There is little that King Edric, ruler of the first Elite kingdom, fears.
But this child is a tangible nightmare in his arms.
“You are wrong.”
Those are the first words out of Edric’s mouth, aimed sharply at his Silencer. Damion has curtly handed the king his daughter before stepping away, now holding tightly to that stoic expression plastered on his features. There is a slow shake of his head, the action regretful. “I can silence no power from her, Your Majesty. I could be mistaken, but…”
The king has heard enough. See, the mere prospect of a powerless child sharing his name is sufficiently damning.
Whispers slither their way into the silence, and with them, the ringing in Edric’s ears. He looks down at the baby girl, seeing little more than her lack of power. How could he, a Brawny and king of gods, produce something so weak?
This is an embarrassment. This is a mockery of everything the king is and believes.
His green eyes grow colder with each passing moment as they drift toward Iris’s dead body. She was a rarity, one that Edric had not known before her—a Soul. This ability allowed her to sense and manipulate another’s emotions. More than once, Iris had used it on the king to turn the pressures of ruling into a spark of happiness that he only ever felt when she was around.
The child cries in Edric’s trembling arms, its skin still sticky with blood.
How could this nothing come from something so strong and rare?
An Ordinary born of two powerful Elites is unheard of. Yet, here she is, this weak excuse for life.
Each scream has the infant’s bloody chest rising and falling, the action so frail. It’s almost impressive, the pathetic little heart pumping beneath her skin. The king thinks this with disgust, reminded only of the fact that his wife no longer has a pulse—but this weakness does.
Edric looks down at his own daughter, hate in his heart and sorrow welling in his eyes.
Iris is dead, and it was all for an Ordinary. For this embarrassment. For nothing.
The king gives a command, cutting through the silence. It’s even and deliberate, as though the words tumbling from his mouth don’t steal the breath from every pair of surrounding lungs. “Get rid of it.”
Feet shift. Throats clear.
A Healer, her hands stained scarlet, can think of nothing to say but the king’s title posed as a question. “Your Majesty?”
“It killed my wife,” Edric says coolly. “An Ordinary killed my wife. Get rid of it.”
“Your Majesty,” an adviser protests, “it’s merely an infant—”
“Get. Rid. Of. It.”
The king extends the child into the open air, pushing as much space between them as possible. His gaze is sharp enough to draw blood, and that is precisely what will happen if his demands are not met.
“I’ll dispose of… it.”
Edric’s Mind Reader steps forward, extending his hands toward the crying princess, who only has these fleeting moments to be so. The king smiles tightly before handing his daughter over to the trusted Fatal.
This is the last time he will ever hold her. All this child will ever know is his violence and hatred before the end.
“See that you do,” Edric orders, holding the Mind Reader’s gaze before turning to address every other stunned stare. “What you saw today did not happen. Your queen did not die giving birth to an Ordinary, because she passed two years ago when delivering me my son and heir. That is what the kingdom will know. That is what history will know.”
He glances over at his wailing daughter, expression void of any sympathy. “This Ordinary does not belong to me. It is already forgotten.”
As the Mind Reader steps from the room, a lost princess in his arms, the king barks a command at his advisers. “Seal the records. Ensure that today never happened.”
Then he storms from the room, having rid the world of one more useless Ordinary.
