The Villain
Trystan had never believed death to be beautiful.
It was logical in his mind, necessary—even enjoyable, if the person very much deserved it. But never beautiful, never so achingly difficult to look at that his entire body froze, his muscles tightening so hard that they pulsed beneath his flushed skin. Never so painful that his brain could not connect the pieces of what he was looking at.
For on the marbled white table before him, in the small room with stone walls and dim, flickering light, lay his assistant, Evie Sage.
Dead.
Shock settled in the marrow of his bones, in the startled stiffness of his legs. His eyes were burning again, but not from the light. From the pain. Move, his mind ordered Sage, but she lay still, unnaturally so. More still than he’d ever seen her. A woman who had always been buzzing with erratic energy, her mouth never tiring of the words that spilled out—and now he waited for them to say something, anything.
But her red-painted lips were closed in a flat line, unexpressive. So unlike her, it was startling. Impossible.
He took a shaky step forward, ignoring the creak of the wooden door behind him and the clanking of armor that followed.
“I’d hoped to spare you this, as a final kindness.” So at odds with the merciful words, Benedict’s voice was dripping with disdain. But Trystan wouldn’t turn, couldn’t give Benedict his attention.
His eyes were on Sage, on the way her black hair was artfully spread around her, like an ethereal halo of curls, with small, colorful flowers placed throughout it. A lump formed in his throat as he stepped forward, his emotions hidden behind a wall of disbelief. Until he saw them.
Black-and-purple fingerprints around her throat.
He shut his eyes tightly. His fists clenched so hard at his sides that his nails broke through the blisters in his palms.
Benedict spoke again, closer this time. “Worry not, my dear boy.” Trystan sucked in a deep inhale.
“She didn’t suffer…much.”
His eyes flew open. His fists unclenched. An eerie calm settled over his face, and for just a moment, the world was still.
And then that moment was over.
“You bastard!” His voice was guttural as he dove for Benedict, the chains on his wrists suppressing the magic raging beneath the surface, though it was no matter—he had his anger. It was primal, it was white-hot, it was enough. Flames licked at his skin, his heart pounding as he surged forward.
Benedict slammed against the wall, his crown toppling off his head and clattering at Trystan’s feet. The king’s eyes flared with fear. Good. Trystan knew fear far better than the turbulent emotions ravaging his insides. The guards gripped each of his arms, desperately trying to pull him back, but he was stronger.
He had nothing to lose now.
He closed both hands around Benedict’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could manage with his wrists chained and two guards furiously pulling against his tensed biceps. Benedict’s eyes widened as he choked, struggling to breathe.
Squeezing harder still, Trystan felt his conscience—small as it was— reemerge. Suddenly, it was no longer King Benedict looking at him; it was Evie. Her sweet eyes brimming with tears, terrified. She was choking, dying. Oh gods.
His hands had never felt more dangerous than in that moment when he finally let them fall, the guards managing to pull him back. Back toward Sage, where she lay still and silent. Trystan turned his head, catching sight of her, blocking out the sound of Benedict’s ragged curses as he stumbled toward her.
Nothing else mattered. All he could see was her.
Swallowing hard, he moved closer, dropping to his knees beside her.
“Sage,” Trystan whispered, his voice trembling. “Sage, wake up.” He searched her face, finding her eyes closed, dark lashes resting softly against pale cheeks that had lost their usual rosy color. “I command you, as your employer, to wake up.”
His pulse pounded in his ears, growing more frantic as reality crashed down on him. Sage—Evie—the woman who held every piece of his blackened, broken heart, was truly gone.
A burning sensation welled up behind his eyes. “That’s an order, Sage,” he rasped, his voice stripped of its usual authority. “Open your eyes.”
He glanced at her hands, both clasped around a small bouquet of white roses, and he took one of them in his own. Her skin was cold, the inked gold employment ring on her smallest finger dull and lifeless. The magic was gone. He realized with a painful clarity that the bond hadn’t glowed against his biceps not because of the magic-suppressing cuffs, but because there was no life left in her. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against her knuckles, so light it would hardly be felt, even if she were still with him. “I failed you. I’m sorry. Please, come back.”
But there was no answer. There never would be. It dawned on Trystan that he would never hear her voice again—her excited shouts, her infectious laughter, her melodic humming, her sharp wit, her honesty. A vital piece of his world was gone forever, a piece he’d taken for granted.
Just like everything and everyone he touched, she had been ruined. He’d been so selfish. From the moment he hired her, he had made her a target.
He had foolishly believed that if he destroyed with intention, he could prevent accidental ruin. That playing The Villain would protect him.
Instead, he had destroyed the one person who saw past it all, who truly saw him and didn’t flinch.
Gods, he would never forgive himself for this. Never.
Sir Seymore’s grip on his arm was iron-tight, but Trystan barely registered it. More guards joined in, two, then four. It took all of them to drag him away from her. He yelled until his voice was raw, fought with every ounce of strength left in his body, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
Still, he kept fighting, fighting until his limbs gave out, until his vision blurred, until the last thing he saw as he was dragged through the doorway toward his open cell was the final knight, the one with the familiar eyes.
The knight was mouthing something.
Something that looked suspiciously like the word hope.
It was so odd that it momentarily broke through Trystan’s despair. He frowned as the knight vanished behind the closing door.
Hope? Why would a Valiant Guard wish The Villain to have hope?
But it didn’t matter. Hope was meaningless. Evie Sage was dead.
