The Rotting King

The Ironwood Estate sat on a ridge overlooking the town, a sprawling gothic monstrosity of dark wood and iron gating. It felt less like a home and more like a fortress built to keep the world out—or keep something in.

Elara was ushered through the grand doors by silent servants who refused to meet her eyes. She was bathed in a copper tub filled with rosewater, scrubbed until her skin was raw and pink. Her rags were burned. In their place, she was dressed in a gown of midnight-blue silk that whispered against her skin like a secret.

She felt like a doll. A very expensive, breakable doll.

That evening, she was summoned to the master bedroom.

The room was suffocatingly hot. A fire roared in the hearth despite the mild evening. The curtains were drawn tight.

Silas stood by the window, staring out at the darkness. He had shed his heavy coat. He wore a white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the top, damp with sweat.

"Do you like the silk?" he asked, not turning around.

"It is... soft," Elara said, standing near the door. "Why am I here, Mr. Ironwood? You paid a fortune for a gutter rat."

"I paid a fortune for a vessel," Silas corrected.

He turned to face her. The firelight cast long, dancing shadows across his face. He looked exhausted, a king whose crown had become too heavy to bear.

"Come here," he ordered.

Elara stepped forward. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of her footsteps.

Silas began to unbutton his shirt.

Elara flinched, looking away. "I am not a harlot, sir."

"Look at me," Silas snapped. His voice cracked with pain. "Look!"

Elara looked.

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Silas’s chest was a map of agony. From his heart, thick, black veins radiated outward, pulsing with a sluggish, necrotic rhythm. They snaked up his neck, disappearing into his hairline. They twisted down his torso, turning the skin grey and papery.

"It is a blood curse," Silas whispered. "An inheritance from a grandfather who dabbled in things he shouldn't have. It eats the life. It eats the light."

He took a step toward her. Elara could feel the cold radiating off him, a stark contrast to the heat of the room.

"I am dying, Elara. The doctors can do nothing. The priests run away."

He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from her face.

"But you... they say you are a Sin Eater. They say you can touch a fever and make it your own."

Elara backed up until her legs hit the edge of the four-poster bed. "You want me to heal you?"

"I want you to take it," Silas said. The desperation in his eyes was terrifying. "I can't just be healed. The darkness has to go somewhere. It needs a container. A pure container."

He dropped to his knees in front of her. The proud Cattle Baron, begging.

"Marry me," he rasped. "Be the mistress of this house. Own the mines, the land, the town. You will never hunger again. All I ask... is that you drain this poison from me."

"It will kill me," Elara whispered.

"No," Silas shook his head feverishly. "You are strong. Your soul is clean. It will stain you, yes. But it won't kill you. I have seen what you can do."

He grabbed her hands. His grip was clammy.

"Save me," he begged. "And I will give you the world."

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