Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

by Carissa Broadbent

Arachessen were not supposed to mourn the things we gave up in the name of our goddess—Acaeja, the Weaver of Fates, the Keeper of the Unknown, the Mother of Sorcery. We could not mourn the eyesight, the autonomy, the pieces of our flesh carved away in sacrifice.

Threadwhispers were very useful. Communication that couldn’t be overheard, that could transcend sound the same way we transcended sight. It was a gift from the Weaver, one for which I was very grateful.

Sisters of the Arachessen are trained extensively in the magic of every god. From the time we were children, we were exposed to all magics, even when our bodies protested, even when it burned us or broke us.

It was not a sacrifice. It was an exchange: Close your eyes, child, and you will see an entire world.

Acaeja was the only exception—the only god who tolerated Nyaxia and the vampire society she had created.

Ascension, not death. Never death. Arachessen didn’t believe in death, only change. Just as the loss of our eyes didn’t mean the loss of sight, the loss of a heartbeat didn’t mean the loss of life.

“Is it really a sacrifice if it’s taken instead of offered?”

I jumped a little, startled, as he touched my cheek, the rough pad brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’re lucky,” he said, “that I have a soft spot for caged birds.”

“Beautiful. Mysterious. Dangerous. And an obvious, clear-as-the-fucking-moon mistake.”

It didn’t really do much good to be reassured by a blood-soaked vampire warrior with horns.

“I thought you were—” He cleared his throat. “I had… dreams.” Oh, he had dreams alright. As if I didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on how much skin I had showing now. Or the way his hands were folded over his lap.

*BONK* go to horny jail

Weaver, he was actually blushing.

“Well, whatever you did, thanks,” he said. “He was in a much better mood tonight.”

“You’re acting strange.” He paused, then added, “Stranger than usual.” Weaver fucking damn him. “Tell your men to stop feeding me buckets of oranges,” I snapped, striding to the door. “It’s bad for digestion. Maybe protein! Protein would be nice!” I left him standing there and huffed my way over to my own tent before he could stop me. Later that night, I was brought a beautifully roasted quail.

At that, a flicker of a smirk. He leaned closer, and to my shock, his fingertips brushed the soft underside of my chin. “Hm,” he said. “To think I let such a dangerous creature sleep beside me every night.”

Atrius stared at me, brows low over his silver-and-gold eyes. Then his fingertip rose and flicked the edge of the veil, making the silken fabric ripple. And he mouthed, I hate this thing. Beneath the silk, my lips thinned. Then, despite myself, curled into a smile. I could’ve sworn that maybe the twitch of Atrius’s lips was almost a smile, too.

The understanding snapped into place. He was presenting Tarkan to me. He was giving me this. I didn’t know why. I didn’t have time to question it.

And just when I thought he didn’t have anything to say at all, he spoke. Four words in Obitraen.

Surely I was hallucinating, to think that Atrius’s presence, forever unbreakable, forever solid, forever silent, was now screaming—screaming in utter terror. Over me.

“You recognize it because you feel it just as much.” His words were hard. All sharp-edged accusation. Strange, though, that such cruel words held such tender affection beneath them. Like he was challenging me to meet him at this most difficult terrain, somewhere that hurt, somewhere that was just as angry and broken as we were.

I didn’t want him to stop any of it.

I wanted to burn it all down with him.

“I dreamed about this,” he murmured. “What you might look like, unraveled and desperate, in the seconds before I let you go. I want to savor it.”

It wasn’t until this exact moment that I realized: as far as Atrius was concerned, I was one of his people.

“Death is what happens when you stand still,” I said. “Don’t stand still. Not for anything.”

“A tonic,” he said. “It’s better for you.” He’d prepared for me. Gotten human-specific tonics to help me make the journey.

Territorial men—human or vampire or slyvik. The one thing you could always count on.

“You decapitated one of them,” I said. “One strike.” A smirk he was trying and failing to suppress twitched at the corners of his mouth. “I did,” he said. He just sounded so smug. I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

Maybe it just meant that anger was the antidote to fear. I hated the Pythora King so much that I had little to be afraid of. I would die either way. Let me die with my blade in his throat.

We moved at the same time—our bloody, sweaty hands clasping together.

He pushed past me, his still-bloodied sword out. “Get away from her,” he ground out, and the four words were all command; a way I had never once heard another person speak to the Sightmother. But what struck me more was the protectiveness that permeated his presence with those words, primal and unguarded in a way that Atrius rarely was.

A bolt of raw fear speared Atrius’s presence—even though he hadn’t so much as flinched when it was himself under Acaeja’s scrutiny.

“I cannot kill you because I know you, Vivi. I know every moment you lied to me, because I know every moment you told the truth. I know your truth. I can’t ignore it. Even though it would be far easier if I could.”

Atrius nodded, as if he still understood exactly what I meant, and he cradled my face between both hands. I closed my eyes, and he kissed one, then the other, catching the beginnings of tears on his lips.

🥹❤️‍🩹

I loved my Sisters, or at least I thought I did. Now, I pitied that version of myself, for whom love meant hiding so many different aspects of herself.

Atrius, of course, had sensed my anxiety last night, as I tossed and turned in bed. He’d pulled me against him, curling his body around mine, and grumbled into my hair, “They’ll listen to you. If they don’t, we’ll just kill them all.”

i love him

The fight will always be worth it.

From the doorway, I had missed it. The little chair. The easel. The carefully arranged line of paint jars.

OMG