Chapter 46: Meanwhile: The Capital

The throne room with white marble floor and walls feels colder than ever before. A room that could easily fit two hundred people is almost empty, save for the man on the throne, his two royal guards, standing behind the throne and a servant with a bottle in his hand..

The years have seemingly finally caught up with the man on the throne. He has not lifted his sword in years, and it shows! His belly has outgrown two of his royal outfits just this year alone! His goatee has long turned gray and his hairline is rapidly receding. He takes another sip from his golden cup and the servant refills it the moment he lowers it.

The main doors to the throne room open and a single man walks in. Dressed in blue robes, with glasses and a thick tome in his hand, he slowly approaches the king.

“Well?” the king asks impatiently.

“As before—no improvement,” the robed man lowers his head.

“Bah! What use are all those healers if they cannot help a single boy!?” the king screams in rage and violently throws his cup across the room, barely missing the bearer of ill news. “I should just start executing them all for failing like my brother used to do!”

“Your highness!” another man shouts as he hurries into the throne room. He wears black and red robes, with a black turban on his head, adorned by a ruby the size of a fist. The man’s skin, however, is pale as snow. He carries a thin dark-blue flask in his hand, displaying it proudly. “I have it! The final ingredient for the cure!”

“You do!?” The king's anger dissipates. “Finally! Rafar, I knew I could rely on you! Go at once!”

“Yes, your highness!” Rafar bows, pressing the flask to his chest. “I will not betray your trust in me!”

“Just go!” The king shouts and points at the door. “And do not return without good news!”

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“As you command!” Rafar bows again and hurries out of the throne room.

The path to the prince’s chambers leads Rafar to a narrow, winding staircase, guarded by six of the king's finest knights, protecting the only path up the solitary tower.

The king wished nothing more but to stay at his sick son’s bedside. However, eventually, he was forbidden to do so. Thrice he was dragged away by his own royal guards. For the prince’s illness that plagued him for years affected all around him. Before proceeding forward, Rafar gets small plugs out of his robes and inserts them into his ears.

Only half-way up the staircase, even though his protective earplugs, Rafar already hears the high-pitched screams, as if a banshee is locked up at the top room of the tower. But it is not a banshee, it is the king’s son. Bed-ridden and withered. A powerful curse is placed on him. The nearly constant unholy screeching drives all who stay around him mad, weakening both their body and spirit.

But today that will end! Rafar opens the door and closes it behind him. He’s in a small round room with a single bed in the center and a glass window for the only source of light. On the bed lies the prince—a husk, a pale imitation of the strapping young lad he used to be.

“Hahaha! Finally! With the unholy demon’s ashes as the final missing ingredient, I will at long last be able to take control of the prince! And then the kingdom will be mine! All mine! Bwahaha!”

Powering through the wailing of the teenage boy, Rafar shakes the tiny flask, containing the malicious concoction, removes the cork and forces the flask into the boy's mouth, dumping its contents down his throat. The boy coughs and coughs again, struggling with the liquid. Rafar watches on, not helping the boy. Then the boy calms down and takes his first deep, peaceful breath in a long time.

“Ha! Hahaha! It worked! It actually worked!!” Rafar laughs and throws the flask into the air. It shatters against the low stone ceiling. “If everything goes as planned I won’t even have to stain my hands with the old fool’s murder—he’s one foot in the grave already!”

Rafar finally manages to control himself and hurries to open the door out of the room. He looks around and peeks down the staircase, to make sure there is no one nearby. What he doesn’t see is how the prince gets up from his bed and skulks silently up the unsuspecting schemer with closed eyes and arms raised in front of him. His clothes and skin peel off him and turn to ash as they fall to the ground. With each passing second, the boy himself turns more into a black and gray corpse. Ash falls from him with every step.

When Rafar finally turns around, the corpse of the boy is already in his face. The creature opens it’s eyes—they are as white as the pale moon. No iris. No pupil. Rafar screams as the creature grabs him with the strength of a bear, opens its salivating jaw and bites into the neck of the schemer.

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