Chapter Text
It was just a nightmare.
At any moment, Dan would open his eyes and he’d be back in that abandoned tower lost somewhere in the depths of the cursed land. All the friends he lost to the wrath of the abomination now before him were nothing more than figments of his caged and crazed imagination. All the horrors, all the terrors, all the unimaginable monstrosities that tore apart his sanity and left him weathered and worn like a seaside stone were a moment away from being the hazy remnants of a bad dream. He was sure of it. Dan was so sure.
Mark lowered in quiet steps from the throne he very well intended to call his own. His walk was calm and each step calculated. His eyes, black like oil, corrupted and fathomless like his rotten heart, never once strayed from the man he once vowed to always protect and love, but there was no love behind that narrowed gaze. The faint sounds of fighting were still pricking needles into Dan’s ears. He heard shouts and screams as the last of the Skyhillian forces were thinned by the hellish beasts who fought under the spell of the corrupted king’s undying wrath. Dan’s hand instinctively fell for the sword at his side only to feel an empty void. Realization and regret collided. Amy had the enchanted sword. Dan was left unarmed.
Entrails from past endeavors coated Mark’s charred, skeletal hands now slick with drips of both black and red blood. The moment of calm that kept the black veins from writhing restless beneath grey skin was only brought on by the quick outburst of murderous mayhem that befell the throne room in its king’s absence. It must have happened so fast—like letting a starving wolf into a pen of lambs.
“There is only one loose end left,” Mark growled low and foretelling as he hastened his approach. The gleam of lunacy that burned in those demonic, dark eyes pierced Dan like pins. Just like those claws intended to do. “Make this fun for me, Daniel. Run from me. Run like the coward you are.”
Naturally, he wanted to deny him, as he had done so many days before. Pride, as frail and fickle as it was, told him to rush the beast now and fight. Fight like his brothers and sisters, and lay down his life for the honor of dying as one of the last Skyhillians—but that would not save his people. It would not save Arin or Amy, or even Barry and Brian—if they survived somewhere out there in the wastes of what once was their city. Suffocation was the end of Dan’s voice of defiance as death was now nearing an arm’s reach away. He thought no more on the matter.
Biting back the onslaught of ten thousand curses sheltered for the beast before him, Dan broke from his stillness and fled to the hallway behind him. The labyrinth that was Castle Avidan now became a hunting ground. The devilish grin curled over Mark’s face was the last thing Dan saw before he put his back to the bloodthirst of this beast and ran.
The chase began.
.
.
.
.
.
Metal clanged and hissed as again and again Amy blocked the brutal force of the corrupted claymore. The wolves kept their distance, but she could hear them in the shadows. They mocked her with yips and yelps. Cackles danced between the branches that ripped against Amy’s face as she fled—desperately trying to hold her back, to make her lose focus for just long enough for the black knight’s reaching hand to grab hold of the tangles in her hair and drag her back into the darkness. Breaths sputtered out through her lips as she slipped away into the garden’s grove to hide. A river birch became her haven until she heard her name being called from where the wolves walked.
“Give it up, Amy.” Arin stalked, searched, seethed. “You can either follow me or fall. It’s the only way this will end.”
She closed her eyes and tried to silence the thousands of fearful voices battling back and forth in her head. Amy gripped the sword she held a little tighter.
“I’ll make it quick. You won’t feel a thing,” he told her. “You’ll need to make a sacrifice. I can guide you through it. I can help you, but only if you decide to help me.”
She heard the grass crunch beneath his boots. His shadow wrought cold wherever it traveled. He was just on the other side of the birch now. It was run or stay. She needed to decide. But how? She would be found, or she would not. There was no correct answer. There was only chance.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” Arin’s voice deepened. The tail of his words growled. “It’s calling to me.”
She ran.
The leaves scattered beneath her feet. Fear kept her from turning back, but she knew he followed. The earthen underbed quaked at his chase. The shadows were suffocating. Illumination from the runes dimmed now and dimmed further as the darkness ignored her prays for safety. The undead marched in unmatched numbers. Their gaping, gawking eyes turned heavenward as howls of unrest rose in waves. The jagged silhouette of the castle keep blurred in drenching moonlight. It was a beacon of hate to the Horde, and one of hope to the weary warrior. She needed to make it back to the safety inside—she needed to make it back to the king.
Strain and stress crooked her ankle, sending Amy to plummet down on the stone of the courtyard, a mere twenty feet from where the last of the soldiers fought. Her body twisted in descent. Bones bashed against the cobbled stone and forced an unheard cry to shatter through her gritted teeth. The sword she carried was lost and clanged ahead of her. Amy clawed for it, but it was just out of reach.
A chilling shadow overcame her.
“It’s hopeless,” he told her, near sneer. “You’re not strong enough to kill him.”
“I have to try,” she snarled back.
His face darkened.
“I already told you, Amy.”
Words filled her mouth, a fight ready and willing on the tip of her tongue, but those words fell to silence when the black knight planted the weight of the claymore’s fang in her stomach with one, quick stab. Searing pain engulfed her senses. Heat pooled and dripped through what armor she wore. The world began to blur as she struggled to breathe.
The last she felt was the pull of the blackened silver against her insides and the rush of faintness that followed. Vision dimmed. Her light faded. As all sound came roaring to end soundless in the empty void, she heard Arin whisper through the corruption’s dark embrace.
“Follow me, or fall with Skyhill.”
.
.
.
.
.
No matter where it was Dan went, he felt Mark’s eyes follow him. Desolation damned this domain. Even if others came, they would be torn to pieces as so many had been before. Frantic flashes of the scene in the dining room came to haunt his hectic thoughts. The sight of hanging bodies. Those bulging, bruised eyes. If he could not escape him now, he would meet the same, terrifying end. Forced focus stayed on the winding corridors and stairwells of his childhood home, as he tried to recall what hallways intersected and what stairwells led to decorated but dead ends. The monster that followed was a hunter, and would use any advantage it could get to put an end to this game—if Dan couldn’t remember this, he was dead.
He slipped behind a column and pressed his bandaged back flush with the cold stone. Trembling hands rose and raked through his hair—sweeping it away from his face drenched with sweat—as he tried to think, think, think. A weapon. He needed a weapon.
Silence.
His head cocked back. Eyes clenched shut. He calmed, if only for a moment. A swallow of a breath contracted his throat. The armory was stripped clean—he remembered now. Going there would lead to a dead end. Somewhere else—he had to think.
A soft sound stripped Dan of all thought. Had he not closed his eyes and took this one, quiet moment to recover his senses, he may not have heard it at all. It was unmistakable now, and just on the other side of the column, as the steps Mark took fell back to silence. The air tensed just then, as if the shadows shrouding the fallen king turned to sentinels for the beast. He waited. Not even when the silence coated thick around him did Dan even dare to dream of continuing his flight—but he did not have the luxury of wasting precious time. The sand in the hourglass of Skyhill’s life still fell. A breath, deep and bracing, swelled his chest. His skin caressed the smooth, cold column as he peeked out into the corridor with eyes wide, wondering, worried. The moonlight drew in silver veils from the ironwork bars that caged each high-paned window to cut swaths from the abysmal dark. Each inch was agony to make as Dan crept further and further still. His mind created the image of those fathomless eyes, too fearsome and foreign to be real. He expected to see them—knew that he would—but they were gone. That silver light embraced him in gifted grace. His eyes cast far down the hall, but he refused to tarry.
Dan tore his eyes from the devious dark and started back down the hall from where he came. He took a step, perhaps another, before being stopped quick by the face of the beast he tried so hard to fool. He struck like a viper and the world tumbled and tossed in flashes of white and black as Dan was thrown off his feet. His body contorted and the air was stolen from his lips. Pain erupted across the length of his body—but he could not stop now. Heels clacked—thundering almost—as the corrupted king rushed him again with intent to collide. Claws outreached, but Dan fought off their hold. He kicked—connected. A snarled reaction. The shadows pulsed and dripped around them. A nightmare—that’s what this was. It was all just a nightmare.
A moment left reeling was all the reprieve Dan needed to find his footing and sprint off down the hall. His heart pounded with the like of war drums. The cruelty was just a step behind him. His search for a weapon to battle back the corrupted king was lost. He gripped the railing of the royal staircase and flung himself over. The stone below caught his weight and made him buckle. A bark of pain flew out from him, but he did not stop. Bones bruised and muscles burned—but he pushed on. The snarls of the undead were all around him now. He heard windows breaking as they struggled through the shattered shards to enter the keep. The front door was barricaded from the outside by countless dead. He could see the hellfire consuming the courtyard through the cracks of wood and knew escape through the flames was futile. A black form approached the crack. Another undead to break down what little remained.
He wasted no time to shuffle down the length of the hall. He took a left, whereas the throne room was on the right. The rooms were connected by a long and narrow side passage, but he did not dare risk chance of facing the risen ranks of chevaliers and elders. Down a small flight of stairs, through the doubled archways, he ran. Curtains hung to conceal the room, as he imagined this place saw little use since his departure however long ago. Dan swiped a hand and threw back the silken, sapphire cloth to expose the empty enormity of the royal ballroom. Marbled masterpieces decorated the length of the floor. Gilded sconces, lost without their flames, provided him no breath of safety from the dark—just like the colossal, crystal chandelier that slumbered above on its leash held by the chamber’s domed ceiling. What once were favored relics of his fondest memories became nothing more than ghosts to his frantic thoughts.
The balcony to the gardens was just across the way. If it was another fall he would need make to survive the night, he would do so. The last breath of moonlight swept in waves across the marble floor and accepted him into its kind embrace. His hand grabbed the crystal knob of the trellis doors—but they refused him. He tried again, fervently, furious—but still they refused. Fear lit in his eyes. He tossed his weight into the wood—barreled, bashed, bruised—but still he could not break its lock. His heart raced.
“When will you learn, Daniel?”
Dan glanced back to the wall of darkness and the king that reigned it. Heels clacked, slow and sure, as Mark approached to meet him. There was still the side passage to the throne room. Perhaps he alone remembered the cramped corridor the servants so often took. Could he even make it if he tried?
Mark’s voice was low, rumbling, like distant thunder from an incoming storm. “I have already won.”
“Only you believe that,” Dan returned with heated breath. “So long as one Skyhillian lives to stand against you, you’re nothing more than a bad dream that will die before dawn.”
A smile curled amidst corruption.
“There’s no one left in your kingdom to fight me, Daniel. You are all that’s left.”
“He’s not the only one.”
The shadows split like smoke at the approach of the black knight. Black armor plated Arin a juggernaut. In one hand was the flourished wickedness of the corrupted claymore and its vast opposite, the enchanted king’s blade, was held in the other. The sight of him swept away Dan’s breath and nearly brought him down to his knees. He caught the knight’s eye for only a moment—it was dark and black, but something more. Behind that mask of death was a glimmer of familiarity that Dan had feared he lost in this war—but it lived. Oh, how it lived.
“It’s… not possible.” Mark struggled as Arin approached. “The corruption… it’s meant to control—you’re meant to be mine to control.”
“Fear controls,” Arin returned in a growl. “You manipulated my fear of you once, but you won’t do it again.”
“You underestimate me,” the corrupted king sneered.
“No, you underestimate me,” Arin shot back. “I fear losing Danny more than I could ever fear you.”
The vacancy of emotion from the Mark’s face was broken as a laugh crept out from his now growing smile. His eyes were wide, crazed. Something in him snapped, and the sight of it only chilled Dan further. “Well,” he rumbled—low, disbelieving, furious. “You should have feared me more.”
Arin hardly had the time to toss Dan his returned weapon before Mark collided with him. The severed thread that rose lunacy in the corrupted king was abandonment of humanity, as now, more than ever, he became an untamed beast in hunt for blood. It was unnatural how he moved—how fluid and ferocious the unarmed could be. Dan scrambled for the sword. Each moment wasted was one more that Arin stood alone against Mark’s madness, at least, until his soulless eyes flickered back to his first prize. The runes captured his attention and he broke from the hold he and Arin kept to dash madly after the sword. If he took weapon against them, it would be impossible to beat him down. Dan could not allow him to take it. He needed to keep it away. It was now or never. They collided. Bodies twisted and Mark’s claws dug deep into Dan’s ribs—forcing out a cry. The sword dropped again, scattered, but Mark bashed his boot into Dan’s stomach and took off after it. There was no second their attention could fall—no moment they could pause from this unending fight, though Dan’s arms and legs strained exhaustingly so. His chest burned with each breath he tried to take. He was unsure for how much longer he could stay in combat with the endurance of the corrupted. The sword was finally in his hand, after struggling for so long of trying to steal it away, but Mark was not afraid of their weapons. His claws were weapons of their own and could do too great of damage if they let him get too close. He tried to rush Dan, but Arin intervened and swept up the corrupted king into his arm before slamming him down onto the marble floor. The claymore cleaved, but Mark rolled and the silver imbedded in stone. He lunged. Arin cried out in pain.
The beautiful embellishments in the marble below fell tainted by quick drips of black blood. Arin staggered back, hand clutching at his midsection, as more and more dark liquor began to gush out from between his fingers.
“Arin.” Dan gasped and rushed forward to stable the black knight’s wavering stance.
A deep guttural laugh rolled out through Mark’s smile as admired his claw now coated with the knight’s foul blood. That smug smile curled only further when he looked up to both Dan and Arin. “Your attempts are pitiful, at best, but at least you can be satisfied with the knowledge that you will die together. A poetic end to your tragic affair, my dear, how sad.”
“We’re not done fighting yet,” Dan said through a pant.
“Oh, but you are.” Mark started forward. “The two of you are no match against me.”
Arin forced himself to straighten and square his shoulders. The claymore was freed from the stone with a quick pull. “The two of us? No. But coupled with all of them? We just might be.”
Dan’s focus was solely on Mark that he neglected to see the shift in shadows. They were almost indistinguishable, almost undetectable, but in waves they stepped forward. Shoulder to shoulder, spanning the length of the room—maybe further—were the remaining people that fought for Skyhill. Classes and colors clashed across their ranks, but the flames of defiance in their eyes all burned just as brilliantly.
“It’s over, Mark.” Arin said as he stepped closer. “You’ve lost.”
Mark was silent.
The whole of the ballroom was silent.
At least, that was until the corrupted king began to laugh.
“Do you honestly believe any of these people can take me down? They are weak—even more than you.”
Arin was quiet then, and Dan could almost feel the air tremble with questioning fear. The sound of footsteps approached through the remaining Skyhillians as a single fighter parted from the masses. The pale length of her hair framed the web work of corruption in her face. Her eyes lost their warmth, much like Arin’s, but kept in them her fiery rage. The women and men at her sides were fearful to match her fearsome gaze, but the sight of Amy filled Dan with nothing but overpowering awe. The armed daughter of the Nelson artists stood ever defiant to the cruelty of the Wolf King, and became the shield her people needed.
Opposition surrounded the corrupted king at every side. The glare he gave the people who would not follow him now turned to Arin. The black veins writhed and contorted as anger tensed his face. His deep voice dripped with venom. “You fucking cowardly piece of shit.”
Mark was frozen no longer as he bolted toward his once black knight. Sound and roars of anger erupted in the ballroom as the Skyhillian people gave charge, but they would not be able to stop this dark act in time. Arin took a quick, pained step forward to collide with the claws of the beast, but collide, they never did. Dan was faster—more able—and let the corrupted king crash into his chest, as well as the tip of his sword. The hilt was nearly lost in Mark’s gut by the time he barreled into Dan’s arms. Shock and horror paled his face. His black eyes gleamed in the light of dawn that now crept through the ballroom windows to banish back night’s veils. The two kings matched gazes, silent, as blood began to pool on the ground between them. It would not be enough to end him, Dan knew better than that, but it would take time for him to be a threat again.
“Take him to the dungeons where he can rot,” the Skyhillian king demanded of the room.
Amy came forward, as well as many others too eager to see the Wolf King in chains. Bitter pain twisted across Mark’s face when Dan finally released him from their fatal embrace, but when he withdrew the sword from his husband’s stomach, so retreated the claw from his. He was able to watch for only a moment as Mark fell to the pool of red and black blood below, before feeling his own weight become too heavy to bear.
“Dan?”
Arin’s voice sounded so far away.
The colors of the ballroom began to melt and blur. Edges were lost in Dan’s dancing vision. His knees buckled and he fell into a kneel.
“Danny!”
Voices mended into a muddle of noise. Shadows overcame him. They were warm, where he was cold. Hands grabbed at his body just as he toppled over. The last sight he saw before the blackness took him was Arin’s face.
That was all he needed to see to know it would be okay to let go.
.
.
.
.
.
As knight-errant Ser Arin Hanson rushed out into the hall of Castle Avidan, he thought of what he faced to get to this point. The murky, dying woods of the cursed lands and its stale fog were foremost in his thoughts. He traveled to hell and back, just to save the last heir to a kingdom left now in ruins. Obstacles of nightmares unimaginable were his opposition. He fought wolves, and Jacks, and countless undead. He succumbed to the will-bending terrors of torture at the hands of a mad king, and for a time, he even fought himself and the control this corruption had over him. All these horrors—every traumatizing thread that wove him a story of woe and darkness, paled in comparison to the fear he now found at cradling the dying king of Skyhill in his arms. Pleas and prayers escaped him as he clutched Dan all the more tighter—refusing to let death take him away.
“Stay alive,” Arin begged. “Please, Danny, don’t leave me now.”
A group of Skyhillians followed in tow. Some scattered to side corridors, in search for supplies, while others scouted ahead to rid the lingering undead that breached the castle keep. The sight of them sickened Arin. The fact that they still swarmed and staggered and killed meant one thing and one thing only.
The captured necromancer was not yet dead.
The black knight could not let his hate fester now. His concerns needed to be elsewhere, as he carried his king all the way to the imperial suite—far from any roaming undead and the plague they wrought on this place. The bedding was vast and beautiful. Ornate designs brought the silver and sapphire silk to captivate any who might have once looked upon it, but now, its only worth was to hold the bloodied body of its master as the fight for his life began. Midwives were the only doctors left now, and tailors the only ones to stitch his wounds. Arin stayed knelt by the king’s side as the strangers around him rushed back and forth. Their voices fell muffled to his ears, as all he could focus on was Dan’s paling face. Grave concern hushed the midwives. The wound was worse than they realized. Arin couldn’t bring himself to look. There was nothing more he needed than to stay here. His fingers lingered beneath the nook of Dan’s neck when he lowered him down from his arms. The touch of his skin was addicting, but Arin found the space between them split as aides came with bandages and poultices. He felt himself pushed away—blockaded—as worry wept over the wounded from his peoples’ lips. Each step he took in retreat was made with his gaze still locked to that peaceful face, slumbering so sweetly in death’s spell, until the door closed and the sweet sight of his king was taken away.
That face haunted him in the hours to come as he kept just before the king’s door. That beautiful face was reminiscent to a time not so long ago, when he climbed a tower and stood over the bedside of a handsome prince. The world had changed since then. Everything changed. If it meant saving Dan, he would do it all again. He would sacrifice it all again, just know he could live. To hold Dan in a way he never thought himself worthy enough to do. He didn’t know what forces there were to battle back the undead in Skyhill. He wasn’t sure if more survivors were found, or if they were all that was left. Nothing mattered but what was beyond this door. His own injuries that he neglected finally caught up to him and brought the knight to take rest against the wall and floor across from the imperial suite. His hands gripped at the slashes in his stomach as he lowered to sit. A silent wince was the only reaction he gave the pain. His eyes rose to the dark hallway around him. Shadows shifted and danced, settling a growing dread in the pit of his stomach. Now that everything was quiet, the whispers between his ears came back to him.
Hopeless.
Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.
Arin closed his eyes and tried to push back those wicked thoughts. The only thing that kept the insanity at bay was the memory of a campfire made on desert sand. Even though the hallway air was bitter and cold, his thoughts kept him warm. He could remember the soft patter of Dan’s heart against his ear, as they lay embraced. It had been the first time anyone had held him like that. He felt safe in Dan’s arms. He felt like he belonged.
These memories were enough to keep the demons at bay. The darkness around him was no longer that frightening. As his wounds bettered in this time of rest, Arin found himself patient to wait to see his king and feel his embrace once again. Hope. He needed to keep hope.
He waited until the day met its end and night fell.
He waited for morning light and again for another day.
It was on the third morning the door finally opened for him. There were no words for the tailor to speak, and Arin asked nothing as he carefully stepped into the room. A midwife collected bloodied linens in a basket. Others were here too, cleaning up the efforts exerted these days prior. Again, he took knee by the bedside and looked onto that captivating beauty of a king in peaceful slumber. A glow came from him that only Arin saw. He was like a star burning through the blackest night. A soft smile pulled beneath the wires of Arin’s mustache as he leaned against the bed and held tight the king’s hand. One of the midwives spoke up.
“He… has been asking for you. We’ll give you a moment alone.”
The pins of fearful eyes pricked against the black knight’s back. They didn’t trust him, he never expected them to, but he had no care to win their approval as his thoughts were solely on his king. Curtains of hair fell over his face as he lowered his cheek to rest against the mattress and cleaned sheets. He took a deep breath in and smelled faint the scent of cologne and wildflowers. The hand he so fondly held softly held back.
“What are… you doing?”
Arin stirred at the frail voice and looked up to see Dan looking back at him. The words he wanted to say were stolen from him by the king’s weak smile.
“Why aren’t you… trying to kiss me awake, Arin?”
The knight struggled to laugh over a sob. “Don’t you think I learned my lesson the first time?”
The mattress dipped and bent as Dan carefully shifted. Bandages wrapped the entirety of his torso. Bruises bloomed in auras over his arms, but he lived. “I had a dream,” Dan distantly said as he turned his eyes toward the balcony.
“What was it?”
Dan looked back. “I don’t remember, but… I haven’t been able to dream for so long. It was always just nightmares before, but… I think the nightmares are gone now.”
“I think they are, Dan.”
“Are we… dead, Arin? Or did we actually win?”
“You won.” He nodded. “Mark can’t hurt you anymore.”
Dan swallowed and turned his misty eyes away.
Exhaustion ran circles beneath the king’s eyes. He would lie and say he was fine if asked, Arin was certain. He gripped Dan’s hand a little tighter.
“Get some rest, Dan.”
“Only if you promise to stay.”
Arin smiled. His heart warmed. “Always.”
Their hands never parted, even when their eyes grew too heavy to open. Sleep found them soon enough and the dreams they had could not compare to the beauty of what waited for them in the waking world.
Skyhill was safe at last.
.
.
.
.
.
Kingdoms across the world came to give aid when the war with the Wolf King came to its end. King Felix and King Link personally sent their greatest stone and woodworkers to rebuild all that had been destroyed. Gifts of gold came from the East, and abundant harvests rose from the South. Skyhill was far from being back to its glory, but there was hope among them, and that was all they needed to start again. More survivors were found in the streets as the days passed. Some had fallen trapped in rubble, while others kept silent in hiding. There was a group of wounded that took shelter in a nearby inn when the fighting spread through the city. They were found among the chaos and all saved by the same, brave man who fought to protect them.
Barry Kramer.
He hardly looked himself when they found him. His face was swollen with bruises and his beard was unkempt and matted, but he persevered. The survival of many wounded could be accredited to him. For his services, he was named Hand to the king, and hero to all. But not everything was as beautiful, as families collected to claim their dead. Candles burned all through the month and mounds of tributes were left on the graves of those honorable and selfless soldiers who fought for those who could not. Captain Brian Wecht was among those recovered from the battlefield. To watch Rachel explain to Audrey what that meant would be something Arin would never forget. In honor of those that fought, Dan used the rest of the kingdom’s treasury to pay for the burial rights and wages to the families who lost too much. To celebrate their memory, a festival was held in the heart of Skyhill—and there was no soul in the land that wasn’t welcomed.
Suzy and Holly of the Howling Harpies came to supply the unending flow of ales and wine. There was entertainment, companionship, and dedications made to the departed. There were tears, but also smiles—as the hope for a better tomorrow was never as bright as it stayed now.
Arin lingered on the outer keep’s wall and watched the festival from afar. The people in the city were still wary of what he and Amy were; however, there was no blame for it. For too long, they had feared the curse that kept the near dead alive. It would take time, and patience, but he chose to believe that one day, they might just belong among them.
“You know,” a voice started from behind the knight. “You’re really missing out down there.”
Arin turned from the half-wall to see the steady approach of the king. His wounds were nearly healed now, but the scars would always remain. He was joined at his side and their eyes turned back to the countless glowing lanterns and lights down below. A soft smile ticked over the knight’s face. “Never been much for parties.”
Dan hummed a laugh before it fell silent again. It was a comfortable silence, an appreciated one. Despite all the frivolity rising from the land below, Arin’s thought kept to all the trials ahead of them. A caged monster was kept in the dark of the dungeons below the castle. There was no method that they hadn’t tried, no force they didn’t use, he could not be killed. The more his body healed from those vicious wounds, the more corrupted he began to look. Arin glanced down at his own hands, somewhat paler than what they used to be. The veins in him were visible, dark grey, but not nearly as black as those that rooted deep in the Wolf King. It made him wonder how long he had left—if very long at all.
“There’s something I’ve been thinking about since all this ended,” Arin softly started as he looked away from his hands and back down to the party below. “I think it would be best if I were to leave Skyhill… for a while.”
Dan was quiet, so Arin continued.
“The corruption must have started somewhere. There has to be someone in this world that knows how to get rid of it, or… at the very least, manage it. There’s a chance I could become like him one day.”
“You won’t,” Dan said with conviction.
“You don’t know that, Danny.”
“Yes, Arin, I do. You’re nothing like him. You are a good man. You saved Skyhill.”
“I’ve also done a lot of bad things. I’ve killed people, Dan. Some of them I can remember, and… some I can’t. Some of those graves down there? I’m the one who put them there. How am I supposed to pretend that there’s not the chance I can make a slip? That I become a monster? I just want to make sure that any of us—Mark, Amy, me—we never have the chance to hurt anyone again.”
Before Arin fell too far in those worried thoughts, he felt a hand fall on his own and beckon up his gaze. Dan’s grip encouraged him to turn, to face fully the Skyhillian king that held nothing but a loving smile for him.
“Those are worries for tomorrow, Arin. Tonight—let’s be grateful for what we were able to save.”
Arin sighed and bowed his head to fall on Dan’s shoulder. It was a pleasant change to be the one who needed to be saved from his fears. From down below, the soft sound of strings and songs rose. He felt Dan pull away, if only barely, to offer him a hand.
“I believe I promised you a dance, Ser Hanson.”
A warm smile pulled across the knight’s face as he accepted the hand and drew Dan into his arms. The soft color that claimed the king’s face at the sudden closeness was worth the long wait.
“I thought you would never ask, Your Highness.”
They moved slow on the secluded stone high on the keep’s wall, but even if they were down below with the countless dancers, they would have felt alone. They only had eyes for each other, and no force or fear would be able to pull them apart. Their bodies came flush, their warm cheeks brushed. Arin knew no better place to be than this.
“We’ll find a cure for you, Arin,” whispered Dan against the knight’s jaw. “But we will do it together. I guess our adventure isn’t quite over yet, is it?”
Their dance slowed as they stopped to look at one another.
Arin’s hand rose and brushed back the hair from Dan’s face. His smile only broadened. “It’s only just started, Dan.”
The distance closed between them, their embrace deepened, as the knight stole a longing kiss from his king’s lips. Maybe one day, if fate was kind, they would find their happily ever after. But for now, they were together at last, and that was all that mattered.
The End