Flesh and Dread

 

The scent of crushed lotus and burning oil hung heavy in the private bedchamber of Magister Kathor, high atop the towering spires of Nadaran. The room was a monument to cold, decadent excess – draped in heavy crimson silks, carpeted in deep furs, and illuminated only by the low, amber glow of brazier embers.

Kathor lay reclined upon a grand canopy bed, his thin chest bare against the cool silk sheets. On either side of him lounged two exquisite beauties, their nude bodies draped over him in a seductive tangle of limbs. They moved with expert grace, trailing soft fingertips over his chest and pouring spiced wine into crystal goblets, seeking to draw the powerful Magister into a stupor of bodily indulgence.

It was not the first time he had engaged the two ladies within the privacy of his spire. On nights past, their familiar touches had offered a dark retreat – a sanctuary where he could indulge his vices and revel in his rising power. Tonight, as they leaned close in the warm emberlight, Kathor attempted to wear his usual mask of quiet, arrogant triumph.

Kathor had chosen the women with meticulous, bitter intent. The woman to his left was a dark-haired beauty with pale skin and full, rounded breasts, and had been specifically selected for her striking, subtle physical resemblance and closest likeness to Lady Hannah Vaelen. He had sought to lose himself in her silhouette, to reduce the threat of the High Crown’s Emissary to a mere conquest of his bedchamber – subduing the ghost that haunted his waking thoughts.

Yet, this evening, the illusion was hollow. Every touch of her soft hand felt like dry parchment against his feverish skin. Every lingering glance only summoned the memory of Lady Hannah’s sharp, analytical eyes in the Lyceum – the very same eyes that had seen through his plot, and survived his hired mercenaries. A sudden dread coiled his thoughts.

The failure in the Chalk Hills flooded his mind. The Amber Mana was lost, his scouts were silent, and his grand conspiracy hung by a fraying thread. Lady Hannah was undoing a plan that he had spent years in conspiring.

As the dark-haired woman leaned over him, her heavy chest pressing lightly against his arm as she whispered a soft, enticing murmur, Kathor felt no warmth. Only a cold, suffocating wave of disgust.

"Cease," Kathor growled, his voice a sharp, grating snap that cut through the perfumed air.

He shoved both women aside with sudden revulsion, sitting up on the edge of the bed and burying his face in his pale, bony hands. The sheer sheets pooled around his waist. The sensation of their skin, their perfume, their attempts to rouse his desire – it all revolted him. Nothing in this room could dull the burning spike of fear behind his temples.

"M’lord.." the dark-haired woman whispered softly, undeterred. She reached out, placing a soft, slender hand upon his bare shoulder, tilting her head with practiced sympathy. "Let me soothe your mind. Whatever troubles you in the high courts can wait until morning…"

Kathor’s eyes snapped open.

Before she could finish her plea, Kathor’s backhand struck her full across the cheek with cracking force.

The sharp impact echoed off the cold stone walls. The woman cried out in shock and pain, thrown backward across the plush furs, clutching her reddening jaw as tears welled in her eyes. The second woman recoiled in terror, pulling the sheer silk tightly over her chest.

Kathor stood up, his gaunt frame looming over them in the dim chamber, his chest heaving, his face twisted in utter contempt.

"GET OUT!" Kathor roared, his voice shaking the crystal goblets on the side table. "Get out of my sight, both of you! OUT!"

Terrified, the two women scrambled off the bed, clutching their discarded robes to their bare skin, and fled through the heavy oak doors without looking back.

The heavy iron latch clicked shut. Silence returned to the high chamber.

Kathor stood alone in the dark, his hands trembling as he stared into the dying embers of the brazier. The luxury, the wine, and the flesh had all yielded nothing. Deep in the quiet shadows of the High Spire, the Magister knew that sleep would not come tonight.