Teren Santoro
As the sun sets over Estenzia, Teren locks himself inside his chambers. His jaw is tight with frustration.
Several weeks have already passed since Adelina’s escape from her execution. He’s not found a single trace of her. Rumor has it that she came here to Estenzia—at least, that was all his Inquisition patrols could gather. But Estenzia is a large city. He needs more information than that.
Teren undoes the gold buttons of his Inquisition uniform, strips off his robe, and removes the armor underneath. He pulls his thin linen undershirt up over his head, baring his torso to the air. The orange glow of sunset from his window highlights his shoulders, the hard, muscled contour of his back.
It also illuminates the maze of crisscrossing scars that cover his body.
Teren sighs, closes his eyes, and rolls his neck. His thoughts wander to the queen. The king had been dead drunk at his council meeting today, laughing off fears of his hungry people’s rising anger at his taxes, impatient to return to his afternoon hunting trips and brothels. Throughout the whole meeting, Queen Giulietta looked on in silence. Her eyes were cool, calm, and dark. If her husband irritated her, she didn’t show it. She certainly didn’t show any signs that she had invited Teren to her bedchambers the night before.
Teren closes his eyes at the memory of her in his arms, and shivers in longing.
He looks down at the whip lying by his bed. He walks over to it. He had to have the weapon specially made: It consists of nine different tails, each tail equipped at the end with long blades—rare foreign platinum for weight, tipped with steel—honed so finely that their edges could slice open skin with the faintest whisper of a touch.
On any normal man, a weapon like this would shred his back into ribbons of meat with a single strike. Even on someone like Teren, with skin and flesh hardened by demonic magic, the metal whip wreaks havoc.
He kneels on the floor. Lifts the whip. Holds his breath. Then he snaps the whip over his head. The blades rake deep into the flesh of his back, ripping jagged lines across his skin. He lets out a strangled gasp as pain floods him, robbing him of his breath. Almost immediately, the cuts start to heal.
I am a deformed creature, he mouths silently, repeating the words he once said as a twelve-year-old boy, an Inquisitorin-training, kneeling before the sixteen-year-old Princess Giulietta.
He remembers that day so well. She was newly married to the powerful Duke of Estenzia. Young Enzo, still crown prince to the throne, lay in the infirmary, the lucky survivor of drinking poisoned soup. And the old king was already dying.
Giulietta bent down, studied Teren thoughtfully, and placed her finger under his chin. She gently tilted his head up until his pale, colorless eyes met her dark, cool ones. “Why are you afraid to look at me?” she asked.
“You are chosen by the gods, Your Highness,” he said, ashamed. “And I am a malfetto, lower than a dog. I am unworthy of your presence.” He hoped she couldn’t guess his dark secret. That strange, demonic powers had appeared in him recently.
Giulietta smiled. “If I forgive you for being a malfetto, little boy, would you pledge your undying devotion to me? Would you do anything for me?”
Teren looked up into her eyes with desperation and desire. She was so pretty. Delicate, heart-shaped face framed with dark curls. Royal blood. Not a hint of a marking on her. Perfection. “I would pledge anything to you, Your Highness. My life. My sword. I am yours.”
“Good.” She tilted her head toward him. “Tell me. Who do you think should rule this country next?”
Teren leaned into her touch. The question confused him. “The crown prince,” he said. “It is his birthright.”
Her eyes hardened. Wrong answer. “You said you are a malfetto, and lower than a dog. Do you really want a malfetto as your king?”
Teren hadn’t thought about it like that. He used to wrestle and spar with Enzo in the palace gardens, when Teren’s father was busy leading the Inquisition Axis. They were friends, even, or at least friendly, always paired up in afternoon sword practice. Teren hesitated, torn between the idea of Enzo as pure-blooded royalty and the reality of him being tainted by the blood fever’s markings. Finally, he shook his head. “No, Your Highness. I wouldn’t want that.”
Giulietta’s eyes softened, and she smiled again. Right answer. “I am the firstborn. It is my birthright to rule.”
For a fleeting moment, Teren wondered if she was the one who slipped poison into Enzo’s soup.
She leaned closer. Then she said the words that would ensnare him forever. “Do as I say, little Teren. Help me rid this world of all malfettos. And I will make sure the gods forgive you for your abomination.”
The memory fades. Teren raises the whip again and again.
To atone for my cursed magic, I devote myself to the Inquisition all the days of my life. I will serve the queen, rightful ruler of Kenettra. Not only will I rid this world of Young Elites, but I shall rid this world of malfettos.
Blood runs down the pulped flesh of his back as his body tries desperately to keep up in healing itself. He sways in place, dizzy from the agony. Tears drip from his unnaturally pale eyes. His marking. But Teren only grits his teeth and smiles. His thoughts return to Adelina. She couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air. She was here, somewhere. He would simply have to search harder. Pay off every street urchin and beggar in the city. For the price of a cheap meal, they’ll tell you anything. His eyes pulse in anticipation. Yes. Thousands of spies. I have plans for you, Adelina. If Teren could have his own way, he would kill every Elite he could find. Then he would throw every malfetto in the city—in the country—into the dungeons. He would burn every single one of them at the stake. Abominations. If only he could make them understand.