Page 46 of Hell's Secret Omega
The supplies that once sustained an army are decimated now, and not just because demons like Sabinus and Claudius are draining them. Endless deployments ate away at them for years. Without Mezor to deliver fresh meat to the feast table, General Leuther must use up what’s left to keep the Court from erupting into full mutiny.
The Court stirs restlessly any time a company returns with full nets, which isn’t often. Sabinus sneers over each pitiful kill when he comes down to the storeroom.
“They expect us to be grateful. This land is poison, and Leuther is a fool. No matter. We’ll get out of here soon enough.”
Cyrus stays mute—from experience, Sabinus is only talking to hear himself talk.
He doesn’t dwell on the currents of the Court any more than necessary. His prospects leave him exhausted. Gruel and lack of sleep don’t help. Then there are the dreams.
Nebulous and threatening, they loom like thunderclouds over his conscious mind. He doesn’t remember them—only the flavour, a feeling he’s stepped wrong and is about to tumble into a hole.
“Vergis have the power of premonition,” Mezor tells him when Cyrus lets it slip one night. He frowns. “Try to remember.”
Remembering is the last thing Cyrus wants. He doesn’t need more to worry about.
But one night, after Mezor returns from a long trip, Cyrus falls asleep in the grotto by accident. Warm and sated, the bond singing sweetly in his head, he closes his eyes just for a moment and luxuriates in the feeling of safety.
In his dream, he’s in the feast room.
The moon is full, leaving streaks of milky light across the floor. Bones lie scattered everywhere—remnants of every past feast. The feast table itself is empty.
“Come closer.”
The King beckons from the head of the table. Cyrus takes a step, but his feet are heavy as stone and he stumbles.
“Your Majesty.” He kneels in place, hoping to disguise his weakness.
“Closer,” the King orders.
Cyrus cringes. “I cannot.”
“Bring him to me,” the King snarls.
Hands lift him into the air. Instead of bringing him to the dais, the demons slam him onto the feast table. Black ropes rise from the table and coil around his arms and legs. Cyrus struggles weakly.
“Let me go!” he cries. “I’ve done everything you asked.”
“I know. You thought you were clever.” The King’s laugh rings across the hall. “But you’re a little double crosser, aren’t you? You thought you were weaving a tapestry, but it’s a mess of thread. I can’t have you tying up all my plans, Cyrianus…it’s time to cut you loose.”
A shadow looms above him. In its hand is a butchering knife. Mezor’s face resolves in the moonlight, his eyes placid as he raises the knife. Where his gaze was once warm, now there’s only emptiness. Cyrus writhes in fear, his breath coming short and fast.
“No! No!”
Mezor strikes.
The knife slices nothing. The air between them ripples. Cyrus’s gut clenches like he’s been stabbed, and a yawning void opens deep in his soul where the bond used to be. Mezor discards the knife and grasps something floating in front of him—a thin, golden thread emerging from his chest. He yanks it free.
The King roars in satisfaction, and the feast hall shudders around them, cracking, and pieces of the dream spinning as Cyrus bursts into waking with a gasp.
Arms tighten around him. Cyrus struggles away in a panic and falls off the bed in his haste to escape. The stone floor makes a rough acquaintance with his shoulder, jarring him into the waking world.
“Oh,” he groans, climbing to his feet.
“Cyrus.” Mezor’s disembodied voice is real. Solid. Cyrus fumbles for the bed and crawls back across the furs. “What was your dream?”
He shakes his head stubbornly even though Mezor can’t see him. “Nothing.”
Instead of answering, he pulls Mezor’s arms around him again.
