When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 271

“There is someone else in that palace who I am looking to find,” I announce, twirling my finger lazily over my forearm as I gaze over this helpless spectacle of a creature. With each passing second longer that she spends under my gaze, she appears  more and more as though she would like to fade away into the shadows of the room, that arrogant, domineering bravery that she first presented me with all but washed away.

“There is a woman- coiling brown hair and deep green eyes, like that of the forest. She has horns atop her head, very similar to mine,” I gesture with a tap of my finger.

Rubbing her fingers together with an obvious trepidation, the girl stares blankly into one of the flickering lamps, her brows furrowed in thought.

“I don’t think I-”

Then she stops herself short, her expression more intense for a moment before she straightens up quickly, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Wait! I passed the girl briefly- but she appeared to be under some sort of trance because she doesn’t look at anyone when she passes down the corridors. I saw her with Azrael a few times in a dining room. She does not know of our intention,” she takes a moment to breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort of not breathing between sentences. It is as though she expects me to lop off her head if she does not speak fast enough- but that is a useless waste of life that only my brother would commit himself to doing. No, I would only consider that if she refused to speak at all.

“Your answers are satisfactory for now,” I sigh impartially, pulling up the cuffs of my sleeves. “But I am no where near done yet.”

Shivering a little as I shadow her with my form, she steadies herself, sinking low against the ground. Sitting there on her knees in front of me, she bows her head, refusing to meet my eyes that have since hazed my vision into a bloody red. It seems I have zapped enough mental energy out of her to keep her on her knees for a week. I expect she hardly even presumed the possibility of ending up in hell after her assassination mission failed.

“You mentioned there were others,” I murmur roughly, crouching down to her level as the bulk of my anger subsides slightly. There is no need to become viscous when prisoners are being cooperative, after all, that would send them the wrong impression.

She nods silently, her voice lost in the back of her throat.

“Tell me about them.”

Shakily, she begins, her eyes never straying from where my hand clenches by my side, whirring with sparks of shadowy magic.

“The others… they are all different. We were all summoned from different places, different regions of Faey. Our Master made sure none of the assassins he chose were the same, each of us were to have an individual skill set. He wanted to test our effectiveness against you. I was the first to go,” she pauses on that fact for a moment, a sudden realisation dimming in her eyes. Pushing myself up now, I let the shadows dissolve around me, pulling me to a more comfortable position against one of the symmetrical walls. Shouldering the wall, I gaze down at her, tapping my foot impatiently.

Judging by how easily I managed to crack her, I would take to assume that her stakes for winning this mission were not ones that she took to heart. Whatever Azrael had promised her, it was no fantastical paradise. But nothing with him ever is. Either that or she has realised the futility of her situation and surrendered herself to the consequences.

Likely, she was expecting to die. The only reason she came out here in the first place was because he promised something worse if she didn’t.

I narrow my eyes.

“What did he threaten you with?” I ask, lowering my voice now, but still not moving from my position above her. Initially, I had presumed she was from one of the ranks of the traitors who escaped from under our noses when the initial peace treaty had been recognised, but now in light of all that she has told me, I am beginning to wonder differently.

I have seen the likes of traitors time and time again, how their hearts are filled with loathing and their mouths are filled with lies. They will not so easily relinquish valuable information as she has done here, and will do everything to spite you and the cause that you represent. For them, there is no option of turning back. But this girl…

Not a single one of those aspects are apparent of her. Loathing doesn’t reside in her heart, but grief does. It oozes out of her like a rain flooding over the land, laying waste to the perishable and people of the land in a monsoon of agony.

I can see it in her heart, and I knew if I touched it, that is what I would find: remorse.

She takes a shuddering breath.

“He told us that he would make us into halflings.”

I stop dead.

“Halflings?” I query, pushing aside my suspicions in place of shock for a minute. “Why halflings?”

For to be honest, I am not entirely sure myself. The purpose that my own dearest brother could have for a horde of murderous, pre assassin halflings is beyond me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t attempt to figure it out anyway. Although halflings are less mindless than those under Azrael’s trance- for they are still able to think somewhat for themselves, they still bear shackles to their creator. If Azrael is creating halflings, they will be loyal to him only.

“Tell me what you know about them,” I insist, creeping further forward now.

Visible wells of panic bubble under the surface of my hostage’s skin- even in the half-light of the room, I can see her throat working.

“I- I-” she breaks off for a moment, shuddering a gasp.  The poor creature, I think to myself.  I have never seen someone so terrified.

Steeling myself, I manage to break out enough sympathy to kneel down beside her, conjuring up a dark cloth between my fingers and handing it carefully to her. For the tears. Slowly, and very wary not to make full contact with me, she takes the cloth, folding it up between her hands but never using it.

It is highly likely that she still thinks I wish to kill her, after all.

“Thanks,” she mutters, refusing to meet my eyes. So I simply wait, sitting there until she can at last conjure the strength she needs to answer me. Her fingers tremble on the strip of cloth.

“None of us really knew his purpose- only that we knew he would do it. It is what he makes of the faeries who disobey him, who fail to follow the mindless tasks he set them up to do. He treats it like a game- this drinking and killing of the Folk. Or, rather I should say turning,” she corrects herself, slouching down as she rings her hands over her knees. A tear trickles from her cheek, her eyes running red with veins. She dabs her eyes with the cloth.

“I am just terrified, you know? I don’t want to end up becoming like one of them- just another one of the masses he keeps under lock in the dungeons.”

Just like in Sezeria, I think silently to myself, where my father designed his maze of terrors. Azrael is weaponizing halflings. He is literally creating mass murder machines- and right under our noses.

“Azrael you sly bastard,” I spit under my breath, rubbing my face with a pained exasperation. Perhaps I was a fool to not see this coming. If Azrael can’t create masses of loyal soldiers just by recruiting, what better alternative is there but to create halfling ones instead?

Lifelessly, I stare over her.

The paleness of her hands, the gauntness of her face, as though she has been running for days with nothing but a drop of water to sustain her.

She looks wearied, and yet, she has enough energy to attempt to throw a knife straight into my stomach.

None of this seems right.

Trained assassin or not, she must have travelled days to reach us from her position in Azrael’s palace. Days of trekking on foot at the speed a mortal walks, with no rest, and no food. I can hear it growling- her stomach. It is bloated, but most importantly, it is empty. She should have died on the trek here.

“You know,” I say, standing now. I let myself wander lazily to the other side of the room, but my eyes never leave the figure that is slouched out across the ground. She stirs beneath her cloak. “Halflings are very strange creatures,” I muse, lifting my hand to my face to glance over the polished black claws of my nails. She furrows her brow, but remains silent.

“Do you know why?”