The Skulls in the Ceiling

Date: [REDACTED] Location: The Kosnak Estate, Predymesh, Thornus

I paid three thousand gold coins just to sit in this chair.

Across from me sits Wulf Kosnak. He is less a man and more a landslide of flesh and velvet, spilling over the sides of his throne. His fingers are adorned with rings so heavy they look like brass knuckles. He eats a pomegranate with messy, wet greedy noises, the red juice staining his grey beard.

"You look pale, Valeth," he grunts, not bothering with titles. "Is the air in Predymesh too rich for your lungs?"

"It is... distinct," I reply, my hand resting on my notebook. The navy blue leather feels cool against my palm. I trace the single silver star on the cover—my North Star, my compass in this sea of sharks.

Beside him sits Penta. She is the silence to his noise, the grace to his grotesque. Thirty years his junior, she wears her beauty like armor. Her eyes, however, are open windows in a burning house. I see the intelligence there, sharpening itself on the stone of her captivity. She was a spoil of war, they say. I say she is a prisoner of peace.

"You stare at the décor," Wulf laughs, following my gaze to the ceiling.

Hanging from the chandelier, swaying gently in the draft, are two yellowed skulls. They are polished, grim trophies that catch the light.

"Rebels," Wulf lies, juice dripping down his chin. "Tried to kill me in my sleep. Now they watch me eat. Poetry, isn't it?"

I look at Penta. Her face is impassive, but her hand tightens on her wine glass. She doesn't know. God help her, she doesn't know those hollow eyes belong to the people who gave her life.

I feel the bile rise in my throat. Why show me this? Is it intimidation? Or just the casual cruelty of a man who has forgotten what fear feels like?

"The leader," Wulf continues, spitting a seed onto the floor, "thinks he runs Thornus. He thinks the crown makes the king. I tell him where to sign, Valeth. I tell him who to kill. I am the spine of this country. Without me, it is just a sack of meat."

Penta pours me more wine. Her fingers brush mine. A spark, quick and dangerous. She lingers for a second too long.

"You are kind, Valeth Vanceshire," she whispers, so low Wulf cannot hear over his own chewing. "Kindness is a contraband here."

I open my notebook. I write: The rot starts at the head, but the heart is still beating. I smile as the ink dries. It is my only shield.

As the sun sets over the gilded spires of the capital, I prepare to leave. Wulf stumbles up from his chair, heavy with wine, and walks me to the door. He stops beneath the chandelier, looking up at the two yellowed skulls with a twisted fondness.

"You liked my trophies," he rumbles, his voice low, a conspirator's whisper. He leans in, his breath sour. "Between us, Valeth... don't mention it to my dear Penta. She thinks they're rebels."

He grins, teeth stained red. "But a man must keep his in-laws close, yes? Her mother and father. Best wedding gift I ever gave myself."

The horror hits me like a physical blow. I stare at the hollow sockets, then at the door where Penta waits. She is living in a graveyard she doesn't even see.

I bow to Penta, my hands trembling slightly.

"A receipt for the hospitality," I say, pressing a folded piece of paper into her hand.

She takes it. Her fingers close over it like a trap. She smiles, and for the first time, it reaches her eyes.

I walk out into the cold night of Predymesh. I do not know if I have just started a war or a romance. Perhaps, in Thornus, they are the same thing.