Triumph

[Sámiel]

Samóch

Daryen's chamber was once the epicenter of frantic whispering, of healers and attendants fluttering like nervous moths, but now it lay in near silence. Only the soft breath of the unconscious king stirred the air.

Samóch stood at window, watching as the moon climbed higher over the  rooftops of Bandar Eban. Its pale light cast a cool gleam upon the polished floors and shimmered faintly across the gold threads of the King's bedding.

"Enough,” he said softly.

The damane flinched, her eyes wide as the collar at her throat shimmered with residual effort. They had tried. Oh, how they had tried. But Daryen’s body remained stubbornly still. No wound to mend. No poison to draw. No thread of spirit to guide back to consciousness.

He waved a hand, and the sul’dam jerked their charges to their feet and bowed their way out of the room.

"Leave,” he added, soft but unmistakable. The remaining attendants obeyed without question. Save one.

"I will not go," Yui said from the foot of the bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You’ll have to drag me from him.”

Samóch regarded her coolly, his brows lifting ever so slightly. Then, with a faint, amused sigh, he turned to the guards at the door.

“Stay then. You there, close the door. Remain outside. Inform Lord Sivikawa that I am watching over the King.”

The guards hesitated, but Samóch's tone allowed no dissent. The heavy door shut with a click, sealing the three of them in.

Yui said nothing. Her jaw set, she pulled a chair to the opposite side of the bed and sat like a sentinel. Samóch took no further notice of her. Hours passed.

Servants came and went on tiptoes. Guards checked through the door and were waved off. Yui drifted in and out of sleep, but always snapped awake with a start. Samóch never moved. He watched. He listened. He waited.

Midnight. Outside, the bells of the harbour tolled once, mournful and slow. Within, all was still.

Samóch turned his head to Yui. She had finally surrendered to exhaustion, her chin dipped toward her chest. He raised his hand and channeled.

The weave settled over her like smooth velvet, and a deep, dreamless sleep claimed her. With a whisper of movement, Samóch stood and approached the bed. He knelt at its side.

Samóch tilted his head, studying him. Daryen’s sun-kissed face was still in the candlelight, his features calm. Almost boyish without the weight of command on his brow. A single strand of hair had fallen across his forehead. So much power, he thought bitterly. So much strength buried beneath this fragile mask. It was offensive.

He leaned closer, close enough to feel the warmth of the King’s breath, and his fingers reached out and slowly, reverently, brushed the strand aside.
“You look peaceful,” Samóch murmured in his ear, voice soft as falling ash. “It doesn’t suit you.”

He hovered there, his lips  inches from Daryen’s. And at the last moment, he  tilted Daryen’s face up and pressed a single, tender kiss to the king’s forehead like sealing a grave with a lover’s farewell.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a small metal clasp, no larger than a brooch. Intricately wrought, it seemed inert at first. But the moment he placed it against Daryen’s forehead, it came alive.

With a faint, whispering click, the device unfurled. Thin metallic limbs arched outward, unfolding like petals. An ornate circlet wrapped around the King’s brow, a central jewel glimmering to life. Filigreed strands slid down to veil his eyes and upper cheeks in a lattice of black and silver. A crown? A shackle? Perhaps both.

Samóch took a slow breath and reached into his pocket again. From within, he produced a ring. Plain, at first glance. But as he slid it onto his finger, it pulsed in resonance with the headpiece.

A thread of power flowed between them, invisible but undeniable. And there it was. The taste of Daryen’s strength. Fierce, vast, barely contained. Samóch shuddered as disgust curdled in his gut.

“He's stronger,” he whispered, voice now sharp with quiet fury. “This boy is stronger.”

He stood, eyes locked on the unconscious form before him. Disdain twisted his elegant features.

“It’s obscene. You, of all people. Weak. Pathetic. Loved.” He nearly spat the word. “And yet you are bestowed this.”

He flexed his hand. The ring responded, brightening for a moment with inner light. The link deepened. Samóch smiled an unkind smile.

Samóch stepped back, the folds of his coat swirling like blood on water. His pale face gleamed with satisfaction. He no longer looked curious. Or contemplative. Or even disgusted. He looked victorious.

“I’ll take good care of your kingdom, Your Majesty,” and at that moment, Daryen’s eyes slid open.