The Villain

The Villain didn’t miss light. He missed color.

Trystan’s eyes drew upward, head ringing against the wails of the other prisoners trapped with him in the dark. The stone beneath his palms was rough against his clammy skin, the only thing grounding him through the unending blackness. It was like death, the dark. Death without peace, a dark without light—the pain in his limbs was the only indicator that he was alive.

His heart rate climbed; he couldn’t breathe. There were no bars to hold on to. No power to summon, like his mist had been walled in, trapped like him. But he could feel it twisting and curling inside him. It begged for freedom

—that made two of them.

“Enough.” He stumbled, and his shoulder landed blessedly against a bumpy, uneven surface. Brick. Thank the gods. There was a wall, its sturdy weight comforting against his greatest fear: the dark. His blistered hands followed its curve around and around, but there was no end in sight. Where was the godsdamn door?

He halted to take a deep inhale. Breathe, Trystan. He had to get out of there, had to find Sage. Evie—Otto had Evie, was hurting—

No. He couldn’t focus on that now. Not yet.

He kept following the wall, feeling from top to bottom. Moving himself in an endless mind-altering loop. For minutes? Hours? He didn’t know.

Fatigue forced his eyes to close for a moment. What difference did it make? There was no way in the deadlands he’d be able to break out of here

—not with his magic out of commission. This wasn’t his cell in the king’s summer home: it was a chamber meant specifically for his imprisonment, his torture.

The irony was not lost on him.

Hopelessness was a horrid feeling, not to mention a useless one. But he felt hope leech away as he dropped to his knees for the second time that day.

He groaned, missing indifference, missing smothering his feelings like banking a fire. It was preferable to the burning eating at his insides. But he’d been powerless against indifference with Sage. He knew that now, just as he knew—prickling awareness raised the hairs on his neck—he knew he wasn’t alone in this room.

“You look just terrible, my boy.”

Rage pulsed behind his aching eyes, his vision futilely straining to see Benedict before him. The king had devices for hunting in the dark, had used them during Trystan’s first stay in order to torment him. In another life, he might have admired the showmanship, but in this one, he merely wanted to kick the king’s teeth in.

Pushing himself to stand on shaking legs, he struggled to speak evenly. “Ah, well, I’m sure that’s a comfort to you, Benedict. Like looking in a mirror.”

Benedict chuckled. “Now, now. No need for hostilities. I’ve merely come to talk to you.”

“The torture’s starting already?”

Trystan knew the blow was coming, waited to gauge its direction. The fist landed in his gut so hard, the air knocked from his lungs and his knees gave out. Did the guard have steel knuckles on? By the gods, that hurt.

Benedict chuckled again. A sharp, disorienting pain stabbed at Trystan’s middle as he inhaled. It was no matter; he knew pain, knew agony deeper than the waves of the Lilac Sea. He’d learned long ago to lean in to the hurt instead of away from it.

Rough hands closed a tight metal cuff around each of his wrists, rubbing the skin there raw as he railed against the chains, pulling them taut against the wall. The feeling of immobility was worse, somehow, than the pain had been.

The king’s voice was mocking. “How disappointing. I’d hoped for a civil conversation.”

“I’ve never been very good at social niceties.” The splintering pain was throbbing in his side now. Wonderful. He’d bruised a rib.

The king hummed. “Then I’ll get to the point. I need the mated guvres— promptly.”

It was Trystan’s turn to laugh. “And why in the deadlands would I give you anything?”

“Shall I shed some light on the issue?” A sound rustled, and then the room was flooded with dim torchlight. Tears burned in Trystan’s sensitive eyes, and he blinked harshly. “There. Now you can see me more clearly.”

“The horror. Put it out.”

Another blow to the gut, but he was able to see the fist this time and brace for it. Small miracles.

He could see Benedict now, too, in the light of the torch he was holding: hair perfectly groomed, in well-tailored clothing, making Trystan’s now visibly torn shirt look like rags. “I’m giving you the opportunity to redeem yourself, Villain. The guvres are essential to the future of this kingdom and all its people. This is your final opportunity to redeem all the harm you’ve wrought.”

Trystan sneered. “And what about the harm you’ve wrought?” He disdainfully scanned Benedict from head to toe, knowing the ire it would invoke. “I suppose you think your crimes are excusable, so long as you commit them in the dark.”

The king swallowed, his shoulders going tense, as if he was physically restraining himself from striking out. “You don’t know what is at stake, you damned fool.”

There was a precipice that Benedict was teetering on, and Trystan could sense the bubble of truth building behind Benedict’s snide lips. Pride would be the king’s downfall—he knew it like the moon knew the stars and the grass knew the sun. All Trystan had to do was press at the right wound.

“All your failures finally catching up to you, Benedict?” Trystan smiled.

A vein bulged in Benedict’s forehead as he moved closer, just out of reach. “I haven’t failed. I’ve been failed, first by you, then by the female guvre.” Benedict paused, eyes alight in dangerous satisfaction. “Fortunately for me, mistakes can be rectified. Beginning with Evie Sage’s poor, deluded mother.”

It was a call to war, mentioning her name. A quick flash of white-hot anger seared across his skin, distracting him from the words, from the truth Benedict shouldn’t have revealed.

What did the king want with Sage’s mother?

Trystan tried his hardest to keep his face blank, but he’d flinched in time with her name. Benedict smirked at the reaction, likely knowing now what

that name did to him, after how he’d begged for her. How odious, to have your failings displayed outright; how wickedly painful.

Trystan steeled himself against it, raising his shoulders back an inch, playing the game. “Keeping a newborn guvre in captivity could hardly keep you in Fate’s good favor, Benedict. You kept the female trapped for nearly a decade—that couldn’t have been without consequence.”

The king smiled. “Who said it wasn’t?”

Trystan gritted his teeth, resolved not to give the king a damned thing. But curiosity bit at him like a rabid hound.

The king’s mask of gentility cracked when Trystan kept his mouth shut. “You are a selfish wastrel.” Benedict’s lip curled in distaste. “I made you my apprentice. I taught you everything I know; I molded you in my image. Not only that, I trusted you to do what’s best for this kingdom, watched as you endeavored to help me save it…and as you tragically failed.”

The sting in Trystan’s chest, behind his eyes, it wasn’t real. He didn’t need to feel it if he didn’t want to; he was in control. He sniffed and blinked away the liquid beginning to blur his already straining eyes, his torso protesting as he stood up straight. “Terrorizing the kingdom is so much more fulfilling than noble heroics. I’m glad I outgrew them.”

I won’t be shaken.

“Besides.” Trystan sneered, a surge of anger energizing him. “I helped you in my own way. I became The Villain of the tale—and isn’t that what you really needed?”

The king smiled and nodded toward the doors, signaling the guards to leave. He didn’t want them to hear what came next. He waited until they were gone to speak again. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean.”

“I helped you scour the kingdom for starlight magic, if you recall. I helped you catch the female guvre. I watched as you identified my magic just to use it against me. I’m not a fool, Benedict. I knew those things were connected—my spies have heard the rumors of Rennedawn’s Story. There’s no need to pretend any longer.”

Benedict raised a hand to strike, but he caught himself, swallowed, and lowered it. “You’re so like your mother. Then again, I suppose Arthur wasn’t around enough to give you much of his temperament.”

The king spoke like he knew his parents well, but Trystan would have to mull on that later. For now, he was too distracted thinking of Arthur, his father, who had been captured by the king’s men and—he felt a stone sink

in his gut—falsely accused of being The Villain. “Surely now that you have me, you’ll release Arthur.”

Here’s a rewritten version of your passage:

—

“All in due time, my boy,” Benedict said, turning away with the torch in hand. As he approached a sliding wall, the light gradually disappeared along with him. “I will have the guvres, no matter the cost.”

As the darkness closed in, Trystan surged forward, a sudden desperation seizing him. “Benedict.” The king stopped, his back still turned. “My assistant is invaluable to my business. If any harm has come to her, if she’s been hurt in any way… I will destroy you. And I’ll do it under the full light of day, for everyone to witness.” His voice was low, steady, despite the tremor in his body.

The king turned slightly, sensing the threat. Evie’s face flashed in Trystan’s mind; he couldn’t suppress the image any longer. Her tears, her screams as Otto Warsen’s vile hand covered her mouth. Trystan’s physical wounds were nothing compared to the searing pain in his heart. He hadn’t felt this helpless in over a decade. His body strained under the overwhelming need to protect her, yet he was utterly powerless.

The king tilted his head, his brow creasing in feigned sympathy. “Did I forget to mention something? My deepest apologies—”

Trystan could almost feel the words before they left the king’s lips.

The sense of dread made the darkness seem almost welcoming. How fitting. “She’s dead.”