Chapter 81: Cupid Heart, Stupid Heart (Patreon)

Baptiste stirred when he heard the scrape of boots against the stone. He lifted his broken and beaten head, feeling absolutely miserable. This was worse than any hangover that he had ever endured, and he still wasn’t quite sure what was happening. For some reason, the royal knights had intercepted him, not Tielman, upon the conclusion of the fighting. He’d been in this dismal cell for hours, maybe even a day. It was quite difficult to tell the passage of time with only darkness to keep him company.

Slowly, a figure walked closer bearing a torch. He brightened when he saw who it was.

“El’nor!” Baptiste mangled her name as he tried to scramble off his cot, but stumbled.

Tielman’s fists had hurt a great deal. This had been partially Eleanor’s idea, to entirely eliminate Tillman as some petty but necessary revenge against the indignity that he suffered all those years ago. If Eleanor was here now, that meant things had been cleared up. She came to retrieve him. She would get him whatever he needed to make this right, and things would be back on track.

“Ehh… El’nor,” he slurred, trying to form the words with his mangled mouth, stiff jaw, and broken teeth. “Th’... th’ mishtunderstandin’... it’sh cleared up, right?”

“The misunderstanding?” She laughed hard. “I can barely understand you. You sound like an inbred. Fitting, I suppose, given your obsessions.” Eleanor held the torch in her right hand, illuminating a strangely wicked smile that he’d never seen her don before. “As for the misunderstanding… I suspect that it’s going to be cleared up right now.”

“Whudduh you mean?” Baptiste put his hand on the bars of the cell. “You got people up there gettin’ thingsh done?”

She seemed endlessly amused by his speech impediment. “You people didn’t make things easy for me. Even though I told you to trust me, you positioned yourself for maximum deniability. But… it won’t matter, when they have witness testimony. Mine, namely.”

Baptiste clenched the bars a little tighter. “Are you shellin’ me out? Do they have shomethin’ on you?”

Then, Eleanor reached up toward her face. She waved her hand across her hair, and it all turned a deep scarlet red. Next, she waved over her face, revealing horrifying eyes. Black veins spread from her temple to her eyes, which now sported red irises and black sclera. Her once lithe body became significantly more robust. Baptiste couldn’t help but release the bars and step away in fright.

The voice that came next was deeper, imperious, and smooth as honey. “I might show you what I really look like, but this dungeon would be a little bit cramped for that. Maybe I can do that later, when you’re being executed.” Eleanor smiled, and walked forward toward the bars until she leaned on them. She remained beautiful, but it was a predatory and horrifying beauty that gave an undeniable monstrous impression. “I’d like you to take a nice long look, Baptiste.”

“Whud’d you do t’ El’nor?” Baptiste demanded quietly, fearing that the bars might break open any second.

She laughed richly. “Eleanor never existed.”

Baptiste’s breath caught in his throat, his heart thudding violently in his chest as the truth settled like a stone in his gut. The dim hope that had briefly flared within him—his belief that salvation had come, that Eleanor would make everything right—finally extinguished. Now there was only this creature, this being wearing her skin like a mockery of trust.

The duke’s knees buckled, and he gripped the edge of the cot as his legs threatened to give out entirely. The cell, once merely a cold box of stone and shadow, now felt like a tomb. He could barely breathe. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go—not from her, not from this. Baptiste had spent his life dancing through webs of lies, but never once had he imagined he was living inside one spun just for him. Now he could see it for what it was: a trap, perfectly timed.

And the worst part was… even if the king knew the truth of this matter, he would be glad to take the opportunity against the Dubois family.

Eleanor—no, the thing that had worn her name—smiled wider. “It’s very satisfying to me when arrogance crumbles to dust. I’ve waited so very long to watch that pride of yours rot into fear. It’s so much more satisfying when a man doesn’t die quickly, but piece by piece—first his certainty, then his dignity, and finally, his hope.”

The defiance in his posture collapsed, his shoulders trembling as though her words hurt him physically as much as mentally.

“Brought low… all for a fantasy of a woman that never existed. And you did it willingly, that’s the best part. I didn’t have to break you. You handed me the pieces, smiling all the while.” She leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “You weren’t betrayed by me. You were betrayed by your own desire. And from what I hear… you deserved nothing more.”

Her words almost hurt more than the beating that the count had delivered upon him. As the pieces fit into place, he realized who this was—the Red Raven. He reached for anything that might hurt her, anything that might abate this unendingly agonizing suffering that she had inflicted upon him.

“Whatever you are… You’re a shlave… you’re nothin’,” he shouted, but her smile never faded. “You’ll never be more than a… a damn parashite.”

“A parashite? A shlave?” She laughed. “Oh no! What a terrible fate. Yet… for the first time ever, I feel free.” Eleanor inhaled deeply. “Sometime soon, perhaps, your title will be stripped. Your holdings will be carved up like meat at a feast, and your allies will vanish like smoke the moment your name fouls the wind.” She waved her hands dramatically. “The great Duke Baptiste—undone by his own arrogance, his own delusional sadistic fantasies wrought by his twisted and narrow mind. You looked down on Willem, and you thought you owned me. But neither of us were ever yours. And now, we’ll be the ones writing the end of your legacy.”

Baptiste couldn’t even speak any more. His chest heaved in shallow gasps, each breath tighter than the last. His hands shook uncontrollably, cold sweat pouring down his face as his vision narrowed and his heart throbbed wildly.

And like that… Eleanor left him there to the cold of the dungeon.

***

“Did you have to peel the man’s soul like an onion while monologuing like a villain in a stage play?” Willem asked, having heard the whole thing.

“Perhaps you’d like to sleep with him a few times and figure out for yourself if that was warranted.” Eleanor stared at Willem. “Besides, it was only emotional damage. Only about half of those things are going to come to pass.”

Willem leaned against the wall. “How many times did you rehearse that in the mirror?”

“More than once,” she admitted with a faint smile. She stared at him a while, and then her smile dropped. “Well?” She held her arms out.

“Well, what?”

“How do I look?” Eleanor asked.

“You look like a beautiful woman with a rare eye disease,” he said honestly. “That’s more or less how you looked as a chimera, isn’t it?”

Eleanor fiddled with her hair. “No feathers, but… yes. I’m glad you remember. I was fishing for compliments. Perhaps effusive praise.”

“You’re in the top 100, at least,” Willem commended.

“Top 100,” she repeated.

“That’s a very high honor,” he said. “Do you know how many people I’ve seen in my life?”

Eleanor pursed her lips. She had been so extreme to Baptiste partially to see if Willem might treat her differently. There was still time for that, of course, but she was quite curious to know how he reacted to her sadism. It was as much a part of who she was as anything else, and he needed to accept that. Right now… he seemed to act as if he didn’t even consider it to be a problem.

“What’s your name?” Willem asked, his eyes the most sincere she’d ever seen them.

“Why is that important?” she asked.

Willem shrugged. “It’s just a question.”

“Promise me that you’ll never tell anyone else,” she said. “Our names are very valuable things, and I don’t like to give it out freely. The only other person that knows mine is my mother. It’s the one scrap of dignity that we can maintain even in servitude.”

“Knows?” Willem repeated, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, she knows. She’s still alive.”

Willem frowned. “I thought one of the benefits of this would be no in-laws.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m afraid you’re not quite so lucky. My father has been dead for centuries, if you’re looking for the bright side. My mother ate him not long after I was born.” She walked closer to him and leaned in near his ear. “That’s how it usually goes, after all. Trueborn Chimeras eat their mates once the child is born.”

Willem raised a brow. “You’re like praying mantises?”

“Hmm,” Eleanor nodded, though she didn’t quite know what he was talking about. “Our mating is a very elaborate thing. We string someone along for nine months, then give birth to an unholy monster. Then, you do what I generally did to Baptiste. Break their spirit. Let them know everything was a lie.”

She stared into Willem’s eyes, wondering how he’d process that information.

“This is the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” Willem said, but he didn’t move away. “But… considering I’ve already got to the ‘find out’ phase, maybe I can do the other part without consequences.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to make of Willem, even now. Why was he like this? Why did she care about him? They were unanswerable questions, in her mind. She truly had no idea where this was going, or how it ended. For once, though, she was doing what she wanted to do. Nothing more, nothing less.

She leaned in close, then whispered into his ear, “My name… is Seradiene.”

“Seradiene,” Willem repeated.

She leaned away and narrowed her eyes. “I’d prefer you not say it, even if we’re alone. It’s… important to me.”

Willem pondered for a few moments. “Can I call you… Sardine?”

A dim rage consumed her face.

“Sarah,” he suggested, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I suppose it will suffice,” she conceded, but inwardly felt quite pleased with that nickname. It was like teasing on the edge of the truth.

“So, Sarah… are you ready to go talk to a king that killed his own son and is generally ruthless and apathetic?”

Sarah walked ahead in way of answering. It was time to live free or die.

***

Count Tielman sat on the edge of Viviene’s bed in the Verdant Spring Guesthouse as a priestess healed his knuckles. He had expected to be sleeping in the dungeon’s cot tonight—he’d tried his very best to make it worth it. Instead… he was here, uncharged after assaulting a duke. He couldn’t even quite understand the reason why, despite people explaining it to him.

“Thank you,” Tielman said to the priestess as she finished attending to the wound on his knuckles. Even with the aura strengthening them, he had split them open battering Duke Baptiste’s face.

The priestess gave a brief acknowledgement and left quickly, passing by Viviene who watched the whole ordeal. Soon enough the door was shut, and he and Viviene were alone again. She walked over to stare at him wordlessly. He couldn’t think of anything to say as the silence stretched out longer and longer. Eventually, Viviene sat down next to him.

It took nearly a whole minute, but Tielman mustered the courage to turn to her and say, “I’m sorry.”

Viviene met his gaze. His instinct was to turn away, but he didn’t. He was beyond surprised when she leaned in and kissed him. It was brief, and over too soon.

“I’m not,” Viviene said, her face slowly splitting into perhaps the widest smile he’d ever seen her bear. “Perhaps you’d like to stay… for breakfast,” she suggested subtly.

Tielman sat with his mouth agape, lost for words. Eventually, he gave a nod.

***

Willem and Sarah walked into a room that had been pointed out to them as the area in which they would speak to the king and his daughter. Around eighty royal knights had escorted Eleanor here, but they stopped once it came time to enter this room. Upon walking inside, it became evident that it was a training room used for sparring amongst warriors that could employ aura. The king stood in the center of that room. Galahad and Princess Clara were with him.

The king had his back turned, but once they entered, he turned around. He was carrying with him a pitch-black sword.

“The last time a member of your house was in this room, Willem, they lost a hand,” King Arnoud declared loudly. “Shall we discuss what it is you’ve attempted to do?”

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