Chapter 2: The Blood Price
iyi
The stone walls of Damon’s chamber in the Royal Palace of Riverlands breathed cold luxury. Intricate carvings of wolves and rivers seemed to watch him from the shadows cast by flickering sconces. He stood by the tall, arched window overlooking the churning grey waters far below, the distant murmur a constant reminder of the kingdom’s pulse. He wore a simple green tunic, the colour deepening his unsettlingly bright green eyes, a stark contrast to his unruly dark hair. The fabric felt rough against skin still remembering the phantom burn of the Blood Moon, the iron cage, the… otherness. Freedom tasted like ashes and pine needles lately.
A sharp, precise knock echoed, too quick, too demanding. Damon didn’t turn immediately. He knew that knock. He sighed, a low rumble escaping his chest that felt too close to the beast’s growl. He schooled his features into weary indifference before pivoting.
Melik stood framed in the doorway, a small, pale figure drowning in layers of once-vibrant silks now faded to muddy hues. His smile was a thin, cruel slash on his delicate face. He minced in without invitation, the rustling of his garments gratingly loud in the quiet room. His eyes, sharp and acquisitive, scanned Damon’s chamber, lingering on the rumpled bed, the discarded boots.
Damon leaned against the cold stone sill, crossing his arms. His height dwarfed Melik. "Cousin," he greeted, his voice flat. An eyebrow arched. "Sneaking around for gossip again, Your Grace?"
Melik’s giggle was high-pitched, brittle. He fluttered a dismissive hand. "Oh, but I have some juicy gossip already, Shepherd!" The old nickname landed like a poisoned dart. ‘Shepherd’. A reminder of the life before the palace, before the curse, before the blood-soaked monastery escape. A life Damon sometimes ached for with a fierce, impossible longing.
Damon rolled his eyes skyward, the gesture exaggerated. "Do enlighten me." He made no move towards the decanter of wine on the side table.
Melik pouted, his lower lip protruding childishly. "Pour me a drink first." It wasn't a request. It was a command, a petty assertion of dominance from the physically weaker cousin who wielded court influence like a stiletto. "The journey from the east wing is positively exhausting."
"Journey?" Damon snorted, a genuine flicker of annoyance breaking through his studied coldness. "It’s barely fifty paces." He pushed off the sill but didn’t move towards the wine. Instead, he took a deliberate step closer to Melik, forcing the smaller man to tilt his head back sharply. The air crackled faintly. Damon saw a flicker of unease in Melik’s eyes, quickly masked by petulance. Good. Let him remember what lurked beneath the green tunic. "Spit it out, Melik. Or leave. I’m not your serving boy."
Melik sniffed, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height. The cruel smile returned, wider now. "Fine. Be boorish. You always were, weren't you? Even before…" He waved a hand vaguely towards Damon, encompassing the lycanthropy, the exile, the violence. "Word reached the Duke this morning. From Feniraq." He paused, savoring the moment, watching Damon’s carefully maintained composure tighten fractionally. The scent of pine and iron seemed to ghost through the room. "Seems there was an… incident. During the Blood Moon."
Damon’s blood ran cold. He kept his face impassive, a mask carved from ice. Inside, the beast stirred, a low thrum of panic and remembered fury. The cage. The key. Ravyn’s shadow. Sister Agnes’s terrified eyes… the wet warmth… He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. "Incidents happen during the Blood Moon," he managed, his voice dangerously low. "Especially in remote monasteries."
"Oh, this was quite specific," Melik chirped, delight dancing in his eyes. "A nun. Sister Agnes, I believe? Found quite… torn apart. And an empty cage. An iron cage." He took a step closer himself, emboldened by Damon’s silence. "They say the bars were bent outward. Like something immensely strong forced its way out." He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Terrible tragedy. The Duke is… displeased. Deeply displeased. He’s dispatched Ser Davyd Merron."
The name landed like a hammer blow. Ser Davyd. The Ducal Master of Ships. Honorable. Disciplined. Unwavering. The Duke’s most trusted blade. Damon had met him only once, a towering figure of stoic authority whose gaze seemed to see right through royal pretensions. Dispatched. To find him? To bring him back? Or something worse?
Damon forced a nonchalant shrug, turning back towards the window, hiding the tremor in his hands. The river churned below, grey and relentless. "Ser Davyd handles pirates and smugglers, not… monastic mishaps." He tried to sound dismissive, bored. It felt hollow.
Melik giggled again, the sound like shattering glass. "Oh, Shepherd, don't be naive. When a royal wolf goes rogue and slaughters holy women? That becomes a Ducal matter. A very serious Ducal matter." He sauntered towards the wine decanter himself, pouring a generous measure into a crystal goblet without asking. He took a delicate sip. "Ser Davyd doesn't fail. Ever. And he answers only to the Duke." He turned, the cruel smile now triumphant. "Seems your little moonlit escapade has consequences, cousin. Big, knight-shaped consequences."
The beast within Damon snarled, a silent, furious sound that vibrated through his bones. Freedom. It had tasted so sweet for those fleeting moments fleeing the mountains. Now it tasted like cold iron and impending judgment. Ser Davyd Merron was coming. The weight of the palace, the lineage, the monstrous thing he carried inside – it all pressed down, heavier than the stone walls. He stared out at the unforgiving river, the scent of pine suddenly replaced by the cloying dampness of the palace and the metallic tang of fear. The chase was on.
The chase was on. Melik’s smile widened, predatory and sharp. "Pour me that drink and rub my feet, Shepherd," he purred, the silky tone grating against Damon’s nerves. "You can’t order me around like a slave anymore - Your Grace! Somewhat fallen from grace, remember?" Damon glared, the heat of anger warring with the icy dread coiling in his gut. The casual invocation of his lost status felt like salt in a wound still raw from Feniraq.
Melik giggled, an unnerving, breathy sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. "Oh, but don’t you want to hear the gossip? About the wolf? In Princess Layla’s room? After dark?" He tilted his head, watching Damon’s reaction like a cat watching a trapped mouse. Damon’s breath hitched, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck despite the chill in the room. "I don’t know what you mean," he said shortly, the lie tasting like ash.
"Really?" Melik’s purr deepened into mocking disbelief. "Forgot the little midnight adventure already? Tut tut. Bad Shepherd." He clicked his tongue chidingly. Damon’s control snapped. He slammed a fist onto the small table beside him, the wood groaning in protest. "You would dare throw these vile accusations—!" he began, fury making his voice shake, the beast snarling just beneath his skin. But Melik had already turned towards the door, a picture of feigned indifference. "Perhaps if the Emperor—" Melik began, the word hanging in the air like an executioner’s axe.
That was enough. Damon’s resolve shattered. He surged forward, not with violence, but with desperate submission, scrambling to his knees directly in front of Melik. He clasped his hands together in a frantic gesture of pleading, his knuckles white. "Please, Your Grace, mercy! I beg you!" The words tumbled out, raw and desperate.
Melik looked down at him, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his delicate features. "That’s better," he breathed. "So handsome when you grovel." He reached out, tracing a cold fingertip along Damon’s cheekbone, the touch making Damon flinch. "Please, Your Grace," Damon repeated, lifting his face, his green eyes wide with a pleading look he hated himself for.
Melik hummed thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand. "Hmm. I’ll think about it. Over a drink." His voice was pure, silvery malice. Damon sighed, a sound of utter exhaustion and defeat. "Always have to have your way, don’t you, Your Grace?" he murmured softly, the fight draining out of him. Melik pouted prettily. "Yes."
Damon pushed himself up, every movement leaden. He walked stiffly to the side table, the decanter cool and heavy in his hand. He poured dark wine into a second goblet, the liquid sloshing slightly as his hand trembled. He brought it back, offering it to Melik, who took it and sipped delicately, his eyes never leaving Damon’s face.
"Now," Melik purred, swirling the wine. "What would the Emperor say?" His tone was light, mocking. "Please, Your Grace," Damon whispered, the threat conjuring images of the imperial dungeons, instruments designed to break body and mind. "The Emperor will have me beaten till I go mad. He’ll whip the skin off my back." His voice cracked. He could almost feel the lash.
"Maybe you need humbling, Shepherd," Melik murmured, reaching out again. This time, his fingers trailed slowly, deliberately, along Damon’s tense forearm, a possessive, invasive caress. Damon shuddered, revulsion warring with terror. "Please, Your Grace," he begged, the words thick with desperation. "I’ll do anything. Anything. Just please… please don’t tell him. Please."
Melik’s smile was a thing of chilling triumph. He finished his wine in a slow sip, his gaze lingering on Damon’s bowed head. He set the empty goblet down on the table with a soft, final clink. He didn’t speak. He simply turned and glided silently towards the door, the rustle of his silks the only sound in the suddenly vast, cold chamber. The heavy oak door closed behind him with a soft, decisive thud.
Damon remained on his knees. The scent of expensive wine and Melik’s cloying perfume hung in the air. The cold stone floor bit into his knees. He stared at the spot where Melik had stood, the echo of his own desperate pleas ringing in his ears. Anything. The word tasted like bile. He’d just handed his venomous cousin a leash. He clenched his fists, trembling not with fear now, but with a white-hot, impotent rage that threatened to ignite the beast within, right there on the polished stone floor. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs.