The Villain
The stupid godsdamn frog.
Trystan resisted lunging for Benedict and snatching the amphibian from his harsh grip. The magic living beneath his skin begged to be unleashed, to hurt, to punish, but it would only take the king a second to squeeze the life from Kingsley’s body. He couldn’t risk it.
“Sage, why is Kingsley here?” Trystan asked, attempting leveled calm. “He likes cream puffs.”
And the calm was gone.
“Sage,” he bit out, furious beyond belief that he had been seconds away from leaving here, from being free of this wretched castle and returning to the one place he felt less broken.
“Let’s go home,” she’d said.
When he’d stumbled across the manor a decade prior, he’d thought it a good place to rest his head, to plot, perhaps even to disappear for a good long while. Nature had taken control of the crumbling structure hidden deep in the trees of Hickory Forest, its vines and overgrowth practically part of its architecture, holding it captive. It was easy for him to belong there. From the beginning, he’d worked to make the manor a place of coldness and bone-chilling fear. He’d replaced all the original, cheery stained-glass art in the windows with depictions of sinister acts—save for his favorite one in the manor kitchen. Every inch was made to keep people away.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that none of that had fazed her, that it had utterly failed against her impenetrable ability to spin the ugly into something not only amusing, but worth loving.
She’d found something worth loving even about a place called Massacre Manor.
And he would resort to whatever dark evil necessary to get her back there.
Sweeping Sage behind him, ignoring her yelped protests, he summoned his power. The dark-gray mist twisted and curled around Benedict, causing the king to freeze. A black spot pulsing by his jugular signaled the perfect place to strike, to rid the world of Trystan’s greatest foe for good—
Until Sage asked a question that slammed him back to earth. “Sir, wh- what is that?”
His brows knit together, his power halting in midair. “You are referring to…?”
She whispered, “The gray fog circling the king like a weird-looking storm cloud?”
There’s no conceivable way…
His lips parted, but nothing emerged at first. Then, finally: “Y-You can see my magic?”
She squeaked. “Is that what that is?” Her fingers left his shoulder, her head tilting as she took in the violent power with a charmed curiosity. “How interesting. I didn’t think it would look like that.”
“What are you two conspiring about?” Benedict asked, clearly unable to see the mist yet stopped in his tracks anyway. A prickling began at the back of Trystan’s neck, climbing to the sides of his head before settling into a steady pounding at the top of his skull.
It was only Sage who could see his magic.
How unreasonably terrifying.
Here’s a rewritten version of the passage while keeping the original meaning and tone intact:
—
Trystan decided that ferocity suited him far better than the unfamiliar emotion struggling to surface. He did not *experience* fear—he only caused it. “We’re just discussing the various ways I could kill you, Benedict. I’d be glad to share.”
Without warning, Sage’s hand slipped around Trystan’s waist, nudging him aside. “Kingsley! Remember what I taught you.”
Trystan watched with a mix of horrified amusement as Sage opened her mouth, then clamped her teeth down. The tiny amphibian blinked, then mimicked her action, snapping his mouth shut—right on Benedict’s hand.
“Ugh!” Benedict bellowed, releasing Kingsley, who tumbled to the floor. The green of the frog’s skin helped him blend into the tile as he scrambled toward them. “The little beast *bit* me!”
While the guards’ attention was squarely on the king, Trystan quickly scooped up his friend. They needed to leave—immediately. As he slowly nudged Sage toward the back terrace doors, he turned the frog over, checking for injuries. He arched a brow and murmured so only Sage could hear, “You taught him to bite?”
“Frogs have weak jaws. He needed practice.”
Satisfied his friend was unharmed, Trystan allowed Kingsley to hop onto his shoulder. “And how exactly did you figure that out?”
“He struggled when I was feeding him pie.” Trystan sighed. “Of course.”
By now, the guards had noticed their movements and were advancing, swords drawn. Trystan tried to push Sage behind him, but she stubbornly stayed by his side.
Trystan waved a dismissive hand in Benedict’s direction. “It’s been as unpleasant as always, Benedict, but we must be going.”
“Go ahead and try,” the king growled from behind his guards, still shaking his hand. “But know this—I will spend the rest of my life ensuring that you never know peace after the way you’ve humiliated me. By the end of this night, the entire kingdom will know your name—and they will all want you dead.”
Trystan shrugged. “Not much different from any other day of my life.”
Benedict’s expression turned cruel. “I wasn’t talking to *you*.”
Trystan’s entire body tensed at the words, but he relaxed slightly when Sage gripped one of his clenched fists, gently unfurling his fingers.
“Fear not, Ms. Sage. Despite your betrayal, I will take excellent care of your mother once my knights bring her into custody.”
Sage’s hand tightened on Trystan’s, and her light eyes narrowed to slits.
The king ignored the warning in her gaze, letting his venomous words flow. “When a parent abandons a child, it always makes me wonder: Was it the parent’s failing”—the king sneered—“or the child’s?”
Bastard.
But Sage lifted her chin. “When a knight betrays his king, it always makes me wonder: Was it the knight’s failing”—now her brows lifted in triumph—“or the king’s?”
Benedict’s face paled, and Trystan’s heart skipped a beat. The knight who had mouthed the word *hope* to him.
Could she be so persuasive that she’d even sway a Valiant Guard to do her bidding?
He glanced at the curve of her cheeks, the slyness in her expression, the quiet workings of her mind, still calculating and planning.
Yes. This woman could convince someone to defy even the hands of time if it served her purpose.
She missed the longing in his gaze as she leaned in to whisper, “Be ready to run.”
Before he could react, Sage reached behind her, grasping something tucked into the back sash of her gown, hidden from sight. Trystan’s eyes widened in astonishment when he recognized what it was—a stack of papers, letters, all signed with a familiar, swooping signature at the bottom.
Nura Sage.
“You’re wrong about my mother, and you’ll soon find out—you’re very wrong about *me*.”
Trystan grabbed Sage by the arm, pulling her toward the back terrace doors before she could reveal anything more, before Benedict saw the letters, before she pushed things further than she already had. The hungry gleam in Benedict’s eye confirmed the danger she’d just put herself in.
Yet, despite it all, Trystan found it incredibly hard not to grin as she smiled and waved over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming as she called, “Happy hunting, King Benedict.”
And, to the sound of their ruler’s outraged screams, they ran for their lives.
