The Tyrant's Pet

The silent sound of liquid dripping echoed inside the burnt castle where Dexter and Roman had stayed. The frequent chattering coming from the outside, along with the sound of metals grazing each armor, couldn't even compare to the deafening silence with the sound of each drop of liquid.

Roman's eyes flickered underneath his eyelids before they cracked open. The line between his brows deepened, licking his lips at the water damping it. Only to quickly realized it wasn't water when the tang of bitter iron like blood invaded his cavity.

"I had no choice. The plan moved up." Dexter's calm voice pierced the air, holding a tiny jar with red liquid in it, which he was slowly pouring into Roman's lips. "Don't worry. His blood has healing qualities, and having a bit of it won't change you."

"Wait —" Roman coughed at the sudden dryness of his throat. His faint coughs grew louder and dry, propping his elbows with grew difficulty as he rolled to his side. Slowly, he gasped for air at the tightness of his throat as if someone was strangling him and a weight on his chest as if they set a gigantic rock on top of him.

Roman reached his hand out, grabbing anything he could clutch. It hurts. It felt like he was burning from the inside. A pain he never felt before.

"Ugh… ahhh!!" he screamed when he couldn't take the pain biting every fiber of his body.

This… was torture.

Pure torture.

The hell went through the other night in Joaquin's hands was nothing compared to this pain.

The pain the seventh prince was going through right now was the literal hell. It was like knocking on the fiery gates despite knowing it was piping hot, stepping inside the fire, and getting devoured by it. His scream sounded distant in his ear and his head felt like it would explode anytime soon. Veins on his temple protruded angrily, his complexion red, and blood once again squirt from the fresh wounds across his body.

While Roman writhed in pain, Dexter stood motionless beside the bed. His eyes were fixed on the seventh prince, showing no sign of pity despite the blood painting the white sheet red.

"You're lucky," he whispered, ironic to say when Roman was playing tug of war with life and death. "Because we never knew mercy until she came."

Dexter slowly turned on his heel, eyes glinting with murderous intent. His every step away from the burnt room faded into Roman's screams and cries.

<strong>*******</strong>

<strong>[ INNER PALACE KITCHEN ]</strong>

"Nineteen thousand nine hundred ninety-nine."

<strong>CLANK!</strong>

"Twenty…" Abel dropped the last plate into the huge crate filled with broken cutleries. He didn't move from his spot since morning, and nor did he stop shattering every fragile item within his reach. His eyes were fixed on the shards inside the crate, tilting his head to the side, genuine wonder in his eyes.

"I'm so tired…" Conan murmured, slumped on the corner of the kitchen floor, and then said louder, "Your Majesty, please tell me you're not as pissed as this morning after breaking twenty thousand fragile objects without taking breaks!"

Conan waited for any confirmation from Abel, but the latter kept his attention on the crate resting near his foot. A long-suffering sigh slipped past Conan's lips, closing his eyes momentarily to rest them.

"Goodness…" mumbled Conan. "That crown price is really something, isn't he?"

He gazed at Abel and shook his head. Surely, Joaquin was amazing in his own right. Why? Because he managed to piss Abel. It had been a very long time since Abel was truly pissed about something. Conan had been with Abel's side for the longest time and he could tell breaking twenty thousand porcelain wasn't enough to quench his anger. It only kept Abel busy for the day.

"These plates…" Conan swallowed a mouthful of air when Abel's dangerously deep voice pierced the stifling air. "… aren't as fragile as humans."

Conan scrunched his nose up in dismay. "Please… for Lady Aries's sake. Kill His Grace!"

Isaiah, who was standing by the window, didn't show the slightest sign of reaction to Conan's suggestion. He shunned it automatically, listening to the voices ringing across the imperial palace on top of the cries beyond the palace's premises.

'Witches hate this sort of madness…' he thought, blinking every so tenderly. Without looking away from the darkness blanketing the world that even the torches couldn't fight, Isaiah spoke.

"The witches… request to settle in Haimirich and follow their queen." Isaiah slowly peeled his eyes away from the window to Abel. "They said… they won't allow vampires to exploit the power of Maleficent."

"Damn witches…" Conan spat out in dismay. "This is why I hate them!"

"Whatever makes them happy…" Abel waved, picking up a shard and breaking it with only his thumb and index. "It is better to have her own people in there since… I smell chocolates."

Conan and Isaiah furrowed their brows, a little confused at Abel's remarks. Chocolates?

Abel raised his nonchalant eyes and his slight smirk looked even more sinister. "Forget about the statue, dearest Conan. Bring this crate to my wedding."

"Hell yes…" Conan heaved a sigh of relief as if one giant burden was lifted off of his shoulders.

Abel slowly pushed himself up and stretched his neck from one side to the other leisurely. Dark shrouds emanated from his back, but he was much calmer now. Although calmness was the least they wanted from him because when Abel was overly calm… that meant hell was about to rise up to the surface of the world.

"Prepare my attire, Conan." He pivoted on his heel and sauntered off silently. "The groom will need some beauty rest… as per my bride's request."

"Alright…" Conan lazily dragged himself up from the corner, feeling his muscle tremble from all that manual work of bringing porcelains just for a certain emperor to break. When Conan tried to lift the crate, his frown deepened. It was heavy.

"I can't carry that." Isaiah shrugged the second Conan shot him a look, hands up and then sauntered off to the opposite direction where Abel left.

"Ugh…" Conan grunted in irritation and then yelled to get help from someone who would help him hopefully. "Morro! Come and carry this one!"