—BOOK FOUR—

The younger sister let out a wicked laugh. "And now you shall never see your princess," she threw her tiara away, "or your sun."

There was once a time when Channary believed in love.

Her idea of it was distorted and tainted, but it was love nonetheless. When her mother would gently brush her bangs from her brow, she felt affection. When her father would take her out around the city, stopping at the toy store and buying her a beautiful doll or a new portscreen, she felt cherished. When the court would fall to their knees before her, she felt adored. She believed that love was a game of give-or-take, that it always wanted something in return.

So it was no wonder that the man she fell in love with would demand the world from her.

All her previous lovers had simply been emotionless interactions. Channary only ever saw them as playthings, objects to warm her bed at night. More often than not, she would juggle a few at a time, none of them aware that they were taking turns pleasuring the same woman. Channary soon became notorious for her promiscuity, even more so than her mother. Much to the queen's dismay, though, she refused to take on a husband. Channary never saw the point.

"Channary, dear, I really think that you should start considering marriage. You need someone to continue the bloodline," Jannali would say, almost always with a book open on her lap.

"Mother, your marriage was a purely political arrangement. I can rule fine without a man at my side," Channary would respond, her voice full of its typical snark. "Besides, children are nothing but a bother. Look at what raising two of them has done to you."

Jannali would then frown and send Channary away with a boot to the butt, effectively ending the conversation.

Her mother wouldn't relent on the subject of marriage. Her father wouldn't stop being at her heels about her studies, making her learn eight languages fluently and math at the level of a physicist—so much so that Channary grew to hate school and learning. Whenever she could, she would escape to the conservatory and play on her beloved flute for hours, or maybe the piano. Her favourite language was that of song.

At twenty, the crown princess was quite detached from her parents and childhood, wanting to throw away the years of being powerless, of having her father correct her every two minutes and her mother constantly critique her fashion choices. She wanted them out of her hair, to let go of their little girl and let her be an adult.

Alexander was the first to treat her as such. He was one of Channary's many suitors, and the only one who didn't shower her in compliments or promise her the world. Only polite, never devoted. Channary instantly wanted him, just to know that she could have him, the one who had dared to say 'no'. She was the master of seduction, and she played him hard. It hardly took a week before she had lured him into her bed.

Still, Alexander was not a little dog that Channary could order around. He was just as rough with her as she was with him, never succumbing to her demands. Jannali immediately grew suspicious. She didn't know what it was—the way he held himself, the way he spoke, maybe—but she didn't trust him in the slightest. The queen often expressed her distaste for her daughter's lover, but Channary wouldn't have any of it. Marrok would just stand by, silent.

As weeks turned into months, Channary just grew even more infatuated with Alexander. She stopped seeing all of her other little playthings, determined to stay faithful to him. She even started to accept the idea of marriage. Every day, a lifetime with him just grew more and more tempting. She would fantasize about her wedding day, being the blushing bride, all in white, as he took her as wife. The thought of it all would always put her in a giddy mood.

Channary's sudden and inexplicable happiness perplexed all of the palace staff. Attending to her no longer seemed like death to the maids. The chefs would stare at each other, confused, as Channary would twirl around the kitchens, complimenting every dish that she sampled.

But to no one was this more puzzling than to Levana. She was barely fifteen and, having no experience whatsoever with the illogical workings of infatuation, was naturally confused at her sister's incredibly bizarre behaviour. Channary, in her giddiness and glee, would actually treat her with a certain amount of respect, even striking up pleasant conversations. Levana had never met Alexander. She had never known that her sister, the cruellest person she could think of, had fallen in love. The poor girl was spun around in circles by Channary's newfound personality.

But even through the whirlwind romance and possibility of marriage, there was one thing that Channary knew without a doubt—Alexander wanted children. Oftentimes, when they were lying together at night, he would go off talking about their future, about the family that he wanted to have with her. He would talk about how much he loved the sound of children's laughter and little feet running around the house.

Channary herself would often indulge in such fantasies, imagining a perfect little child, with her brown eyes and his brown hair. The child's skin would be white as snow. It didn't matter to her whether it was a girl or a boy.

As time passed, the princess grew more and more anxious. Alexander had never popped the question, despite their talks of married life and the grand celebration they would have. It was more than obvious that he was waiting for something, for a reason to propose. Channary did everything she could to get pregnant, from laying off the birth control to counting through her cycle—but all her attempts were in vain. The test results were always negative. Her womb was always void of life.

She didn't dare tell Alexander, though. Knowing how much having children meant to him, she lied and said she was pregnant, fiddling with the test needle to make it positive. That alone seemed to fool him. In the meantime, she told her gynecologist about her…issues, and the doctor quickly came to a diagnosis.

Infertility.

The very word made Channary's small heart shatter into a million pieces. Her genetics, her condition, had taken away her ability to have children. The very same thing that gave her incredible power, the same thing that caused her strong glamour, had also rendered her barren. An eye for an eye, as the old earthen saying went.

How could she ever tell him?

It had taken her two weeks to muster up the courage to confront her lover, afraid of his reaction, afraid of rejection. Afraid that he wouldn't love her anymore. She had not yet told her parents, and honestly, she didn't think she could. Her mother would explode, she was sure. How are you going to continue the bloodline now?

After dinner one night, Channary took Alexander back to her chambers, intent on telling him. He had his hand on her waist, rubbing her hips—he obviously wanted affection. But it was going to have to wait.

"Please, stop touching me. I have to talk to you," Channary said, sitting down on her bed.

Alexander sat down beside her, holding her hand. "Oh, come on, darling. What's so important that we can't have a little fun first?"

Channary sighed, looking down at her feet. She put a hand on her belly, clutching the fabric of her dress. "It's…about the baby."

Alexander's eyes widened. "What is it? Has something gone wrong?"

"No…not exactly…"

"Well what, then?" he asked, expectant.

Channary took a deep breath, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She was sure that her cheeks were flushed red. "There…there is no baby," she finally managed to say, her lip quivering. She was on the verge of tears as she buried her head in her hands.

Alexander's hand slowly left her side as he stared at her, appalled. "What do you mean, no baby? Did you have a miscarriage?"

"There was never one to begin with. I lied." Channary looked up at him, his expression upsetting her even more. "I'm so sorry, Alexander, I just didn't know what else to tell you! I was afraid that you'd leave me if I told you I couldn't have—"

"Wait," Alexander interjected, his voice soft and stern. "You lied this whole time?"

Channary nodded, her shoulders quaking. "Yes, I'm so—"

"But why?" he asked, incredulous.

"Because I…" she sniffed, "I can't…"

Alexander blinked, his jaw tensing.

"I can't get pregnant," Channary sobbed, holding herself as if she were going to fall apart. "I'm infertile. I can't have children."

Alexander just sat there beside her, his expression jumping from shock to confusion. "So…we can't have a family," he accused, his tone bitter.

Channary sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes. A bit of eyeliner smudged on the back of her hand. "Well, not with children of our own…but we can always adopt," she said, fiddling with the ends of her hair. "We can still get married. This doesn't have to change anything. I just feel so bad, because I know how much you want kids…"

A flash of anger crossed his features, but Channary was too flustered to notice. "But…we agreed that we would have children. That we would rule together. How can I be a king without heirs?" he snapped, his gentle façade slowly slipping away.

"Alexander, please try to understand...I can't give you everything you want," Channary said, gripping his hand tightly. She looked at him with the biggest eyes that she could manage, in her best attempts to look sweet and innocent. "But I can still give you what you need. I can please you, I can love you..."

Alexander put a finger to her lips, effectively making her words die off. He placed a hand on the side of her head, brushing a back a lock of her hair. "Really, Channary?" he whispered against the crook of her neck, the warmth of his breath making goosebumps rise on her skin.

Channary sighed, leaning onto him. "You're not angry?"

"Of course not."

The princess smiled. "Alexander..."

A shriek escaped her lips as she felt him grab her arms roughly, spinning her around and pinning her down on the bed. Channary squirmed, trying to escape his grip, her screams muffled by the pillow pressed into her face. "I'm not angry," Alexander growled, suddenly grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling so hard that he nearly ripped it out. "I'm furious."

Channary felt fear roiling in her stomach, rising up like steam to her throat and coming out in choked sobs. Alexander's grip tightened on her left arm. He continued to bend it back, forcing it into positions that it was never meant to be in, until the very distinct snap of bones echoed throughout the room.

She screamed even louder, thrashing violently under his weight. The pain was bewildering, bringing tears to her eyes. Alexander laughed, a harsh sound that had once been music to Channary's ears, but now were like the demonic cackles that she would sometimes hear inside the spiked closet, when her mother would lock her in there for hours on end.

"Does that hurt, my dear?" Alexander asked, twisting her hair around his fingers. "I hope it does, I really do..." he cooed, digging his palms into her shoulders, as if he were giving her a massage.

"Why..." Channary managed to gasp, before he pressed her head down once again.

"You foolish girl..." he cackled. "All I want from you is the one thing you can't give. And I don't love you. Never have."

Channary whimpered, trying to move her broken arm away from him. Alexander quickly grabbed it, pinching her skin. A guttural moan escaped her, and had she not been silenced and nearly choking, the sound would've alerted the whole palace of her distress.

"From day one, you've been on my nerves. You're so clingy and needy," he spat, digging his nails deeper into her flesh. "But I put up with you, because who wouldn't want to be in my shoes? Husband to the future queen, lover to one of the most beautiful women on Luna...it was just too good to pass up."

Alexander let go of her broken arm, letting it bounce off the bed. He smiled as she whimpered again. His hands first touched her neck, and then her shoulders...until he reached around, enveloping her in some sort of hug. Channary sobbed as she felt him grope her breasts, pinching so hard that she was sure that her skin would be bruised.

"But if you can't bear my children...what's the point? Isn't that the purpose of marriage?" he mumbled, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "You have such a nice body...but it's not worth having to be stuck with you for the rest of my life. There are plenty of other beautiful women out there who are much, much more tolerable than you, Your Highness."

Channary tried, weakly, to reach out to his mind. The familiar glimmer of bioelectricity radiating around him was to her like a comfort blanket is to a child. With the little strength she had left, she twisted it, as much as she could.

Let go of me. Let go of me. Let go of me!

Alexander smirked. "I don't think so, darling."

The princess let out a wet gurgle as he gripped her throat, cutting off her airway. The dizziness and fear rendered her power useless as she just lay there, trapped. Alexander let go just as she began to choke, and Channary took in a lungful of air, her body shaking.

"Now, I think I'll take you one last time…" Alexander mumbled, leering at her body. Channary whimpered. He pushed her face back into the pillow as a response.

Channary cried into the pillowcase as she felt him tearing off her dress, touching her where she no longer wanted to be touched. Before, when he had done that, she had begged for more—but now, it made her sick. Never had she felt so weak. Never had she felt so vulnerable.

Her body felt on fire as he took her from behind, the one place that Channary had never let him touch before. She screamed into the pillow, the pain in her arm and her loins nearly knocking her out—but the mercy of unconsciousness wouldn't come. She could feel every rub on her skin, every uninvited kiss on her neck and shoulders.

He didn't take nearly as long as she expected, for which she was thankful. His breathing was heavy as he pulled away, flinging her tattered gown over her body.

"Get dressed, wench," he sneered.

Channary whimpered, the pain having nearly paralysed her. Her left arm lay mangled beside her, the bone in the middle rising up and nearly tearing out of the skin. She shuddered as Alexander's fingers brushed her hair back, turning her head to make her look at him.

"It was fun while it lasted, darling, but I'm afraid that I must take my leave," he said, his voice low and husky. "Good night, Princess."

Alexander then walked away, as if nothing ever happened, closing the bedroom door gently behind her. Channary continued to sob, in pain. Her arm burned and throbbed, as did her lower half. Her voice was hoarse, her breathing laboured. She couldn't manage a scream, a cry, or even a call for help.

She just lay draped across her bed, silently pleading that a maid or a guard or someone would walk in on her and take her to the hospital. Twenty minutes went by, and not a footstep could be heard outside. Channary's panic continued to rage in her mind as her arm bruised even more, a hideous black and blue. If she didn't get help soon, she could lose it, and the thought seemed worse than death—if she lost it, than it would be replaced with metal. And never could Channary go on about the rest of her days as a cyborg. Never could she stand to be like Levana.

Hauling herself up with her good arm, she managed to grab the sleek portscreen resting on her bedside table, beside the lit candle. Her eyes darted across the screen as it lit up, the bright colours making her see double. She managed to send out a comm to her father, hoping, praying that he was on one of his netscreens. That he would receive her comm and come to her aid. In the meantime, she also slipped on, with much effort, a robe that she had flung on the floor earlier.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, she heard heavy footsteps approaching her room, and hope warmed in her chest. The door creaked open. "Channary, dear?"

The princess glanced over at her father peering in, his voice soft and concerned, for a change.

"Daddy," she whimpered, "Please, help me…"

Marrok's eyes widened at the sight of his daughter, curled up on her bed with a broken arm and nearly naked, nothing but a thin robe covering her bruised body. Channary began to cry again, the pain flaring up in her arm once more.

The king raced over to her, flooded with worry. "What happened to you? Who did this?!"

Channary whimpered. "Alexander. He…broke my arm and…"

Marrok cut her off, putting a hand to her forehead. "He did this?" the king hissed. "He hurt you like this?!" His voice grew louder, from barking to outright shouting. Channary flinched, more tears running down her flushed cheeks.

"Please, Daddy, don't shout…it hurts my ears…"

Marrok growled, forcing himself to breathe, to calm down. He lightly touched the princess' arm, making her flinch. "Relax, dear. This might hurt a little."

Channary hissed in pain as he picked up the fractured limb, taking in the break. The many gasps and looks of horror that crossed his face made her even more uneasy. "Is it really bad?" she mumbled, trying to hold back cries.

Marrok took in a sharp breath. "You'll definitely need surgery to put the bone back in place," he said, furrowing his brow. "Did he do anything else? Did he assault you?"

Channary nodded, biting her lower lip in agony.

The king cursed, anger making his blood boil. "Can you walk?" he asked, holding her upright.

"Yes," she said, holding out her good hand. Marrok helped her to her feet. She wobbled, cringing as the pain from down below burned through her body.

Channary didn't even make the trip to the hospital—within minutes, she was out cold. Marrok immediately called for nurses, who helped him take her to the hospital ward. He made the upmost effort to avoid running into his wife, whom he knew would be in hysterics.

Indeed, she was. As soon as Jannali found out, she kicked and screamed, swearing like a fiend. "I TOLD YOU, I TOLD YOU! MARROK, I TOLD YOU THAT THIS WOULD HAPPEN!" the queen shrieked, slight flecks of spittle flying from her lips.

"Jannali, calm down, you're—"

She cut him off by throwing a lamp at him, barely missing him by a hair as he ducked down, falling to his knees. The glass light shattered on contact, showering him in bits of crystal. "SHUT UP! I TOLD YOU THAT THE MONSTER WOULD HURT HER, AND WHAT DID YOU DO?! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!"

The king sighed as he stood, brushing his hands clean on his red jacket. His head pounded with a migraine. "Dear, I know that you're upset, and believe me, I'm just as angry as you are. But let's concentrate on the matter at hand—our daughter has been injured and raped. We should concentrate on healing her before going after her assailant."

Jannali's whole body shook with rage. "Send a few thaumaturges to kill him, then."

"I think that we should let Channary decide his fate," Marrok said, shaking the glass shards out of his hair.

Jannali left, stomping and muttering under her breath. She locked herself in their bedroom—a habit of hers. She often needed time to vent. Marrok had never walked in on one of her…decompressions, so what she did during that time was a complete mystery to him. He made himself scarce that night, instead staying by his daughter's bedside. The surgery had taken a few hours, after which the doctors had casted her arm and ran tests, to see whether or not she had an infection. Marrok stayed and watched as she slept, doped up on drugs.

Levana could sense the tension in the air, making her skittish and nervous. She had hidden herself away at her mother's very first shriek, like a deer would hide itself from a hunter. No need to get caught in the middle of the queen's fury. Malissa had also sensed this, and joined the princess in her quarters for a quiet game of chess.

The next morning, Channary awoke to bright lights blaring down at her, the sharp scent of antiseptic attacking her nose. She was alone, much to her relief. In her drugged and messed up state, she knew that she would die of embarrassment if any nurses walked in on her. She glanced around the room, the furniture white and sterile. The clock on the far wall ticked at a regular pace, like it should. After a few minutes of listening to it, Channary wanted to throw it out a window.

A sharp pain made her wince as she sat herself upright. Looking down, she saw her injured arm encased in a pristine white cast, leaving only the ends of her fingers free to move. Memories of the previous night came flooding back, and she clenched her fingers around the hard plaster. An ache made itself known in her backside, and she let out a whimper, that soon turned into full-out crying. She sobbed and sobbed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. The heaving of her chest hurt her injured arm as it bounced, but she was too upset to care.

A soft, meek voice—that of a girl—cut through her ragged cries. "Channary?"

The crown princess hiccuped, sure that her nose was red and stuffy from crying. She didn't dare move.

"Channary? It's me, Levana," the voice said. Channary could hear footsteps as the girl walked closer.

Her body began to tremble. Her teeth clenched. "What do you want?" she sneered, her voice raspy.

"I heard that you got hurt." Levana blinked, hunching her shoulders, "So I came to see if you were okay."

Channary's nostrils flared, no matter how hard she pinched her nose. She remained silent, trying to calm herself.

"I drew this for you," Levana said, holding out a wooden frame.

Peering up from over her hand, Channary tried to focus on the drawing, and not Levana's face. She couldn't stand to see her sister's doe-eyed expression now.

Levana smiled shyly. "Do you like it? It took me hours to do."

Channary sniffed and held out her good hand. Levana's smile widened—Channary usually never even gave her drawings a second glance. Excited, she gently handed the frame to her, so to not hit her cast.

The crown princess sighed, sitting upright as she struggled to focus her vision. The world around her was so hazy that she had to squint to see clearly. Within the frame, on a sheet of paper, was a drawing of Levana and herself, gazing at Artemisia, its splendour captured flawlessly in colour. She recognized every building, from the train station to the tall skyscrapers where the wealthiest people resided.

A lump caught in Channary's throat. She couldn't help but look away, anything to avoid showing emotion. She felt her cheeks flame, and her tears threatened to escape once again. Her weakness embarrassed her, more than rape ever could. It wasn't right. It should've been Levana in that bed, with Channary looming over her, mocking her for being pathetic. Not the other way around.

But even then, Levana didn't mock her. Even as Channary lay there, helpless. For once, the tables were turned. Levana had the power to do anything she wanted to her sister. She could strike her, torture her, get back at her for all the crimes that Channary had committed against her. But all Levana did was look at her, full of pity. She had taken the time to make her sister a gift, naïvely thinking that it would make her feel better. Her kindness nearly made Channary sick.

Levana, concerned now, put a gloved hand on her sister's shoulder. "Are you alright? Does your arm hurt?"

Channary growled, swatting her younger sister's hand away. Rage roiled in her belly where a child should've been, and her fiery gaze hovered over Levana, her face, her body, her shadow. She hated her, from her childish freckles to her frail figure. She hated her innocence, her happiness. Mere words could not describe how much Channary completely and utterly despised her.

Levana backed away, offset by Channary's sudden aggression. The crown princess nearly laughed. If Levana thought that she was getting any kind of approval or praise, she was sorely mistaken. Channary would never give her that satisfaction.

"Just get out of here," she hissed.

"But I—"

"Did I stutter?" Channary spat, dropping the frame on the floor. Levana cried out as the glass shattered, but Channary pushed her back as hard as she could. Levana toppled over, landing on the hard tile. "GET OUT!" Channary shrieked, cringing in pain.

Levana jumped, her eyes wide. A little gasp of fear escaped her, and she quickly got to her feet, scampering out of the room. Channary nearly choked on her sobs, gasping and wheezing for air, as if she were being squeezed to death by a deadly snake.

A nurse that stood in the doorway cleared her throat. She had clearly witnessed the whole exchange. "Your Highness?"

Channary's head whipped around at breakneck speed, her eyes blazing.

The nurse stepped back, slightly deterred by the princess' glare. "It's time for your sedatives, Milady," she said.

Channary blinked. "I don't need any sedatives," she sneered.

"That's not what the doctor says." The nurse put a hand on her hip. Channary eyed her as she made her way across her room to where the chemicals and medicine were stored, filling a needle with clear liquid from a small glass jar. "Just one little shot and you'll feel much better, I promise."

She glanced around the room, lingering on the shattered glass of the frame littered on the tile.

"Should I send for a maid to clean up this mess?" the nurse asked, raising an eyebrow.

Channary followed her gaze down to the pile of glass. Her lips curled into a particularly unpleasant sneer. "Have her throw both the frame and the paper in the incinerator."

The nurse flicked the needle with her finger. "Will do. In the meantime, I'll give you your shots," she said.

"I told you, I don't—" Channary started, but was cut off as the nurse plunged the needle into the crook of her elbow, pressing down on the plunger. Her voice died into a harsh rasp, and her eyelids drooped.

"There, there, Your Highness. Calm down. Your parents shall be here soon, and when you come to, they'll take you back to your room to rest. Would you like that?"

Channary's entire body had gone lax, a feeble moan being he only response that she gave.

When Channary eventually did come to, her parents didn't let her rest. Instead, they immediately bombarded her with questions in the warmth of the king's study. She sat on the couch, slumping back with her arm in a sling.

Marrok looked less than impressed, his eyes dull and heavy from lack of sleep. Her mother, even in her dishevelled state, still managed to look like a goddess, although Channary could tell that the queen's face held a slight weariness brought forth both by stress and age. Jannali's arms were crossed over her chest, and she tapped her foot impatiently.

"Well, Channary? What do you have to say for yourself?" she barked, her onyx eyes void of their usual lively spark.

The princess looked away, shame and resentment settling in her chest like heavy stones. "I thought that he was different," she mumbled.

"I warned you, I told you that he was trouble! But did you listen to me?" When Channary didn't answer, Jannali continued on, "No. I thought that had I raised you to be a bit smarter than that."

Channary huffed, tears of frustration pricking the back of her eyes. "Well, maybe you were wrong for once! You never let me do anything on a whim, and I just…I wanted to make my own decisions."

"Well, look where that got you! Your own decisions, my ass—when I tell you something, you listen! But me, I'm just your mother, what do I know?" Jannali waved a hand through the air, her fingers dipping gracefully despite her anger.

The princess' cheeks burned, and she grit her teeth. "Why are rubbing this in? Aren't you going to after him?!" she barked.

The king's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone," he said, placing his palms flat on the desk before him.

Channary groaned, throwing her head back. "This is so not fair!" she whined.

"I don't care if it's not fair," Marrok said, his gaze as sharp as needles.

"But, while we're on the subject of arresting him," Jannali cut in, "We wanted your input."

The king nodded in agreement. "Yes. Since you're so adamant to make your own decisions, you get to say how he dies." A cruel smile made its way from his eyes to his face. "You'll be his executioner."

Channary peered up at him through her bangs, picking at her cast. "Really?"

"Leave your cast alone, dear," Jannali said.

The princess moved her hand away, furrowing her brow.

"So? What do you want to do?" Marrok asked.

Channary stayed silent for a moment, running through all the possibilities in her head. All the ways that she could end the man who dared say 'no'.

"Have him brought to me," was all she said, her good hand bunched in a fist.

It had taken a couple days to find Alexander, who had the common sense to leave Artemisia after the ordeal, cutting out his ID chip and leaving it, all bloody, on his kitchen counter. Eventually, the three thaumaturges in charge of his search found him hiding out in Elathia, on the other side of the moon. They brought him to the palace, tied up and gagged.

Before he knew it, he was confined in a small room within the bowels of the palace, his jaw bruised and his wrists slit. The three royals—Channary, her mother and her father—came in, silently, like spectres. The cast on Channary's arm came as no surprise to him, although he didn't expect her to face him directly. Rather, he thought that she would go and pout and sulk like the little brat that she was.

Now, though, most of his pride and pomp had vanished, replaced by undeniable fear, the coward. Channary herself didn't really scare him, but the murderous, bloodthirsty looks of the king and queen sure did.

"Alexander Wilkes," King Marrok said, his voice low and threatening. He stood before Alexander, like the devil about to take his soul on judgement day. "If I hadn't promised my daughter that I would let her have her way with you, I would tear you apart limb from limb."

"And I would rip away every muscle, every tendon from your bones," Jannali added, her voice light, yet seeping with menace.

Alexander focused his gaze on the princess, trying to block out her snarling parents. "You couldn't stay away from me, could you, darling?" he croaked.

Channary's eyes flashed, and her features contorted with rage to the point of being grotesque. "Shut up," she spat.

The king stepped forward and slapped him, hard. "If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you believed yourself to be above the law," he sneered, his eyes blazing. He raised his arm to punch him, and Alexander flinched.

"Marrok."

Marrok's head snapped around, his gaze searing through his wife's form. She stood with her hands on her hips, the anger on her face not dispelling her uncanny beauty, but rather enhancing it.

The king let out a soft, low growl, backing away from the trembling man. Not of his own volition, though—his wife had grabbed hold of his mind, coaxing him back gently to her side.

"Leave him be," Jannali said, lightly brushing her fingers on her husband's arm. Then, she turned to her daughter, who stood frozen, white as a sheet. Gently, the queen pulled out a dagger inlaid with gleaming rubies from the sheath around her waist. She held the silver weapon flat on her palm, standing tall and poised, like a statue. "So, have you learned your lesson, Channary?"

Channary's exposed fingers curled around her hard cast. "Yes, mother," she whispered, her head lowered in shame.

"Would you like to kill him yourself, or should I do it for you?" Jannali inquired, arching a slender eyebrow.

The princess muttered something incoherent under breath, snatching the dagger with her good hand. Jannali smirked. As soon as Channary took a step away, the queen let go of her husband's mind, instead holding him back with one arm draped over his shoulders. Marrok's nostrils flared, his fury desperate to be unleashed.

"Let her go, Marrok. She doesn't need your help."

Marrok's lips pressed into a thin line, waiting impatiently for what was about to unfold. Channary slid across the room's stone floor like a viper poised to attack its prey, the dagger in hand. Alexander looked at her with wide eyes, his blood iced in fear.

Channary sneered. "Goodbye, my love," she spat as she delivered the first blow, a stab straight into his chest.

Both the king and queen stared straight ahead, their eyes intently watching Channary's every move. Marrok's otherwise unmoving lips curled into a sadistic smile as Channary stabbed Alexander, once, twice, until his wet screams turned into nothing but quiet sobs. After a minute, the only sound to be heard was the squelching sound of blood on Channary's shoes as she walked back over to where her parents stood, her white gown and cast completely soaked in red.

Jannali clapped her hands and squealed in girlish glee. Channary dropped the dagger at the queen's feet, not once breaking eye contact.

"It looks like we'll have to replace your cast," Marrok said, lightly pressing a finger into the soggy plaster.

Channary snarled. "I...don't...care..." she whispered, her breath ragged.

"Do you feel better, now that you've gotten your revenge?" Jannali inquired, a few giggles escaping her here and there.

Channary looked around for a moment, asking herself the question. Did her rapist's blood on her hands really make her feel any better? Did it give her any sense of closure?

"Yes." Channary let out a roar of laughter, a sadistic, animalistic cackle—the opposite of her usual girly laugh. "I feel much, much better."