Avarice Read online

  Avarice

  Isabel Sellden

  Copyright © 2022 Isabel Sellden

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798839041905

  For my mom, who’s dryer I broke.

  1

  Wearing a white tunic, brown trousers, and dusty boots, Allison thoughtlessly abandoned her father’s castle. Once outside, she reveled in her freedom by gazing at the falling sun ahead. A drunken painter, it seemed to dance across the sky, smearing the clouds and concocting oranges and pinks so bright that they stained the ground.

  She hadn’t threatened her father in ages and yet, still, she was able to stroll past the guards, across the grass, and away from his towering cage of brick without any problems at all. She only wished that she had the balls to use her power against him.

  As always, there were people praying just beyond the fortress’s closed metal gate. Teary eyed with clasped hands, they stared down at the cobblestones beneath their knobby knees. Allison tried her best to ignore them.

  It took her a mere ten minutes to reach the heart of Strieth, the town adjacent to her father’s castle. As always, its streets were empty of everything besides crumbling shacks and a couple starving hounds. This was a big reason as to why she was allowed to slip free with so little precautions.

  Four years prior, most peasants in Strieth had tried to rebel against her father’s tyrannical rule.

  It was over before it’d ever really begun.

  He’d swiftly killed them all then used their blood as a warning to his many other subjects. Now, no one dared to move into the abandoned town. Not even the guards lived there. They festered behind the castle in a much smaller building of their own.

  Allison loved Strieth’s trembling silence. It did not judge her busy mind or long, unwashed hair. In fact, she felt more understood by that silly little town than she felt by anything else.

  The desolate crave desolation. It is not hard to understand.

  The sun darkening her pale shoulders, Allison eventually stumbled upon a shack which she was yet to explore. Its windows were broken, it leaned precariously to the right, and its front door was cracked open.

  Pleased with her discovery, she strode towards and entered it without a second thought. The place was gloomy, empty, and warm. Like a body just waiting to be discovered, a necklace consisting of delicate black jewels laid in the middle of its creaking floor. Clasping it behind her neck, Allison wondered how the shack’s previous owner had acquired something so extravagant.

  “Hello there,” a man behind her suddenly drawled.

  She whirled.

  The speaker was sickly thin and bore a hunched back. His clothing was tattered, bald spots ravaged his silvery head, and the few teeth he had were a cheesy yellow.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, cocking his head.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  He raised his faded brows.

  Come on, Allison thought to herself. He’s just a stupid old man. Order him to leave, then get the fuck out of here.

  “It’s none of your damn business what I’m doing,” she said, tilting up her chin and straightening her spine. Her power coursed through her veins like molten steel. “Leave. Now.”

  “No.”

  Dumbfounded, she blinked, and by the time she opened her eyes, he was already gone.

  * * *

  The ball would start in half an hour, and Abigail still hadn’t bathed. She’d been sulking in bed ever since she watched Allison prowl into town. Her candlelit chambers were even more dreary than usual, for the moon, a piercing silver claw, had already begun replacing the sun. Night was all around her now, pawing at her flesh as though it were a starving kitten.

  A tear slithered down her cheek, and she carried it with her as she slowly began getting ready. It was a part of her, a friend.

  An hour later, she scuttled through the castle hallways with moist palms and hiked up skirts towards the ballroom and the muffled sound of laughter. She not only passed stoic guards along the way but also foolishly granted each and every one of them a queasy smile.

  She wore a billowing, silver gown. It shone in the light of the many torches lining the walls and whispered with every clacking step she took. She’d freed her shadowy curls, varnished her light brown skin with a soft, glittering powder, and even wore lifted shoes.

  What are you even doing here, Abigail? she thought upon coming to a wobbling halt in front of the closed ballroom doors.

  She couldn’t help but frown as she looked down at her dress. It clung to her boyish figure. She didn’t look like Allison, and that, as always, ruined everything.

  Please, she begged the gods, let this be a good night.

  After taking a deep breath, with the gentle nod of her head, she motioned for the three guards stationed nearby to open the doors.

  * * *

  What’s wrong with me? Allison wondered as she slunk back to her father’s castle.

  She’d spent the last while pacing up and down the empty shack from which she’d stolen her new necklace.

  Reaching the fortress’s gate, she even caught a guard staring at it.

  Comment on it, she wordlessly dared him. Go ahead and say what a terrible person you think I am. Do it.

  Obviously, he said nothing.

  The thought of taking off the necklace haunted her as she entered the castle and slunk up to her chambers. In fact, she ended up getting dressed in complete silence.

  Once ready, her hair tumbled down to the castle floor. She’d put on a sleek, blood red dress which worshiped her thick curves, and her pale green eyes twinkled in the candlelight. She was beautiful enough to hack someone’s breath to pieces.

  Her dress had been fitted—fitted to hold a thin blade in the slit of its back. The golden handle stuck out, whereas the rest of the weapon remained trapped in between the dress and an extra stretch of fine, transparent fabric.

  Twisting on her lifted heel, she admired it in her mirror's clean reflection. She then reached up and, as though it were hot to the touch, quickly brushed her fingers across the necklace.

  “Let's make a scene," she whispered.

  The ballroom doors swung open, and Allison was immediately greeted by beautiful women, clouds of sharp perfume, and rich, foolish men. The walls had been tastefully varnished with light golden whorls and flecks of silver. A twinkling chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  This is exactly what I needed, she thought as the doors gently shut behind her.

  Abigail stood in the far left corner of her room. Her gaze was locked on the floor, but Allison knew that she’d seen her come in. Their father, the blonde, green eyed king, had a large group of nobles surrounding him. Upon catching Allison’s eye, he granted her a curt nod of approval and lifted his wine glass in salute. She nodded back at him before finally addressing the huddle of men standing just a few feet away. They’d been staring at her as though their very lives depended on it. She had no genuine interest in any of them, but playing games always took her mind off things.

  “So what?” she asked, cocking her head. “Are you just going to stand there and gawk at me all night, or are we going to dance?”

  Allison was a puppeteer. Every word was a binding, every smile was a present, and every drink was a middle finger to the gods who’d abandoned her. She commanded people to dance, and dance they did. That's just what the gift of magic could do.

  Let me explain. Magic was tricky and incredibly rare. Besides the gods, of course, only Aumven’s could wield it. Nobody ever really figured out how. They just could.

  Magic was also very useful. Allison never actually fought in a war, but she was a major player in many of them nonetheless. She would subtly tell one kingdom’s leader to send her father food and another to send him gold. That was her powe
r. She could control others.

  Her commands had to be spoken aloud, they only affected those who they were directed towards, and she couldn’t use them accidentally or on herself. There were no misinterpretations, and they certainly didn't last forever. She was not a god. She was, in retrospect, not even that powerful.

  Fucking rules.

  2

  Griffin walked with his hands in his pockets. The streets were packed and he was covered in sweat, but he barely noticed.

  “Griffin, get over here, now!” his father bellowed. “Griffin!”

  “Coming,” he grumbled, hastening his steps.

  “You said that you would watch your brothers.”

  Sidling up next to his father, he opted not to mention the fact that he’d never agreed to such a thing.

  “Son!”

  He tried not to look up. “What?”

  “Go find them!”

  He never answered, only veered away from the rest of the chatting Umbras and their wagons and strolled into an alleyway brimming with shadows. It seemed like someplace his brothers would be.

  “Ralphie! Samuel!” he called out.

  A tiny, beaten whimper came from just a few yards away, and it didn’t take him long to discover the animal responsible. Cowering in the dark was a small dog with soft, brown fur, golden eyes, and protruding ribs.

  “Shhhh, it’s okay,” he whispered, taking his hands out of his pockets and slowly crouching down. “Do you need some food?”

  As one might expect, the dog only trembled against the wall, but he reached into his pocket nonetheless and carefully pulled out a moldy piece of bread. He’d forgotten to give it to the chickens.

  Bowing his head and closing his eyes, inch by inch, he extended his arm and offered it to the stray.

  “What should I call you?” he whispered.

  The sound of scampering paws was his only answer.

  He quickly lifted his head and opened his eyes, but there wasn’t a dog in sight.

  Whilst looking for the stray, Griffin stumbled across his two brothers.

  Everyone always said that they looked just like him. They had the same shaggy black hair, dimples, lean stature, hazel eyes, and tan skin.

  They were giggling as they leaned over a crumbling well in the middle of the street.

  “What are you laughing about?” he warily questioned, sidling towards them.

  “Oh, nothing,” Ralphie said, grinning from ear to ear just before scampering away. Samuel wasn’t far behind him.

  “Ummm . . . be back by dinner, I guess,” Griffin mumbled.

  Furrowing his brow, he crept over to the well. It was so deep that he could just barely make out a dog’s corpse floating at the bottom.

  3

  The ball whirled on in a dazzling haze of sweat and twinkling eyes. Allison got drunk, and an ethereally beautiful man whisked her away. He was around her age, wore sleek, black attire, and stood out like a dagger through the heart. His skin was pale, and his soft, black hair gleamed like coals in the moonlight. He wasn’t a woman, but he was refined, a symbol of her status.

  You deserve a little fun, she thought, gazing up at him.

  * * *

  Sulking near the tables, the ones covered in white cloth and adorned with a variety of lavish foods, Abigail watched as Allison and her partner waltzed through the night.

  Oh, what does she have that I don't? she wondered. Shit, who am I even kidding. I mean, look at her. She may be a monster, but she looks like a queen.

  Heels throbbing, mouth brittle, and a headache battering her mind, she finally decided to abandon the worthless night. Apologizing profusely to those who blocked her path, she made her way toward the ballroom doors. They opened seconds after she knocked, and she left the party with a deep sigh of relief.

  She could tell that the guards were trying not to stare at her as she walked over to a nearby wall, pressed her clammy back against it, and sat down. They’d heard the stories about how fragile she was.

  This was meant to be the night, so why did she still feel like a child? She was supposed to be dancing in the arms of a stranger she already loved, not sitting on the floor. The problem was, heading back up to her chambers meant doing more than just strangling her dream. It meant slaughtering it.

  The ballroom doors clicked shut.

  If words dribbled like gold from Abigail’s fingertips, she would talk about how her eyes were too heavy and her clothes never fit quite right. She would describe in horrific detail how she always felt like she was sitting at the bottom of a raging river, even the slightest bit of oxygen searing her lungs.

  Beneath the moon’s frigid, spongy eyes, time and time again, Abigail had raised a bottle of poison which she’d stolen out of a physician's bag to her lips and drank from it like a yearning calf. As she trembled in death’s clutch, she’d then catch a glimpse of a fortress, a crumbling bridge, and sometimes even me.

  “Stop doing this to yourself,” I would beg, my hands clasped in prayer.

  Abigail never listened, but she also never really passed away. She would always open her eyes hours later, not a wound in sight.

  You see, there’s the death which shoves one into Avarice, the afterlife, and then there’s the death which truly puts an end to one's suffering. It’s hard to describe what it’s like here. Warm? Comfortable? The best part is that I got to watch them, but if I so chose, I could’ve also just closed my eyes and slipped away.

  Abigail wanted nothing more than to be here, with me, but she hasn’t arrived. Not yet.

  * * *

  Allison was still at the ball and swaying in the arms of an elegant man.

  “Oh you, you sir, are good,” she told him. Her head felt loose, like it could topple off at any moment.

  His hand slowly traveled up her spine, taunting her. There was a spark in his gaze, and the corners of his mouth began to lift. She didn’t know much about men, but she did know this. Their hands don’t usually travel up a woman’s back.

  “What are you doing?” she mumbled, not yet very concerned.

  His hand just kept traveling upwards until he suddenly grabbed the handle of her blade.

  She couldn’t push him away. She couldn’t even stomp on his heel. A foreign power had taken hold of her limbs. It kept her still, frozen in time.

  She began to panic. If she couldn’t speak, then she couldn’t use her power against him. And if she couldn’t use her power against him, she was fucked.

  People began to take note of the commotion. Why were their favorite performers no longer dancing? The music bled dry. Her father bellowed out an order, and the sound of fists pounding against ballroom doors ransacked her ears.

  Her seamstress had warned her not to remove the weapon from her dress hastily, as the fabric confining it was meant to be invisible, not strong. It wouldn’t protect her if it was taken out with too much force.

  Her tormentor didn’t care. He yanked it free all the while pressing it towards her.

  Her spine was left visible and glistening in the light of the chandelier.

  “You wanted everyone else to see it, Allison,” he whispered as blood poured down her back. “Why not me?”

  His hold over her body suddenly vanished, and she doubled over and stumbled away before crashing to her knees.

  Her father caught her eye but did nothing.

  She looked away from him and up at her tyrant who, the weapon still clutched in his hand, was now stalking towards her.

  “Please,” she whispered, a wave of tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—”

  Grinning, he staked the blade clear through her heart.

  4

  Abigail had just heard her father yell and a collection of muffled gasps coming from inside the ballroom. She scrambled to her feet.

  “Wh . . . what’s going on?” she asked the nearby guards.

  At first, the vigilant men ignored her despite her crown because they were far too occupied with pounding their fists ag
ainst and trying to pry open the ballroom doors. Eventually, though, they fell still and exchanged glances.

  “Your highness,” one of them quietly began, “I’m afraid that—”

  The mighty doors magically swung open.

  Golden light, a wedding veil made of thorns, draped over Abigail's head as she rushed forward and entered the ballroom.

  The first thing she saw was Allison’s corpse. Too stunned to scream, she just stared at it. The seconds felt like hours. She then carefully looked over her shoulder. The guards who’d banged their fists against the ballroom doors had been imprisoned by a foreign power and were now were now stuck in time.

  She gradually turned back around. Her thoughts were thick like cold molasses. She wasn’t even capable of prayer.

  Allison’s killer lazily strode toward her. His slick blade winked in the light.

  She didn’t even try to run, only closed her eyes as the dagger was lifted to her throat.

  5

  Allison woke up gasping for air. Every notion was a foot of moist soil, every memory was a cold shovel, and every regret was a filthy hound coming to bury her alive. Sweat dripped down her back, and her breathing was labored. A hollow growth had unfurled throughout her body. She’d felt it burn, sizzle, and, ultimately, swallow her whole.

  The stench of horror filling her nose, she yanked a quilted blanket off her legs and scrambled out of an unfamiliar bed.

  The room she was in had dark emerald green walls but no doors or windows. Hanging above the bed was a portrait of a vast jungle, and in the corner sat an exorbitant mirror. There was also a large wardrobe and few tall candles.

  “Where the fuck am I?” she whispered.