Tyrant

(𝟸𝟽) 𝙲𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝

Only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing fills the dim bedroom.

The bedroom that now reeks of the eye-watering scent of fresh blood, of rust.

Arcane's blood-curdling scream still echoes in my head, and I bite my tongue to hold down a scream of my own—one to drown out the shrieking blaring like a Siren in my mind.

Zehra, her beautiful eyes as wide as saucers, stares at the knife she has embedded deep into Arcane's chest, through her heart. Her eyes trail the thin stream of blood that slowly flows towards me like a scarlet snake.

She just sits as still as a rock, a lovely statue of stone atop a lifeless dead body.

Before I have the chance to rise from my position on the cold floor, to face reality and ease Zehra from the shock of what she had done, our bedroom door bursts open to reveal three pale-faced, stunned females clad in sleep attire. 

"Oh my god." One of them whispers, her face whiter than snow as she beholds the dead body under Zehra—and grips the doorframe for support.

The second one, black hair cascading down her shoulders, dashes to Zehra and me, her hands visibly trembling yet still able to grip my arms and haul me up—the ground sways like seawater under my feet. The girl pulls Zehra up next, her face still aghast and gaping at what she had done—who she had killed. 

I almost reach out to her, to console and comfort her, but am slapped with the realization that I need consoling and comforting of my own.

The One is my uncle. 

He killed my parents. 

He is hunting me.

Arcane is a traitor. 

Arcane is dead. 

Each torturous thought is like a savage blow to the head, and I collapse to the floor again like a limp, lifeless doll, the world swaying and swinging around me. And before even checking on Zehra, before making sure she's all right and unharmed, I whisper the name of the person I wish to see most. The person I want to hold me.

"Darcio." I cry, the single word cracking like bones as the weight of Arcane's words finally settle in, finally take their toll.

I am being hunted like a wild animal, and by none other than the brother of my father. The man ruling over this wretched city, this wretched continent. The man that killed my family.

My palms rest upon the cold floor in an attempt to steady myself, calm myself—I fist my fingers, letting those treacherous tears fall like rain.

I barely hear the shaky, precarious words of one of the females at the door—call The Top.

Commotion stirs outside our bedroom, thumps of feet against wood reverberating into my skull like hammers as rebels realize what had happened. Who had been stabbed so late in the night. 

"Darcio." I cry out again like a lost child, hugging myself into a tight ball as those endless tears stream down my cheeks, my chin—and all I can think about is no longer wanting to live. 

And in that very moment, I feel weak. 

Weak and alone and scared. 

The scent of Arcane's still-flowing blood jabs itself into my nose, the smell permanently embedding itself to my memory—my breathing comes harder, faster, as warm wetness coats my palms. With numb realization, I see that I am kneeling in a pool of Arcane's blood. 

It coats my palms, my knees, my feet, like a hideous second skin, and I have a hard time steadying my hands enough to try to wipe the scarlet off my fingers. I desperately rub my hands over my nightgown in an attempt to get the blood off.