Soulless

Everyone knew magic broke your heart and stole your soul. It left little behind as it consumed you and as such, people usually ignored their magic, using it once or twice in their lifetime. Some however, liked to dance on the edge, seeing how far they could go before becoming Soulless. Olander was used to being called soulless for entirely different reasons—stealing a kingdom did that to your reputation. He had yet to find out what title restoring it would give him.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to be here right now,” Antinea said, her right thumb and forefinger twisting the stem of her glass. Her red wine and matching maroon gown contrasted with the stone walls she knelt beside. Her castle towered above them, the strongest duchy in the Regale; built directly into the mountain wall that separated the Kingdom and Queendom. He didn’t envy Antinea her job. The fact that the duchy was separate, yet a part of the two countries had encouraged Drystan to edge into her territory. His incursions and propaganda was becoming more of a problem, as the infighting among the conflicting allegiances grew steadily worse. At least today, all of that was set aside as her people joined to worship Serenity. Around them, people flowed, dipping a bow to their duchess, and staring at Olander. He stuck his tongue out at a kid even as he remembered this festival was sacred.

“I have a right to worship,” he retorted, setting his basket of fruit by her feet. He dug an apple out and took a bite.

“You’re a heathen.”

“I’m Soulless; there’s a difference.”

Her eyes darted around at the word. “You know what happens to people who say that?”

“Yes, I kill them.” He tossed the core to the side. “Despite this fun train of thought, I came here with information from Pania.”

Antinea sipped at her wine. “Give it to me.”

“Drystan’s after you,” he said. And what the ruler of the Kingdom went after, he got.

Red liquid sloshed out onto her dress, and frowning, she dabbed at it. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

He drew back in mock horror. “My lady, as if I would ever.” Maybe he had, in a, well, roundabout way. A while ago, in passing, he’d mentioned his childhood friend Antinea the duchess and promptly forgotten about it. Drystan, however, had not. The man had an uncanny skill for pulling distant memories to the forefront and an unusual delight in seeing Olander squirm. It was part of the reason Olander was plotting against him—squirming was undignified.

Olander reached for the basket, but she tucked it against her side, pulling fruit out to arrange on her wooden altar. He stalwartly remained standing, ignoring her glare until she kicked him in the shins. Dropping down alongside her, he swiped two apples, placing one on the altar and the other in his mouth.

“You know that’s forbidden.” Antinea was as devout as they came, in fact, he would place good money she slept with a copy of the Facete nearby. If she ever found out he hadn’t touched his own copy in two years, there would be no one left to avenge the Kingdom. He bit into the apple and chewed with his mouth open for amplified sound.