The Villain
“Look at me!”
Arthur Maverine was calling to Trystan, but he pretended not to hear. The blur of his black mask obstructed his peripheral vision, leaving him only the view of the audience throwing food at his feet. Everything felt slower, duller, like time had faded the world into something he no longer recognized.
“You swine!” a member of the gentry yelled, lobbing what appeared to be a cream puff at his feet.
He frowned at it. “What a horrible waste of pastry. I’d rather they throw rocks.” He said the words, emotionless, in an attempt to ward off Arthur’s insistent prodding.
“Trystan, we must get you out of here before you are unmasked.” There was pleading in his father’s voice, but it did not touch him—nothing would. He’d numbed his emotions so completely at this point, he wasn’t sure he could feel anything anymore.
Sage is gone. What does any of this matter?
He sniffed, frowning again at the desserts discarded around his shiny- booted feet. Benedict had had him dressed for the occasion, likely wanting him to look formidable instead of tattered and weak. It wouldn’t do for The Villain to have the audience’s sympathies.
“It is fruitless to worry for the Maverine name, Arthur. I’ve already quite readily destroyed it.”
Arthur sputtered beside him. “Th-That is hardly my concern at present, son! Nor should it be yours.”
Trystan lifted a brow beneath his mask and finally looked at his father. “My concern is for the poor cream puffs, actually.”
Arthur glared at him, all the while fighting against his own chains. “Be
serious, Trystan. Your future is at stake.”
Trystan scoffed, fists clenching behind him. “What future?”
Arthur must have followed as Trystan’s eyes were drawn to the coffin; he couldn’t look away, wouldn’t. “Oh, my son,” Arthur said sadly. “She’d want you to—”
“Do not dare tell me what she would want. Do not speak of her at all.” The few nobles still throwing things at him halted at the venom in his words, smartly lowering their hands and backing away a few steps. The rest of the crowd was already parting, leaving room for Benedict as the king, in his jewel-encrusted crown and expensive fur cape, made his way to the dais.
Trystan stiffened when Benedict passed Sage’s coffin, running a hand over it with feigned sympathy. Trystan’s chains rattled as he pulled against them, a snarl behind his lips, and all his mind knew then was anger.
“For too long, I have failed in bringing The Villain to justice, in stopping the horrors he’s committed against my people!” the king bellowed out. “He is a danger to us all, his magic made to hurt, to kill.” All eyes were on the king, even those of the guards inching away from their posts to get a better view. “He’s terrorized noble families, stolen goods, and made Hickory Forest—a once beloved place—too fearsome for travel.”
In a different time, a different place, the flattery might have gone to his head.
“And the worst of his offenses—one I’ve endeavored to spare you all from.” The king sighed, like the words were painful, and Trystan had a strong desire to lob a tomato at him; his acting was that bad. “An atrocity committed ten years ago.”
Trystan’s head snapped up, his shoulders straightening at the hint of a reveal…but of what?
What is your game, man?
“Because of The Villain capturing and keeping Fate’s precious guvre for the last decade, the citizens of Rennedawn were made to suffer in nature’s act of revenge.”
Trystan’s subconscious cleared his despair-driven haze as he realized with shock what Benedict was accusing him of.
“The Villain is the cause of the Mystic Illness.”
Fucking damnation.
The crowd cried in outrage, yelling vulgar insults—nothing he wasn’t
used to; in all honesty, some of them were quite creatively colorful—but his verbal lashings were usually for atrocities he’d committed.
This has nothing to do with me and you know it, you wretch.
Benedict stepped closer. “And now I will reveal the horrible traitor to you all!” Benedict got right up next to him, murmuring low. “Ready, my boy?”
Trystan nodded in deference, keeping his voice low, too. “I must say this role suits you, Benedict.”
The king narrowed his eyes. “What role?”
He curled his lip, knowing the effect his words would have. “Why, that of the villain.”
Benedict’s nostrils flared, his eyes wide and furious. He reached out, gripping Trystan’s shirt, but before he could fully raise his hand to strike, an ear-piercing scream wrenched through the room.
“Sh-She’s gone!” yelled a noblewoman.
Everyone, including Trystan, looked to where she was pointing—to the coffin that had been ignored for the last few moments.
He didn’t have a clear view any longer. The crowd had pushed forward, hiding his nightmare from view. All he saw was a glint of glass beyond the writhing mass of noble heads as more screams arose from the onlookers.
His heart raced as prickles shot up the back of his neck, a roar echoing in his ears. The chains clanked and rattled behind him as he strained against them, angling his head up, desperately waiting for the crowd to part.
“Move, you godsforsaken peacocks!” he boomed, and miraculously, they heeded his command, the nobles diving to either side of the room, revealing what was beyond.
And he saw.
The glass coffin, previously filled with the fruition of his greatest fear, was empty.
“What in the deadlands is this? Who is responsible?” the king shouted, pounding down the stairs of the dais. But there was no time for speculation…as a light and familiar whistle danced through the air.
Time stopped.
The room rapidly fell silent—silent enough to hear the nervous shuffles, the jittery clanking of the guards going to grip their swords. It sounded like fear.
And fear it was, as every set of eyes in the room followed the whistling sound to the top of the grand staircase.
There, with flowers falling from the length of her hair and a wicked smile on her red-painted lips, stood Evie Sage.
Alive.
Her smile widened as the crowd gasped and screamed in terror at the dead risen. An answering smile impossibly pulled at the corners of his own mouth, overriding the muscle-tensing shock freezing his limbs. That shock thawed slowly as his eyes drank in every inch of her. He’d never be able to look away again.
“What a lovely party,” she said, her smooth voice like a beacon cutting through the fog of his earth-shattering bewilderment. He was unsure if what he was seeing was real.
But with the next words out of her mouth, he knew it was truly her. Sage was alive.
His knees buckled as her blue eyes caught his, and her smile pushed even wider still.
“I am perhaps a little hurt that you neglected to send me an invitation.”
