Chapter 8: - Untouchable

  The sky roared and Exia continued to punch, he punched until his arms hurt, he punched until his lungs burnt, he punched until—

  “What are you doing?” a voice like thunder asked. Exia jumped to see Morozova standing at the edge of the garden, rain soaking into his uniform, eyes reflecting the lightning above.

  “What the fuck does it look like I’m doing, you oik?!” Exia hissed, and predictably, the gorilla didn’t reply. “I’m training so I can hit you, and you can go back to the war, and die in a hole somewhere you belong!”

  Wordlessly, Morozova began walking up to Exia. He tried not to tremble at the sight of the big man—and failed when the Captain stopped right in front of him.

  Exia jumped as Morozova suddenly dropped to a knee. Droplets of water swam along the scars in his face like they were riverbeds. His brown eyes settled on Exia, the giant’s gaze heavy on his frame. “You’re a fucking cunt.”

  Exia ground his teeth. “And you look like you came out of a barbed vagina.”

  The giant scoffed, the edge of his lips turned upwards and he looked away. “Okay.” He sighed, looked back up at Exia and wore anguish in his eyes, the kind that came from loss, disgust, sorrow. “I’m… I’m going to teach you. But know this, I’m not teaching you to be a hero, a warrior, or even just a soldier. I’m teaching you to be a killer. Because in the end, that’s what they all are. When I’m done, when people look at you, that’s all they’ll see. Not a king, not a kid, not a cunt—a killer. And when you realize that, you’re going to hate me for it.”

  “I already hate you,” Exia croaked.

  “I know lad, I know.”

  ###

  “This doesn’t make any sense… They were just in prison—I saw them all in prison,” Sasha repeated, looking at the stomach turning headless corpse on the street.

  The King, for his part, was quite calm, acting like this was all expected. He shrugged as he replied. “The Governor.”

  “The what?”

  “Dalinevski. He's the one behind this.”

  Sasha ran through the events. “So he freed the Priests and has been letting them let loose on the city for months… because?”

  “Because of me,” the King answered. “I’m his target, I’ve always been his target. It’s why he set the killings off in the first place. So when Morozova came here to see if I was actually needed, the governor decided there really was no better way to prove that than to kill him. It seems he was right, I mean.. here we are.” Though he seemed to be in good spirits again, there was something dangerous in his eyes as he spoke.

  “Wh—why would the governor want you d—” Sasha caught herself, the question was stupid. The governor wanted him dead because he was of the same blood that took everything good from his life. And then the rest of what he said hit her, all at once.

  Sasha didn’t mean to whisper her next words, but she did anyway. “So Morozova is dead?”

  “Yes,” the King answered. “He’s been dead for a while now, I assume.”

  Dead…dead for a grudge he had no part in, dead for a wrong it was not his place to right. Dead before I could ever meet him. Killed by Governor Dalinevsky. Sasha’s blood boiled, she wanted to storm into his office and set him ablaze in a sea of red and orange fire, she wanted to cook him from head to toe, taking her time as she turned each and every part of his body into a fucking charred nightmare.

  But she couldn’t.

  Governors held the kind of power that influenced a nation. Even a single one was completely out of her reach. She could report to Volkov, but even he could only do so much with such little evidence. Sasha would never see justice done, and she knew that. People like her didn’t see justice.

  The King gave her an odd look, an inquisitive one, and before she could begin to deduce what it was, it was gone. “We have to get going, I think we’re done here.”

  Sasha nodded weakly. “Of course…Of course… I’ll turn in my report to the…to the Governor.”

  ###

  Sasha was thankful for three things, one was that she didn’t need to meet the Governor personally to turn the report in, the second was that the city had a Life Mage on reserve to heal her and the King's wounds, and the third was that she travelled very light.

  She was done packing while the King was still attempting to distinguish his silk robes from his spindle leaf ones.

  Sasha looked at him while he worked—stressing over wrinkles and huffing when he couldn’t iron them out—and found her head filled with a myriad of things. She ran her mind through the events of the day and ended up even more annoyed at him…Then terrified at the memory of what he did to Donchenko.

  That she would never forget, that she could never. Her hand still trembled at the image.

  Something else struck her however. “Back at the governor’s manor… You knew he was behind it.”

  “Fucking dragonian furs…” the King murmurred angrily at a cloak, and then caught himself. “Hm? Oh.” He turned to Sasha. “Ah, yes, that was when I was beginning to think my theory might seriously have some legs.”

  “Because he was being far too kind to you. Despite your obvious disrespect.” Sasha recalled, putting the pieces together.

  “Trying to lead us into a false sense of security, yes,” he nodded as if it were all terribly obvious. Sasha had to admit she could not have guessed that.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?!” She hissed.

  The King’s eyes were back on the cloak as he replied. “Well I tried to but you weren’t exactly in a listening mood. Besides, it’s not like you would have believed me if I did anyways.”

  Sasha clenched her jaw but said nothing else. She still couldn’t get a read on this man; sometimes he seemed mad, and other times he seemed to see the world clearer than she could. He seemed to hold nothing dear, nothing sacred at all, like the whole world could burn around him and all he’d be concerned about was the heat. At the very least, it was good to know there was a logic to his madness.

  “I need to get to a whorehouse. I believe I left my ring there.” Some of his madness, that is.

  Sasha rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Don’t miss the train.” She would have to add that to her report as well, so that the Republic might ensure that no potential heirs were seeded during the affair.

  The King beamed. “Wouldn’t dare, Captain.” And then he was out the door.

  Do I still have his gloves?

  The thought bit into her heart, she reached into her pocket, searched for it, found nothing. Oh gods no. Sasha checked her other pocket. It was there, exactly where she’d left it.

  Fuck.

  She sighed in relief and packed up what was left of her things.

  ###

  Exia was sat on a bench, eyes up ahead at the whorehouse in front of him. Pokhot was arguably the best establishment in the city, and judging by the sounds of pleasure bleeding through its walls, Exia doubted its patrons would disagree.

  He saw one of them leave and begin to sneak down the dark, empty streets. Governor Dalinevsky—the man who’d refused to remarry after the love of his life’s death, but still had carnal needs he often had to see to despite his touching decision.

  Who could have guessed those desires would lead you to dear old me?

  He could not see to them in his manor because he was a man with a reputation to maintain, and he could not come here with guards, as that would be far too conspicuous.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Exia was walking, following the man through the darkness of Gorodlzhi like a stalking predator. “Gorvenor!” he called out to his prey.

  The man jumped, turned with horror in his eyes, and that horror deepened when he saw who was calling him.

  Exia waved warmly at the man.

  With frantic hands, the Governor reached for his pockets where gloves no doubt lay.

  “Relax,” he sighed. “I’m not here to hurt you. I would have my gloves on if I were.”

  The Governor paused, but did not remove his hands from the pockets. “What do you want?” He asked, voice shivering with a mix of fear and cold.

  “I’m here to talk,” Exia told him calmly. “But I have nothing to say to a man with a weapon wrapped around his hands.” It was no different than trying to have a discussion while a gun was pointed in your face. “If I kill you, I’m a dead man. Same goes for you if you do it to me. A lot of royal sympathizers will want blood, and the Republic will eagerly throw them your head to prevent a schism.”

  Dalinevsky was silent for a long moment, and then slowly removed gloveless hands from his pockets. He kept his palms close to them however, certainly not letting his guard down. “Tell me what you want.” he demanded.

  “I want to know if you did it. Did you kill Morozova?” Exia asked.

  The Governor's eyes narrowed. “You’re calling me a murderer, a killer, do I look like—”

  —”Save me the bullshit. Only us here, remember?” Exia cut through the man’s words. “Did you kill him?”

  The Governor looked around as if to make sure they truly were alone. He set his eyes back on Exia when satisfied and hesitantly spoke his answer. “Yes,” he said, sighing as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulder. And then his confidence redoubled. “Yes. I killed the Captain. It was unfortunate, I’ve had to kill many people because of you—several guards at Pokoritel will be found pale and bathing in the sun by morning light, inmates who saw too much have been silenced as well… I would have had to deal with the Priests too had you not already done that for me yourself. Then again, I doubt their sainthood would have saved them from the guillotine once news of their new deeds got out.” He almost seemed to laugh out that last part. “But that Captain of yours…” he paused, hesitance in his eyes. “He was a good soldier. Far too nosy for his own good, but a good soldier nonetheless.”

  “So you killed him.”

  The Governor scowled like he’d been accused of treason. “You killed him!” he snapped. “Just like your family killed our people when it locked us into a losing war, and your uncle killed my…” his words hung in his throat, as if voicing them might break him. When he spoke, it was with a soft hiss. “All you do is kill. And it sickens me to my core, to bow to a crown that takes, and takes, and takes, and takes, until there’s nothing left to give!”

  “I see.”

  The Governor smiled—a vindictive thing, sharp and long at the edges. “You cared for him, I see it in your eyes. Good. Good. I may have failed, but I will cherish that now I have taken something from you. And maybe I might not get to be the one who strikes you down, but we both know the day will come. We both know why the Republic lets you breathe. So that you may go after rogue, after rogue, after rogue, until you find the one that shall be your executioner. And the Last Mage King dies to an enemy of the state. And the Republic feigns a tear, and its Royalists have someone to blame that is not us, and your name, and your family, and your legacy are remembered only as barbaric relics we are happy to have washed our hands clean of.”

  Exia looked behind the man. “You can cuff him now, Captain.”

  The Governor whipped his head around in panic. And Exia tore towards him. The man recovered quickly—once a soldier, always a soldier—and reached for the gloves in his pocket.

  Exia couldn’t reach him in time. He didn’t need to.

  He threw a dagger at the Gorvenor and the blade sank into the back of the man’s palm. The governor cried, hissed, and made the fatal mistake of pulling both hands up to his chest to tend to his wound.

  Exia was on him. And his fate was sealed. He pounced, brought the man to the ground and broke his fingers with a pair of twists and crunches. Dalinevsky tried to cry out and Exia wrapped his hands around the dead man’s throat, turning yells into wheezes.

  The man tried to beat back Exia with ruined fingers, he kicked uselessly underneath his grasp and gazed up with terrified eyes. For all his scrambling and panicking, there would be no reward. Only death.

  “I want you to know,” Exia whispered softly, grinning so wide that he felt his face quiver with exertion. “I’m not doing this because you tried to kill me.”

  Dalinevsky’s reply was a gurgle, pale lips and weakening kicks. Exia watched him die, felt his pulse slow, his strength bleed, and felt his own heart roar like thunder as he watched the light in the man’s eyes fade away. As if it was never there to begin with.

  Danilevsky stared up emptily at Exia, and he glared back angrily at the corpse.

  He looked around the dark streets of Gorodlzhi and found no one.

  He was alone.

  ###

  Sasha was panicking.

  She’d made the foolish mistake of trusting the King to keep to his word, and now she was going to pay terribly for it.

  He hadn’t been in his seat when she checked, and now, as she waited for him at the station, with their train about to set off, she still saw no sign of the blue eyed bastard.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit!

  It couldn’t be helped, she’d have to grab her luggage and wait for the next one. That’d put them days behind schedule.

  Sasha made her way back into the train and to her seat, where she’d left her things.

  Next to it, she saw a self satisfied, black-haired, grinning man. “Captain, what took you so long?” He beamed.

  She would have been relieved, were her attention not grabbed by something else. That being the envelope in his hand, it was hers…A letter, sent from Morozova—her father. Her dead father.

  “Where did you get that?” She asked, feeling her blood boil in ways she thought it never could.

  “I found it in—”

  She didn’t care. Sasha snatched the envelope from his hands and felt herself snap. “It’s not yours, you don’t just get to go through my things like it’s fucking yours—it’s not fucking yours.” He was callous, terrifying, and cruel, but somehow this was taking it too fucking far. “You don’t—you don’t look through my things, you don’t get to fucking do that—”

  “I’m sorry,” the King said, so suddenly that Sasha thought she might have misheard. She searched his face for any sneer, side-eye or hint that some jest was being played on her, and found only earnest eyes. “I didn’t know you were his daughter…I had my suspicions. And I tried to confirm them.”

  Sasha felt herself calm and her breathing steady. “You should have just asked me.”

  “I should have,” the King agreed. The admission difused her anger. Dissatisfying, but…It was something.

  Sasha looked at the envelope. “How much of it did you read?”

  “Just enough to confirm you were his daughter,” he answered.

  “So just the name and address then?” Sasha pressed.

  The King nodded.

  Sasha let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She slid into the seat in front of him and set her eyes on the heavy piece of paper in her hands. “I’ve had it since I was a kid… brought it out a few times, but I haven’t read it either.”

  A gaze up showed that, indeed, the King was shocked. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because when you walk out on someone before they can speak and leave your sister to raise them, you don’t just get to drop them a letter explaining it all.” Sasha said, feeling her fury grow. “If you have something to say to them, you say it to their fucking face.”

  The King held her eyes and Sasha thought she felt warmth in them.

  “Well…I guess there’s no chance of that now eh?” she scoffed bitterly.

  Sasha gazed once more at the envelope. This was now all she had of her father. All she would ever have. She opened it and for the first time read the words of a man she never knew.

  With every line she knew him just a little bit more; with every paragraph she dreaded that the next might be her last and she would have learned all she ever would. It wasn’t, so Sasha read. She read and trembled, read and cried. And then there were no more paragraphs left, no more ink to speak the words of a dead man to her.

  And she could not send a letter back.

  She looked up at the King through tear-streaming eyes and saw a sorrow in him she once thought him incapable of. Crying. She was crying. That was terribly unsoldier-like, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care at the moment. “You… You knew him, didn't you. What was he like? Who was he?”

  There was a darkness in his eyes at that, and that frightened Sasha. Not for her own safety, but the thought that he might forever taint what ghost of an image she had of her father. “He was a cunt, a dick, and an ugly bastard. He was the best man I ever knew,” the King said. “So I killed the man who took him from me.”

  Sasha’s stomach churned at that.

  “Relax,” he reassured. “I left no trace, no clues. As far as the Republic is concerned, he was mugged at night being somewhere he shouldn’t be. The only proof I ever could have done it…Is you, Captain.”

  Sasha grit her teeth, squeezed the paper so hard that her palm hurt, and spat out her words through a tight throat. “What you did was foolish, dangerous and completely treasonous.” Sasha drew in a breath. “Thank you.”

  The King said nothing, the train began moving, and he gazed out the window with sad eyes, to Gorodlzhi—a city she wished she never knew.

  ###

  Bezdna Palace

  Bolshoy Sobytiya 33

  Lyubov, Bessmertnyy Empire

  17 Ziktyabr 2216

  Miss Elizaveta Osin

  Berezovaya Duplo

  Sladkiymed street 5

  Svist, Tver Governorate

  Bessmertnyy Empire

  My Dearest Sasha,

  By the time you read this, you will have seen many days without me. And after, you will see many more.

  This is not an excuse for my absence — nothing could excuse such a sin. It is only an explanation. One of many things I believe you deserve. And the only one I can give.

  When your mother died bringing you into this world, I was faced with a choice: to raise you into the great woman I know you will become, or to return to the world of violence I had only just escaped.

  I chose the latter. Not because of you — but because of me.

  I am a man haunted by nightmares. I wake screaming the names of dead men — enemies and brothers alike. They follow me. When I see shadows, my heart skips. When I hear sudden noise, the hairs on my neck rise.

  I thrash and lunge and flee from faces in the dark.

  There is a war within me, and the only thing that silences it is the drumbeat of the war without. I took up the blade thinking it a tool; I do not know when it became a limb.

  Could I have been there for a child? Yes. But I feared my darkness would stain you.

  Could I have changed — silenced the screams, laid the ghosts to rest? Yes. If I were a better man. For you, I could have done it. For you, I should have done it. But your father is weak. And he chose the easier path of the two.

  My Sasha. My dear. My red rose.

  I am a killer.

  And I do not deserve you.