Chapter 6 The Touch of a Corpse

The dark stone stairs felt slick beneath Darius's boots, coated in a fine layer of greasy soot that smelled of old graves. He didn't feel the stone. He didn't feel his blistered feet. The blackness inside his head had grown so loud that the sound of his own breathing was gone, replaced by the deep, rhythmic thrumming of the dark void.

He burst into the ritual chamber like a gust of cold winter wind.

At the far end of the room, High Priest Malakor stood over the marble altar, his long red robes twisting as he brought the curved silver dagger down toward Lira's exposed stomach.

Darius didn't shout. He didn't use words. He simply thrust his black-veined left hand forward, his fingers clawing the empty air.

A thick spike of solid shadow shot from his palm, moving faster than an arrow. It struck the silver dagger mid-air, shattering the blade into a hundred tiny metal shards that rained down onto the stone floor. The force of the dark wind didn't stop there. It hit Malakor square in the chest, lifting his thin body off the ground and throwing him backward into a row of burning tallow candles. The priest hit the bedrock wall with a dull thudand slumped into the gutter, dead before his robes even caught fire.

“Guards!” King Eldric screamed, dropping his gold wine cup. The metal container clattered against the floor, spilling dark liquid across the silver runes painted on the stone. “Kill him! Kill the monster!”

Four royal guards in heavy steel armor rushed from the dark corners of the room, their long swords raised high.

Darius didn't even raise his weapon to meet them. The shadows around his legs rose up like living snakes, responding to the raw, unhinged malice in his chest. The black tendrils wrapped around the guards' helmets, forcing their way under the iron visors. The men choked, their cries muffled into wet gasps as the darkness drained the warmth from their bodies. One by one, the heavy armor suits hit the floor with loud, hollow clangs.

Through the black smoke, Darius's eyes locked onto King Eldric.

The king backed away toward a heavy stone pillar, his gold crown slipping sideways on his head. His face was no longer cold and proud; his skin had turned the color of wet chalk, and his knees shook so violently he had to press his back against the rock to stay upright. “Stay back,” Eldric whimpered, his hand fumbling blindly against the stone behind him. “You’re a dead man, Darius. The realm will never follow a cursed thing like you.”

Darius took a heavy step toward him, his stolen sword dragging along the floorboards, leaving a deep scratch in the rock. The black veins on his face throbbed, completely hiding his human features.

But as he raised his blade to strike the king, a sharp, desperate cry cut through the darkness from the center of the room.

“Darius! Please! The baby!”

Darius froze. The name hit his mind like a stone dropped into a deep, quiet well.

He turned his black eyes toward the altar. Lira was twisting against the leather straps, her face wet with tears and sweat. Her eyes were wide, fixed entirely on his face, but they weren't full of relief. They were full of pure, unadulterated terror. She wasn't just looking at her rescuer; she was looking at a monster.

King Eldric didn't waste the second. His fingers finally found the hidden iron latch behind the stone pillar. A narrow stone door slid open with a loud, grinding crunch. The king threw his body through the opening, and the heavy rock door slammed shut behind him, locking with a deep, iron click.

Darius didn't follow. The king didn't matter anymore.

He dropped his sword onto the stones and walked toward the altar, his steps slow and heavy. He reached down with his black, blistered fingers and caught the thick leather straps binding Lira’s wrists. With a single, effortless pull, the tough hide snapped like wet parchment. He tore the straps from her ankles, freeing her completely.

“Lira,” he whispered.

The sound was terrible. It carried that dark, layered double echo, vibrating the silver candles along the walls.

Lira did not throw her arms around his neck. She scrambled backward across the marble altar, her boots kicking away from him until her back hit the stone wall. She held her large, pregnant stomach with both hands, her body shaking violently as she stared at his ink-black eyes.

“Don't… don't touch me,” she choked out, her voice small and trembling. “What did they do to you? Where is my husband?”

Darius stopped his hand an inch away from her knee. He looked down at his palms. The skin was gray and split, the blood inside his veins appearing as thick, black ink that pulsed under the surface. He felt no warmth in his body. He felt like a corpse that had been dragged out of a frozen riverbed.

“It's me,” he said, the double voice cracking with a raw, human pain that didn't match his terrifying face. “I came back for you. I swore I would.”

Lira looked at his hands, then up at his dark eyes. She let out a small, miserable sob, her shoulders dropping as she realized the truth. “Your eyes… Darius, there's no light left in them.”

Before he could speak, Lira let out a sharp, breathless gasp, her hands tightening around her belly. She doubled over on the marble stone, her teeth grinding together as a violent tremor shook her frame.

Darius didn't think about his appearance anymore. He reached out and caught her before she could slide off the edge of the altar. The moment his cold, gray hands touched her skin, a sudden, blinding flash of purple light erupted from her stomach.

The air in the room went completely still.

Darius felt a strange, cold pull in his chest, as if the void inside his own veins were recognizing a brother. He looked down at Lira’s rounded belly. Beneath the thin, wet fabric of her white dress, tiny, ink-black lines were beginning to branch out across her skin, creeping up toward her ribs like frozen frost. The baby inside her wasn't crying, but the dark magic from the unfinished ritual—and the raw power from Darius’s own touch—had already anchored itself deep into the child's small bones.

The bloodline hadn't ended tonight. It had changed.

“What… what is happening to my baby?” Lira whispered, her hand brushing against the dark lines on her skin. She looked up at Darius, her tears running fresh down her cheeks. “Darius, what did we do?”

Darius didn't answer. He couldn't. He slid his strong, freezing arms beneath her back and knees, lifting her heavy body from the marble altar. She felt light to him now, weightless, like a bundle of dry straw. He turned away from the dead priest and the broken silver shards, carrying his weeping wife up the dark stone stairs toward the exit.

The palace above was quiet now, the soldiers either dead in the garden or hiding from the dark shadow that had broken their lines. Darius walked through the ruined doors of the upper sanctum and out into the cold morning air.

Far to the east, the first pale rays of dawn were beginning to break through the gray clouds, but the light didn't bring warmth. It only showed the long trail of blood and black soot Darius had left behind him.

He looked down at the woman in his arms. She had her eyes closed tight, refusing to look at his face as she held her marked stomach. He had saved her life, but as they walked toward the deep trees of the gray hills, Darius knew the bitter truth.

He had broken the kingdom to take her back, but he had lost his soul in the dark to do it.