RE: Monarch - Chapter 223: Fracture XXVIII

The feeling of strangeness from before had accelerated into a full-blown fever dream. Every time Sera pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked, and pulled, I braced myself, waiting for the inevitable explosion of anger and brutality.

Thump.

King Gil’s head panned downward slowly as he examined the fresh arrow lodged in his bicep. He flexed experimentally, seeming to find it amusing when the shaft dislodged on its own and clattered to the wooden floorboards, wound oozing blood.

As she had the last five times, Maya approached from the side and prepared to heal him.

“Leave it. It won’t kill me, and the pain is the point.” Gil waved her away and directed his attention to Sera. “I shouldn’t be able to do that. The penetration needs work. I’m completely unarmored. Either you’re pulling your punches, or we need to get you a bow with a stronger draw.”

Sera’s brows furrowed. Rather than answer, she drew another arrow from the quiver, pulled back until her arm trembled, and loosed. The sixth arrow struck his thigh, and Gil half roared, half-laughed. “Better.”

“What is happening?” Annette leaned over the table and whispered to me, her eyes wide in confusion. “I was sure he’d blow up as soon as they started.”

“Diplomacy.” I answered. Annette was smart, but unlike me, she’d grown up shielded from much of the more visceral aspects of Gil’s style of rule. It hadn’t helped me much in my first life, but in my second, I’d come to realize that violence was, in many ways, a universal language. Beyond killing, savaging, and destroying, it could also be leveraged to communicate. Sometimes that communication was as unsubtle and jarring as a club to the face, sometimes it was toned down, almost delicate.

And there wasn’t a person alive that spoke the language of violence as fluently as King Gil.

“In a way,” I winced as another arrow struck the king’s shoulder. “It’s almost an apology.”

My little sister gave me a withering look. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just, you know, say he’s sorry like a normal person?”

“Get the sense that isn’t his style.” Alten quipped, staring at the empty bowl of nuts before replacing them on the table.

“A formal apology only goes so far.” I shook my head. “If I had to guess, the King took Sera’s questioning farther than intended. He wasn’t expecting her to hold her tongue and when she did, he escalated—maybe in anger, perhaps with intent. The fact alone that she returned to the regiment knowing she might come into conflict with him again after the hell he put her through is a reality the King can’t ignore.”

“So, what, father’s challenging her tenacity?”

“It’s not the tenacity he’s worried about.” Alten shook his head. “It’s the spite. The darkest desires of a soul rarely vanish with time. If anything, it’s the opposite. The longer the wounds fester, the more twisted the bearer becomes. Eventually that spite forms the perfect breeding ground for rage, and in the end, vengeance.”

“Leaving nothing but a hateful shell.” Thoth’s face emerged in my mind, and I grimaced, banishing it.

An arrow zipped through the air, thudding into Gil’s chest. I stood immediately as Maya rushed over, expression furious as she gripped Gil’s shoulder, diagnostic magic washing over him in a river of green. “His lung is perforated. Not only is it deflating, you were a finger-span from his heart. That is more than enough, I’m putting an end to this.”

Sera showed no reaction. There was a coldness in her eyes I knew well, and before anyone could react, she drew the bow again. Maya stepped in front as I silently summoned mana, preparing to intervene. “Move, infernal.”

“No.” Maya refused.

“Take a breath, sister.” I said, closing enough ground that I was better positioned to act if needed, but not so much that it would force her hand.

“Move!” Sera shouted, drawn arrowhead glinting beside her cheek.

There was a wheeze, and a large hand gently pushed Maya out of the way. “Your courage is lauded. But a man does not bear his throat to another unprepared for every outcome. Step aside.”

“But…” Maya hesitated, then did as the king asked, clearing the firing line and staying close enough that she could intervene at a moment’s notice.

Now that her path was unobstructed, Sera wavered.

“If your purpose was to even the scales, that is already achieved. Killing him accomplishes nothing, sister.” I reminded her, trying to filter the panic out of my voice. If the King died, I’d have no choice but to force a restart. And the series of events that led us here—our victory, the clash with House Westmore—were difficult to recreate, reminiscent of some of the more difficult loops in the Sanctum that almost ended in disaster.

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“There is not yet parity.” Gil disagreed, his voice low and emotionless as he peered at Sera through half-lidded eyes. “I did not inflict pain because I enjoy it. There were questions that needed to be answered, and the hurt was a byproduct. Ask, girl.”

A grimace of determination warred with grief, and Sera squinted, holding back tears as the bowstring tightened. “I know you’re ashamed of me. For the longest time I thought it was my magic, reminiscent of your enemies. Then Cairn sent a letter, telling of his awakening and you were delighted. After, I thought it was the—” She closed her eyes, gathered herself and opened them again. “…the impurity of my heritage.”

Annette gasped. Meanwhile, Alten—demonstrating the wisdom of a man who realized he was on the precipice of hearing things he should not—quietly rose from the table and left the room.

Sera snarled, “Then you opened the gates, and welcomed people I believed you hated with open arms.”

“Ask.” He repeated.

Her lip trembled. “Did—did you ever love me at all?”

Damn it.

This was almost untenable, now. I could already see the laughter starting in his chest. If he mistook her vulnerability for weakness? Mocked her? She’d let fly before he even formed a sentence. I could catch or misdirect a lone projectile easily, but Sera would see it as a betrayal. Choosing father over her.

Gil laughed, and I saw the end approaching.

“From the moment you were shoved into my arms, blind and mewling, shod in nothing but soiled cloth. And I have never stopped.”

My mouth dropped open.

“How can you possibly say that?” Sera’s face twisted, and she advanced.

The king reached up, brushing her fingers that held the bow with the back of his hand, smiling sadly. The exact expression he’d worn just before he died the first time. “I am sorry, girl. I was not raised with tenderness or kindness. My upbringing was difficult. And while there was a time I hated every man and woman who held authority over me, eventually, I came to realize that their cold-heartedness tempered my resolve. Prepared me for the crown.”

“No.” Sera bristled.

“You believe I care for you less for you because of blood?”

“What other explanation is there?”

“Blood plays a part, but not the way you believe. Your golden hair is close enough to the queen’s. Taken alone, few would question it. But once your eyes changed color, and you began to experiment with the arcane, I knew it would lead to whispers. If I ignored them, including you in the same manner as your brother and sister, the people would hate you for it. Question the legitimacy of the Valen name. Presenting you as a bastard provides an explanation, ensures others do not see you as a threat, and prepares you for the reality of the life you live.”

The bow trembled. “If that’s the truth… why couldn’t you just tell me? Explain the reasoning the same way you’re doing now? I would have accepted it—I would have accepted anything. Even if I didn’t like it. Knowing would be better than wondering, all these years, if I was even wanted.”

“Because I’ve seen too many coddled nobles die a swift, dishonorable death. I didn’t want that for you. Any of you.” He cast a look and Annette and I. “Your future subjects will question you, no matter how vast your wisdom, how sterling your rule. Praise creates weakness. Turns the studious into sycophants, cloying for approval. I never questioned that decision until today.”

Slowly, the string slackened, and the bow tumbled from Sera’s grasp as she sobbed.

The king sighed and leaned his head back, resting against the cushion. Maya approached silently and tended his wounds as he continued to speak. “Because today, in what I believed to be a direct but necessary attempt to evaluate my son, I killed him. Watched him depart for the halls of Valhalla as his lips paled and his blood sunk into stone. And despite that being a nasty trick,” he glanced at me in displeasure, “I had a great deal of time to wonder. If it ends like this, what was the point? What was it all for? If the means do not achieve the ends, the means must be judged on their individual merit alone.” He looked at Sera with something that almost resembled empathy. “I will always be a king first, and a father second. That is what it means to be a ruler. But death is swift, and plans so often unravel. Perhaps, ever so rarely, a king should coddle his child.”

King Gil took Sera’s arm and drew her to him, sitting her on his knee and running a hand through her hair as she wept bitterly into his chest.

Once Maya’s magic faded and she looked to me questioningly, I cleared my throat, not entirely sure how to feel. Some of Sera’s invective was solely hers. But much of it had resonated with me, as it probably had for Annette as well. She was staring at our father and sister, wide-eyed, completely motionless. I waved a hand in front of her face and gestured for her to follow. “Let’s… give them some space.”

Alten, still waiting outside the door, fell in step with us. “King dead?”

“Almost.” Maya grumbled, glancing back towards the doorway.

Annette’s hand slipped into mine as we walked. “Cairn.” She asked quietly, voicing the same question I didn’t dare speak aloud. “How much of that was real?”

Even with an entire lifetime worth of memories to draw from, my mind was spinning. Nothing like this had happened in my previous life. The regret in his voice, the guilt, and admission of past failings—even the apology—all felt authentic. Then again, I could say with near-complete confidence that he’d genuinely hated me towards the end of my past life. It was a question of causality. Maybe it hadn’t always been that way. Elphion knows I had it coming. I spit in his face whenever I could, resisted anything he’d tried to teach me, shirked every responsibility, and ultimately, ruined his legacy.

Of course he’d hate me.

I wanted to believe his explanation. That the cruelty he’d routinely treated us with was paved with good intentions, even if the method was misguided. But the terrors he’d inflicted on both us and the world at large would not be so easily swept away.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.