And in serpentine, the shepherd spoke the simple command: ? paralysie! ?

  Solvanel slammed the crook.

  The colour of the word rippled outward from the base of the staff. It struck the shade first, encasing the insect in a yellow glow. Restricted by the terms of his command, its wings became rigid along with everything else. And it dropped—ploughing a straight line through the sand—coming to a halt at the shepherd’s feet.

  Its antenna twitched defiantly, but that was all.

  The tension drained from his shoulders by a fraction. He was almost hesitant to believe it. The silence of their astonishment confirmed the fruit of his gamble.

  “I told you I’m not a kid,” whispered the shepherd, forgetting himself.

  But there was no response.

  In front of him: that haughty laissè-soi, locked mid-grin.

  Behind him: Saint in mid-protest, winding up to throw the axe. He mumbled a half-genuine apology as he contemplated what he’d done.

  Shepherd’s Crook

  Rank: Origin

  [Gift of Genesis]

  [Aspect of Apotheosis]

  Choose with wisdom.

  Lead With Patience.

  Spare the Rod

  I. Curse of Paralysis

  As expected, his grandmother’s finger was no longer on his person.

  Solvanel turned, eager to see the expression on that foolish instrument.

  However, the needle tore past him, piercing the carapace of the first Essaifamè and carrying straight through into the next. In the space of a blink, the instrument and both shades vanished into the city, swallowed by ruins before he could even process what had happened—

  An impending chill!

  Solvanel turned as lifeless fingers closed on empty air, grasping for his throat just as he slipped aside.

  The shadespawn licked the blood dripping down her forehead, looking somewhat amused. “Well, well. Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

  “Hold your tongue, o’ lightless creature,” he said with a sneer, circling it. “A horde of the dead lies underneath this place. And yet, you waited for this man to die instead. As it stands, you are a pitiful excuse for a laissè-soi. Therefore, I am more than capable of vanquishing you here.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  It cackled, showing true anger for the first time.

  However, the unburning’s tone became that much sweeter—that much more unfitting for the mercenary’s corpse.

  “A laissè-soi?’ It asked, giggling into its bloody palm. It went on and on until he felt like he’d been left out of a good joke. “Open those borrowed eyes and take a good look at my composition, boy. This body can’t hold a fraction of my abilities. And it’s still more than enough to devour you whole!”

  Solvanel’s stomach sank.

  The crook shivered in his hold.

  A sickly-green flame ignited in the dead man’s chest, purple at the core.

  And a damsel’s hopeful sweetness became a spinster’s bitter sob as she spoke into the world, saying, ? Gourmand! ?

  A powerful suction erupted at her feet.

  The sand collapsed inward.

  Dust, grit, and shattered tile lifted and streamed toward her in tight spirals, drawn to a single point. It was unlike a hole and unlike the darkness—unlike the earth opening to bury, and unlike the sky collapsing to take.

  Solvanel instinctively peered into the unknown and saw that first silhouette of a darling in her bridal gloves—a young fair maiden bathed in blood—he scarcely had the mind to ask himself why he’d seen her earnest face through his wrappings.

  For what he saw was appetite given autonomy.

  A body without need, pulling without mercy.

  The air followed.

  Reeking of decomposition, it rushed past Solvanel’s ears with a shriek of pressure, tugging at his wrappings, yanking loose fabric into ribbons. Every inhale stank and was debated, every exhale taken before it was finished.

  The world pressed his ribs like servile hands squeezing the life out of a pig and offering it to their master, raw.

  Loose debris skittered across the street.

  A broken plank, a bent nail, a curl of parchment—everything light enough to be bullied—scraped and hopped toward her feet, then vanished into that ravenous existence.

  And in the middle of it, she stood perfectly steady, hair and dress barely stirring.

  She was the second most beautiful woman in the world.

  And she was a throat into an abyss.

  Solvanel hooked the crook into a hole in the wall and held on for dear life.

  ____________________

  The outside world fell away, and he found himself in a different kind of darkness than what he was used to.

  Recognising the feeling of disconnection in his gut, he jolted, hitting his knee on the underside of the table.

  “Careful, now,” a teasing voice came from the head of the table. “Don’t want to show your nerves on a first date.”

  Solvanel found himself at one end of an endless banquet table.

  Across from him, impossibly far, across an infinity masquerading as distance, waited a blonde maiden of noble bearing, her youth fixed at an age not surpassing Sir Saint.

  Was she responsible?

  Was the world behind his eyes invaded again, like with ‘Not’?

  No.

  It bore no resemblance to his pastures of paradise.

  The sheep were gone, and the only white here was the silk spread.

  “Relax,” she said lazily. “Your eyes were prying all over the place. I just decided to open myself up.”

  “Release me from this place,” he said evenly.

  “For what? You’re the one who forced your way in,” she said. “Couldn’t resist it, could you? Peering into my composition. You won’t find much through this body, but I don’t hide. In fact, I’ll give you a tidbit right now.”

  She lowered her gaze to the cup in her hand, the blue of her eyes turning to red wine as it swirled. Her voice took on the soft, reminiscing cadence of a woman remembering a ballroom. “Everybody loves a pretty face, but nobody likes a glutton. You get big if you eat too much, so if she’s got the looks, you’re safe to assume she doesn’t have the appetite.

  “But me? I have both in excess. I love stuffing this face-card full. So, when I get a meal, I eat my plate down to the reflection, boy-toy—because I love seeing my face at the bottom.”

  The noblewoman tapped her cheek in a rather airheaded manner. “Now, since I want everyone in this world to be afraid of me, I had to come up with a name. The murder-killy ones weren’t my style, and the dark and dreary ones? Come on, what are we, twelve? But then, I was like, huh… this one will do me nicely!”

  “Because to men, there’s nothing more horrifying than a girl with an appetite. And women can’t stand another pretty face.” She let that sit, pleased with it. “So, I put two and two together and chose a name that tells the truth: whether it’s my looks or my hunger, either one will kill you dead.”

  Her smile sharpened. “If you had any balls about you, you’d already know.” She leaned in, voice turning sweet in a way that made it worse. “Go on… take a peek. I won’t bite…”

  Sensing no danger, he focused his eyes and saw the serpentine beneath her skin.

  Beauty of The Endless Feast

  ???

  This was the limit of what she wanted him to see. Everything else was completely hidden.

  “The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, her name is, ‘Beauty of the Endless Feast,’” she said proudly, tasting her own title. “Because there’s nothing like seeing this face on an empty platter.

  His eyes throbbed in sudden protest, and the world fell away.

  ____________________

  Her laughter rode the suction like light perfume over the stench of a battlefield. “Do you understand what you’re looking at, golden one?” she called over the shriek of air. “Is this the power of a being who’s been ‘left behind’?”

  The shade wreaking havoc in the real world was nothing like that self-obsessed dame. At the very least, that one could be mistaken for human.

  “I have devoured places whose names would make you kneel,” she went on, luxuriating in her own memory. “Cities of metal chariots and ivory gates. Cities that sang as they burned. Cities with markets so full you could taste the fruit from the neighbouring towns.”

  Sand lifted in sheets, skinning the street bare. Roof-dust poured from the eaves in streaming curtains, as if the buildings themselves were shedding. Saint’s rigid body inched closer through the grit, dragged along in stubborn, humiliating increments.

  Her tone softened. “You think you’re standing in ruin,” she said, smiling as if she could see inside his ribs. “This isn’t ruin. Ruin is an open field where mountains once stood. It’s where soldiers plant their flags, thinking they’ve found new territory. Ruin is a dish set that goes right back into the cabinet, because a single guest licked every platter clean, then went for the pot!”

  Her smile widened, indulgent and obscene. “Give up, little golden one. For I am Ruin! I am Beauty of the Feast,” she said. “And you are already on my tongue!”

  It turned, arm outstretched, hungering for Saint.

  Solvanel chose an instant.

  He released the crook.

  When his fingers let go, the world took him.

  He went through the air, weightless as the grains. But unlike them, he never reached her.

  She abandoned the hunger for Saint and reached him.

  Lifeless fingers closed around his neck with effortless precision. Solvanel dangled in her grip, toes scraping against the sand before being lifted out of reach, his throat pinned in a hold that was almost gentle—intimate—if not for the strength behind it.

  Goodhall’s face hovered at an uncomfortable distance.

  ? paral- ?

  It covered his mouth with the other hand.

  "Nuh-uh-uh. I usually like to play with my food, but I haven’t had a meal in centuries. I'm not waiting another second to dig in."

  The Black Hand poison crept under his skin with a wet, intimate hiss, like oil finding heat. It softened his flesh, threading itself along the veins in his neck, branching lines of corruption bulging underneath the surface.

  His mouth filled with the taste of metal and bitterness while his breath turned shallow.

  The flame in his chest stuttered once, offended, then strengthened to compensate, the golden strands travelling up his body to face the infection.

  Something surfaced in him like a splinter pushed out by the body.

  “Se…cond.” He tried to speak and only managed a wet intake.

  The poison hissed under his skin, but its grip loosened, curious.

  Solvanel forced the words up anyway, dragging them through a throat that didn’t want to obey him. “Second… most…” His voice cracked, strangled. He swallowed the pain and continued, “...beautiful.”

  “What’s that? Got some final words before I pick your bones.”

  The shade loosened its grip.

  “You are the…” Solvanel gasped. “…second most beautiful woman… I’ve ever seen.”

  The shade froze— surprise so clean it looked like innocence.

  “…What did you say?” she simmered, hands shaking.

  “The first is… the demoness...”

  “How dare you…”

  Behind it, the sand rasped. A single sound of movement where there had been none.

  Saint’s body jerked as if the world had finally loosened one of its rules.

  His arm continued its previous motion, his fingers closing around the handle of the throwing axe.

  The axe cut a clean arc through the dust-choked air, slicing through the forearm, severing dead flesh with a sound like wet cloth tearing. Black-red spray spun out and vanished into the pull. Its fingers opened by instinct, disbelief interrupting anger and appetite.

  Solvanel dropped.

  Shoulder-first, he hit the sand. Air slammed back into his lungs.

  He rolled without thinking, coughing. Above him, the shade recoiled, staring at the missing limb as if it had betrayed her, paralysed by the words she’d never heard before.

  Saint was already moving, the paralysis fully broken. He seized Solvanel by the collar and hauled him up with a curse.

  “Move,” Saint snarled, and this time it wasn’t bravado. It was an instruction. One that was given with the same determination that kept his sheep while he was gone.