Chapter 3: Death and his Friends

Aayan and Death were old friends. They walked this life together, as one did with one’s shadow, keeping quiet company. But Death, this night, was brutal and unrelenting, loud and unforgiving. Death surrounded him, forced him to look at the carnage beneath his feet, and whispered in his ear that it was all his fault. If only he’d listened to his scout, they might be looking at a different outcome.

They were days away from Salindor in a small village called Bergan. Bodies littered the edge of the Spirit Wood and Aayan’s sword dripped with fresh, hot blood. This was the exact situation Aayan was meant to avoid, meant to diffuse. However, it seemed that no matter his efforts, resistance groups still formed, bodies still piled up. 

Kaidra was not short on enemies. If they weren’t soothing tensions between their bordering kingdoms, they were putting an end to resistance groups. One side of the population hated the Ashmores—the ruling family, Aayan’s family—and the other side hated the witches. 

Magic wasn’t strictly forbidden in Kaidra like it was in Navoya to the east, but Aayan’s uncle didn’t care to ban the killing of witches outright. King Targon’s current stance on the situation was that he ‘frowned upon it.’ 

“That was fucking ugly,” his second in command and best friend said from beside him. 

Holden was also covered in blood, his twin blades painted crimson. He stood tall, matching Aayan in height and in the broadness of their shoulders. But that is where their similarities ended. His mousey brown hair was a shaggy mess that barely touched his ears, and his eyes were a bright green that rivaled moss on a tree. Dirt and gore marred his pale, freckled skin.  

The scene in front of them cast Holden’s typically jovial face in a grim light. Aayan hated what this work did to Holden’s disposition. Hated what it did to his own. Though Aayan wasn’t as bright and cheery as his counterpart, he did have his moments, and those moments were easily stamped out by brutality. 

“Worse than ugly,” Aayan sighed, “if that’s possible.” 

Rebels weren’t difficult to disband. They were ill-equipped, chaotic groups that had a difficult time establishing a clear leader. All of which made them unstable and instability was the easiest to exploit. Aayan never had a problem dealing with the groups that rose up against his family, as those men never had any real reason to rally against the crown other than they didn’t like the Ashmore’s centuries long reign. 

It was the rebels who went after witches that troubled him the most. The ones who felt they were entitles to the women’s magic. It was Aayan’s own mother who had told him there were consequences for stealing a witch’es magic against her will. 

Three days ago, Aayan received word about a rebel camp who had captured a group of witches and were planning on dragging them into the Spirit Wood to use their magic for the Blood Moon. He deployed his men immediately, but they were too late. Barely too late. 

When they finally arrived, the witches had become too much for the rebels to hold on to, which the rebels dealt with by killing them. It was their simplest solution before the witches killed them. Kill or be killed seemed to be the law of the Spirit Wood. But Aayan knew that witches didn’t kill unless necessary.

By far, the worst part of his job were the dead witches. So many dead witches. It was fifteen today, but there have been more days than Aayan cared to count where he stood in this exact position. In their blood splattered faces he saw his mother and his sister. He saw all the women he’d sent to their deaths in a doomed mission for the king. Aayan hadn’t been able to save them and their deaths would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. 

He would be forever subjected to—haunted by—the still faces of murdered witches. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his hands that ended their lives, their blood stained his skin regardless. It didn’t matter that Aayan and his soldiers showed up and slaughtered the rebels, the witches were still dead. Vengeance meant nothing when he couldn’t bring these women back. 

“Clean this up,” he commanded his men. “Bury the witches, burn the others.” 

The women, he knew, would prefer a burial. Their murderers, however, didn’t deserve the same care. He left the gruesome scene without a second glance, Holden close on his heels. 

“You alright, Ash?” Holden’s cautious voice asked. 

Aayan sighed as he approached his horse, Honey. “I’m fine, but we can’t keep going like this.” 

“Unless the king outlaws violence against witches, we don’t really have a choice,” his friend said, greeting his own horse. 

Honey pushed her nose into Aayan’s hand and the smooth brush of her chestnut hair did nothing to stop his teeth from grinding together. It was his uncle’s lack of direct action that kept them in a perpetual state of clean up. Murder was a crime, murder could be punished with a sword. 

But until a direct crime occurred, Aayan didn’t have grounds to act. The whole scenario was cruelty in response to cruelty and it left Aayan feeling deeply hollow. Killing to avenge killing. 

It was exhausting. 

It was reductive. 

It was rage inducing. 

Speaking to the king was often like speaking to the stone castle walls. Except he’d have more fruitful results if he punched said wall. At least something would come of it, even if that was a broken hand. 

“True,” Aayan finally answered. “It would change if my uncle were to grow a spine, yet that is unlikely—”

“Treason!” Holden called out as if he were answering a question in school. “Speaking ill of your king is treason. Just reminding you.” 

Aayan shot him an exasperated look. “My uncle is not going to have me executed for saying he needs to grow a spine.” 

“Maybe not,” Holden conceded, “but your uncle is not particularly, the most,”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“stable man we know.” 

“Also, true.” 

Aayan sighed, stroked Honey’s nose, and attempted to tame his frustration. The king had a habit of being unpredictable. One minute he was praising his councilors for their good work, the next he was destroying the throne room and having someone hung for their insolence alone. King Targon was not a stable man and for that, most treaded lightly around him, too timid to test his temper. 

Nothing about the king was predictable, save for his instability. 

The citizens of Kaidra knew this too, but luckily for them, the king rarely made public appearances, as he preferred to stay inside his castle. 

“What do you think Darien has gotten up to in our absence?” Holden asked. 

“Surely throwing obscene parties and relishing in the fact that I am not there to watch over him,” Aayan said. The Crown Prince had a way of skirting his father’s wrath. The king’s focus on the Wastes and his borders were always more pressing than the trouble his son could concoct. 

“No doubt with Jameson’s help,” Holden sighed. The lieutenant hated being away from home just about as much as Aayan did. But where Aayan’s concern was not being home to say goodbye to his mother before she passed, Holden simply missed his brothers. 

Neither was ideal. If Aayan had any siblings left, he’d no doubt feel the same. 

“Your brother is the only person Darien rivals in depravity.” 

Jameson Kemp, as Holden’s only older brother, had an example to set. Except he took that as a challenge to see how much trouble he could get away with at court. He’d told Aayan once that it was to protect his younger brothers, to be so bad that no matter what they did they wouldn’t face so harsh a punishment. 

Truly, Jameson wasn’t as much of a scoundrel as the court thought, but he took the fall for each one of his brother’s mis comings. Aayan couldn’t fault the man for his protectiveness, as he used to be the same. But without anyone to protect anymore, aside from the Crown Prince, he wished the oldest Kemp sibling would teach his brothers caution. 

“He’s heartbroken, Ash.” Holden pouted, pressing his face to his horse’s. Ruby whinnied and nuzzled into him. 

Aayan checked the straps of his saddle, ensuring they were secure. “Over a princess, no less.” 

“That is kind of his own fault, isn’t it,” Holden said, smiling wide, all his attention on Ruby.

“You never know, maybe Argadesh will let Radhika marry who she likes and not just for allegiance.”

Holden shot him a look as he climbed up into his saddle. “You barely have a say in who you marry, Ash, and you’re just a captain. I doubt a princess has more say than you do.” 

“Hmmm.” Was the only answer Aayan had. 

“You at least are encouraged to present those you might be interested in to the king, but you don’t even take the time to look.” His friend shook his head at Aayan. Holden loathed this about his captain. “And it’s not as if people don’t notice you. Women throw themselves at you. Some men too.”  

“I don’t see you with any prospects, lieutenant,” Aayan quipped, pulling himself into his saddle. He gave Honey a pat on her shoulder. 

“I am keeping my options open.” Holden puffed his chest out and rolled his shoulders back, twin blades peeked out above them. “Waiting on the right person.” 

The two of them laughed at one another. As if their work allowed any time to themselves, or to find anyone they might consider marrying for that matter. Aayan wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever find a wife that appreciated him spending days away only to arrive home at ungodly hours covered in blood. 

He’d more than likely spend the rest of his life alone, watching over his cousin. For some reason that didn’t entirely bother him. 

“Let’s just get home,” Aayan said as he tightened his grip on the reins, “and see what fresh hell has been waiting for us while we’ve been away.” 

“Your optimism, captain,”—Holden placed a hand over his heart—“is awe-inspiring.” 

Aayan shot Holden a vulgar gesture with his hand, but smiled regardless. The lieutenant’s humor was always appreciated, but they both knew what they were headed back to. 

The Wastes were growing west again, meaning the king would demand another witch. 

And Aayan would be the one to go get her.