ততততত

𝐓 𝐎 𝐁 𝐈 𝐍

I followed Imogen's caravan for hours in the daylight—from a distance—to make sure nothing came of harm, or if Leighton decided to pull any tricks.

Then, I had to go back to Lagulon. There's a certain asshole sitting at the tavern expecting answers from me about the castle, but gods, I'm not in the mood to deal with this shit. But I do. I tell Gareth the same thing as I do every other fucking night, and he just tells me to do my job. It's predictable.

I'm a predictable petty thief.

Damn her.

Now, I'm laying on the bed in my homestead instead of the castle, ridding myself of the thought of her and trying to replace her with something else. Bottle after bottle, the numbing amber liquid I crave disappears. Yet, all I see are two glorious moons. All I feel are the phantom of featherlight fingers dancing over my scars. I'm a selfish motherfucker whose heart has fallen from a pedestal and into the lap of a princess.

She is beauty, and I? I am the darkness she can never have. I long for her. Desire her. Hell, this might even be love, but when she knows the truth about me, she'll run.

We're living in a fantasy—and we will continue to as long as I keep her from deciphering my past.

This is for Aspen, but now I fear I'm stuck within a full fledged war.

In a drunken haze, I sit up and tear my tunic away from my skin. There's a broken shard of mirror, a reflection of the abhorrent monster that I am. Deformed. Grotesque. Over my shoulder, I gaze at the whipping scars that slaughter my flesh. The sharp sting of each slash burns against my nerves, and always has until a certain princess' fingertips touched them without realizing.

These markings will always be a reminder that my soft heart has hurt me once.

I won't let it harm me again.

𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑

No one wants to end up here: the place where the borders of death and life intersect.

Immense stone walls span around the outdoor parameters of the yard. Wet mud squishes between our boots with every step, clinging to the bottoms of leather soles. Drizzle mattes down my clothes to my skin and my brown hair. Even the earthy smell threatening my senses can't overcome the scent of metallic blood.

Yet, here I am.

As a high ranking soldier—the son of the highest ranked official in the Adoridian militia—they only expect the best. I'm a knight who conforms to orders, no matter the request. I know how to govern and fight, to outwit any challenge set before me. Yet, even those higher than the rest all are destined to fall at some point.

Every little mistake piled on top of the next. When the king's orders sent me left, I turned right. I jarred his monarchy, building a revolution for myself to rebel. It soon became apparent that I was an outlier.

Through my rain-drizzled lashes, I look up at my audience. There's several dungeon guards surrounding the outdoor yard, but they all become a blur of sharp iron and metal. Instead, my gaze locks on that of King Leighton. His icy eyes hold no pity for what he's about to do. I'm only a child. A child.

All because I disobeyed his command.

Kill them.

We were fighting on the borders of Thivalon—a kingdom to the north with the most beautiful forests. They were children. She reminded me of Aspen, standing there with wide doe eyes.

And I refused.

My father stands next to Leighton at his right hand side. The lines etched into his olive skin turn his expression to stone, a lifeless, emotionless, void. My father knows how to keep a straight face, but I see through his mask. When his brown eyes meet mine, I am only met with that fatherly kindness mixed with remorse. Behind his stone expression, he's crying out for his son.

A guard forces me down to my knees in front of an iron stake, and my legs cripple beneath me. He takes my wrists, harshly wrapping a thick-corded rope above my head to the stake. My body remains hunched, back vulnerable to the flagellation. Yet, I still look at them. Leighton. My father.

Leighton steps towards me. "You've done well for yourself, Tobin. Your father must be proud."

No matter the punishment, Leighton and my father will always be in attendance to watch the blood spill onto Adorid's soil. Except my father never envisioned that I would be the one receiving the whip.

And every second of it, I'll take.

Because that's a soldier's duty, ain't it? No matter how much I despise the ruler overpowering me, I am supposed to obey.

I look up through the drizzling veil of mist, only to meet the icy eyes of Leighton. He kneels in front of me now. With rough fingers, he snaps my jaw towards him, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"You're just like your father," Leighton hisses, his voice quiet. "If he wasn't as knowledgeable as he is, I'd have sent him to the mountain's in Hell's Gate to die the moment I became king."

I bite my tongue to refrain from lashing out. My father is an asset to Adorid. Serving alongside the royal Adoridian family has been the duty of the Parias lineage since the dawn of time. When my father passes, it is I who will take his duties. We're not a family that's easily replaceable, and yet to him we're nothing.

We just never thought that the heir to the throne belonged to such a cruel callous man. Leighton.

Leighton releases my jaw and stands up. "Berin," he calls out to my father. "Your boy has chosen well."

I've chosen to stay silent. To submit. To bind and bend to his governance.

My father swallows. "And he will continue to do so."

"He will be a reminder to all who watch that orders given are to be taken seriously," his icy eyes glaze over the dungeon knights in the yard, "or their blood will be the next to spill on this soil."

There's a reason no life grows in this yard. It's a desolate wasteland, a graveyard of Leighton's damned. Even I know the challenge of the whipping set before me will be my greatest yet. It will scar me, perhaps even bring me to death's doorsteps.

Leighton nods at a guard. "Don't be gentle with him. Berin's son can take it, hmm?"

He purposefully uses my father's name to remind him that I, his son, has failed his expectations.

My father's jaw clenches, but the words come out in a smooth unphased demeanor. "He can."

"I will rid him of his dues if he survives," Leighton mumbles.

If. The small two letter word hangs in the air. I know Leighton wants me dead, but my father? He wants me alive. I am no heir to the throne, but I am the heir to our family name. It's the Parias duty to serve—but how can I serve a king who is destined to bring hell to earth?

The guard takes a cord in his hand. Through the drizzle, I look up to his hazel eyes. I search for pity, for guilt, for any lingering clue that this corporal punishment is wrong. Instead, I find the shell of a man obeying his king's commands. I used to be a shell like him, a pawn in a game.

The first lash strikes my back.

A sharp pain tears through my nerves, and I clench my my fingers into a fist. I bite my cheeks and tongue, forcing myself to stay quiet. I have to swallow it. Every drop of pain that Leighton inflicts, I have to shove it deep down to god knows where and just survive. In this courtyard, the only battle fought is between Leighton and I, and I ain't coming out of here dead.

The second lash hits right between my shoulders. The snap of the whip can be heard through the misty air, an acho that can touch the borders of the Adoridian kingdom.

A third lash.

A fourth.

Fifth.

Sixth.

I close my eyes and focus on anything but the pain. I think of what there is beyond my duties as a knight. There's my mother and Aspen at home, thinking that my father and I will return at dinner in our silly mundane lives. My mother will make stew with vegetables from our garden, and Aspen will hide underneath furniture, expecting me to seek her out. My dad will come in and hum his favourite ballad—the same song he used to sing to Aspen when she was a baby.

Tears saturate the rims of my eyes as I lose count of the whippings. Now, the pain is a constant, and the clothes I wear on my back are nothing but tatters. A guard rips my tunic away from my flesh, revealing the crimson red gashes etched deep into the planes of back. Now, there's no barricade between my skin and the cord.

My breath falters, and yet in the ceasefire of his punishment, I look up. I see those icy eyes, the pierce of them as Leighton shakes his head.

"His blood hasn't reached the ground yet," Leighton snaps.

My father's voice quivers—the first sign of weakening. "My liege, he's just a boy—"

"SILENCE."

The guard continues. Relentless. Merciless. Careless. Each snap of the whip brings my ears to a ringing numb, or maybe I finally let go from the clamp on my tongue and let each shrill scream wreak havoc over the courtyard. It's here I see death, how welcoming it is, how sweet it must be to cave into death's embrace.

Until suddenly, the numbing goes away, and the damp cool air settles on my skin. Leighton shakes his head, disappointed that I still cling to the strings of life with white knuckles. In his icy eyes, there is a darkness in him, a corruption that no one can repair. I hate him, hate that he controls us because he wears the crown.

The whippings end, and so does my punishment. My blood has reached the soil, almost flowing in a steady river.

I watch Leighton say something to my father and turn away. The audience leaves, and I am alone.

My eyes roll back, and all I am met with is darkness. This darkness is warm, almost as if soft hands cradle me against its chest. Death has come to claim me and take my soul to its underworld. The blood loss is too much.

This truly is a space where life and death meet, because here I am about to cross the threshold.

Until life grips onto me and hauls me back, and I find myself in the one place I refuse to be.

Wrists tied. Back exposed. Throat parched from screams. Blood drips down my back, sores open wide from every lash as cold rain patters against the ripped skin. I look up to the sky, only to meet the kindness of my father's brown eyes.

He unravels the ropes that bind my wrists to the stake.

"Son," the word drips from his mouth to my ear. This time when I see him, tears run down his cheeks.

My consciousness fades, a constant in and out of reality until my mind can no longer fathom the pain. And yet, somehow, through the mess of it all, my father carries me in his arms. I'm his child, his son, his lineage.

Though I bleed over his clothes, I force my eyes open to meet his gaze.

"This isn't over, Tobin," he mutters. The promise he makes is one that will forever change my life: "I'm going to kill him."

── •✧• ──

Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, even if it is a traumatic defining moment of Tobin's past. It's time to understand our thief a little more, because to him, family is clearly something he holds close to his heart.

Anywho, this update is coming a little earlier than normal. I did struggle to write this chapter, considering it's not a pleasant one. But next, we are off to Adorid with Imogen who has a few plans up her sleeve!

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