Scarred (Never After Series)

It continually surprises me how easy it is to end a person’s life. Even as a boy, I never felt the type of attachment others do, and there’s only been one death that’s affected me.

Everyone else can rot.

Still, I’ve always known that I’m just a bit different. Smarter than most? Unspeakably. More fit to rule? Undoubtedly.

When you’re forced on the fringes of society, yet required to be there, you notice things that go missed when you’re paraded in the middle of the stage like a puppet.

And most people, I find, are imbeciles.

Face value is the only truth, and blind trust is something often found in spades. Which, I suppose, explains the popularity of my brother. He isn’t particularly charming, and he doesn’t have the brains to be clever or witty. But he’s conventionally attractive and spent his life being the crowned prince, and for the masses, that’s enough.

Even though Michael excelled in nothing but pushing down others in order to feel strong, people often want to believe the ones placed on pedestals deserve to be there.

But you don’t need to have brawn to subdue and exert power.

True power lies in the ability to harness energy and wield it like a sword, becoming the puppeteer that masters all the strings instead of the marionette being forced to dance. Years of being tortured under Michael’s hands taught me that; him and his pack of friends, laughing as they pushed my face into dirt and told me I wasn’t worth the mud being caked in my cuts.

They stole my power every day.

It wasn’t until many years later that I learned to take it back, and it wasn’t until my father’s death that I craved to take theirs too.

Something sharp pricks at my chest and I shake off the thought, placing my hand on the shoulder of the royal guard as we reach the entrance to the dungeons. He glances back at me, his nerves so potent I can taste them in the air. I wave my arm toward the narrow staircase.

“The security issue is down here, sir?” His voice pinches.

“Please, give me some credit.” I chuckle. “Would I bring you here for any other reason?”

He shakes his head. “No, of course not, I just… this isn’t really my area.”

“Your area is wherever I tell you it is.”

He swallows, his eyes growing large. “Of course.”

I follow behind him as we move into the dungeons, our footsteps reverberating off the dark walls as we walk down the concrete steps. The air is moist, and it smells like mold and despair, although there are no prisoners rotting away in the cells. Drips of water splash in the background from the castle’s plumbing, and the only other sound is the harsh breathing coming from the guard himself.

Excitement winds its way through my middle at his obvious unease.

He glances back at me, and I force a grin, nodding toward the last cell as I walk past him and over to the far wall with the large skeleton keys that open the iron doors.

“Last one here,” I say as I make my way to the final one on the left and insert the key, feeling the click as the lock unlatches. It creaks as I open it and let him go in first.

The guard cocks his head. “I’m not a carpenter, I think that’s who—”

I move to where he stands, the metal key pressing into my palm as I shove at his shoulders, prodding him forward like cattle being led to slaughter. And it’s only once he’s within the cell that I drop all pretense, spinning around and closing the door behind us.

The slam echoes off the bare concrete walls and the guard tries to go back toward the door. “Your Highness? I—”

Reaching up to my ear, I slip the joint from behind it, pulling the matches from my pocket, my stomach tightening as I strike the flame and bring it to my lips.

“Antony.” I snuff out the fire and puff on the hash, my gaze taking him in from the tips of his toes up to the top of his blond head. He looks every part a commander, the black and gold of his uniform striking, and the lion in the center of his chest showcasing Gloria Terra’s coat of arms. “Antony,” I repeat. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to confuse a carpenter with a member of the king’s army?”

His lips turn down. “No, I just—”

“You will refer to me properly. Your Highness. Master.” I pause. “Or my lord, if you feel so inclined.”

His body stills, no doubt sensing the malice that has dropped into my tone. “M-my lord?” he questions.

“You don’t think it’s fitting?” I cock my head, blowing out a plume of smoke as I walk toward him. “I know it’s usually reserved for lower-class nobility, however in this case, its sentiment lends to more of a ‘savior’ type of title.”

I step in close now, forcing him back, his hand flying to his hip. He draws his weapon, but his movements are clunky and sharp, and before he can even point the gun, I wrap my fingers around his wrist, twisting his hand in directions not meant for bone. He screams, the pistol clanking as it drops to the concrete floor, and I keep applying pressure until the resistance snaps away and his fingers grow limp, his hand flopping like a useless slab of meat.

“As I was saying, I’ve realized most people pray to find their savior right before they die,” I continue, lowering my voice to a murmur. “I’m willing to be that for you.”

The lighting is dull in the dungeons, but the small lamps resting outside of the cell filter through the iron-barred window of the door, the dull glow glistening off the tears tracking down his face.

“P-please, Your H-h-highness,” he stutters.

“Ah-ah-ah,” I tsk.

Placing pressure on his wrist again, he groans in obvious pain. “Bow before me, Antony, commander of the king’s army.”

He drops like a sack of potatoes, his shoulders rising and falling with his whimpers.

I take him in as he cowers at my feet, bringing the hash to my mouth and inhaling again, enjoying the way it makes my head buzz. My foot kicks his weapon farther away, and I walk around his trembling frame. “Rather weak for a commander, aren’t you?” I question. “You know, if you tell me what you saw in the hallway, I’ll set you free.”

“Nothing,” he forces out between gritted teeth. “I saw nothing.”

I chuckle, pausing at his back. “I don’t believe you. Somebody always sees something.”

“I swear it, I-I…”

“There’s an abandoned cabin deep within our forests, and when I was a boy, I used to sneak away to it often. Did you know that?”

The guard’s breathing becomes choppier, but he grows silent.

I grip the back of his sandy blond head, ripping it upward until his face is exposed to the ceiling, the smoke from my cigarette curling between my fingers and wrapping around his skull. “Answer me.”

His jaw clenches. “No…”

“Of course you didn’t,” I snap. “No one does. No one cared enough about little Prince Tristan to give a damn what I did with my time.”

I toss him to the ground, so he’s forced to catch his body with his broken wrist. He collapses, groaning as he brings the limp fingers to his chest.

“Our tunnels lead right to it, isn’t that something?”

Cocking my head, I wait for his reply, but other than his whimpers, he stays silent. Irritation coils around my muscles, squeezing them tight. My voice lowers. “I thought we had already gone over how I expect an answer to my questions, Antony.”

“Yes! It’s something.” His voice cracks, and the obvious fear weaving through the tone makes me smile.

“The point is, I spent hours there. Usually taking my sketchbook and drawing until my fingers went numb. It was the only place I could go where the people who hurt me wouldn’t follow.”

I crouch, my hands sliding around his shoulders, pulling him upright into a sitting position. “And everyone let me disappear, even though they all saw what went on. Perhaps they never cared.” I shrug. “Or maybe they thought alone time would help my ‘fragile mental state.’”

My gut churns and I bring the joint to my lips, allowing the smoke to seep from the edges of my mouth as I speak. “But some people are beyond saving. Are you beyond saving, Antony?”

He shakes his head.

“That’s what they all say.” My fingers rest on the dip between his collarbone, directly below his neck. “If I were to press right here, it would drop you down and cut off your breath, but only for a moment. Do you know what it feels like to choke repeatedly for hours?”

“No,” he whimpers.

“I can show you if you’d like.” I pause. “Or you can tell me the truth, and hope that I’ll be your savior.”

His eyes narrow, and even through his pain, defiance swirls through his irises. “You’re no savior. Just a disfigured freak.”

Anger slams into me, and my hand whips out before I can control it, the sound of my rings smacking bone loud in the concrete room. He flies to the side, grunting as blood pours from his mouth. He spits and a tooth flies onto the floor. I ignore his whimpers, lifting up my foot and slamming it down on the side of his face, my abdomen tensing from the rise and fall of my leg as I stomp his cheek, feeling the bone fracture beneath my heel.

Red liquid pools around my feet and I back up a space, closing my eyes, and panting through the torrential downpour of fire that’s raining on my insides from his words.

“Everyone always underestimates me.” I sigh, stepping forward again, this time to press my foot on his wrist above the snapped bone. “But you’re wrong, Antony. Because right now? I’m your god.”

I grind my boot down, and he grits his teeth, a long groan escaping from his clenched lips.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart.” I chuckle. “You can scream as loud as you want. No one will hear.”

His working hand flies to my shin, his fingernails trying to claw my flesh through the fabric of my pants. Bending down close to his face, my voice drops to a whisper. “Just a few paltry words, Antony, and all this can be over. Tell me what you saw.”

“Will you… will you let me go?” he cries.

Laughing, I flick the end of my joint, pinpricks of pleasure racing through me as the ashes rain down on his sweaty, snot-filled face. “I promise to let you free.”

“I sa-saw you and the lady.” His words are deformed, the s’s sounding like t’s, and every few seconds he spits more blood at my feet.

I lighten the pressure on his wrist.

“In the windowpane, it… it looked like you were being intimate. Pl-please, please, I beg of you… My Lord.”

A satisfied breath escapes me, a thrill rushing through my veins, even as his words remind me of how stupid and reckless I was.

“I appreciate your honesty.” Walking behind him, my hands slide around his neck and grip just beneath his ears. “And lucky for you, I am a merciful god.” I twist until bones crack and separate. His limp body drops to the ground beneath me, his eyes wide and vacant, a pool of blood forming from where it dribbles out of his mouth.

“Be free, Antony.”

I bring the joint to my lips, puffing one last time before dropping it on his corpse, allowing the lit end to burn through the eye of the lion in the center of his chest, a strange sense of satisfaction weaving through me as I watch it turn to ash.