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The Emperor's Coven was a beautiful golden sanctum, concealing the most powerful artifacts to ever grace the Boiling Isles and upholding the expectations for the next generation of bright witches meant to lead it forward. Its walls were graced with white and gold, shimmering beneath lights as witches come and go—fulfilling their duties for none other than the emperor himself—Belos.
Deep in its secluded heart, Belos’ throne room would reside—in it, warm lighting would illuminate its golden walls, contrasting the coldness of the emperor himself. The scent of smoke and faint pine drifted through the room, which was silent aside from the flickering of nearby fire and the sound of pen on paper; well, quill. Belos had never quite grown out of the old way of doing things, and still wrote with a quill as if it were centuries ago.
For once his mask was off, as he anticipated no interruptions, leaving his face completely visible to anyone near—which, in this moment, was only Hunter.
Hunter stood beside his uncle’s throne, his face concealed by the Golden Guard mask; he didn’t need to keep it on, but felt more comfortable with it. For the past few minutes, he’d attempted to stand dutifully and not spy on his uncle’s writings, but couldn’t help himself.
Eventually he’d slightly leaned to the side, eyeing the paper curiously as Belos wrote smoothly in elaborate cursive, refined at its edges with the slightest shake—which came from the effects of his self-inflicted curse.
But that wasn’t what caught Hunter’s attention—not whatever Belos been writing, not his focused expression, not his unique penmanship, no, it was the fact that he wrote with his left hand. In his eyes, there was nothing wrong with it—it was just odd, and not something he’d seen commonly. He watched with mild curiosity, eyes focused on how his uncle wrote. He’d almost zoned out, finding the movement of the pen almost mesmerizing, until Belos broke the silence in a soft, almost casual tone.
“I can see you staring, Hunter. What is it you’re curious about? I’m not writing anything special.”
As Belos said that, he shifted his hand to flip the page, continuing his writing on a blank one. Hunter looked up, subconsciously gauging Belos’ expression—which’d become second nature by now—catching how there was a small, almost inviting smile on Belos’ face now, even though he hadn’t looked up to meet Hunter’s gaze. He hadn’t broken out of his focus quite yet.
“Well?” He asked again, his words having a subtle push to them that made something twist in the bottom of Hunter’s chest, but that was overshadowed by the curiosity that’d been fluttering in his brain nonstop for the last few minutes, as it usually was.
That also meant he wasn’t as cautious as he should’ve been.
“I noticed that you write with your left hand, did you have to learn it? Or is it natural for you?”
Belos’ writing abruptly paused, ink pooling on the page where his quill had fallen still. It was a subtle reminder of the inadequacies of Belos’ older methods—traditional ways.
His gaze finally met Hunter’s now, fingers tensing on the paper beneath them; his overall demeanor had plummeted from something somewhat encouraging to something cold, his eyes almost looking through Hunter’s as a hint of anger began to bleed through his expression.
Hunter felt his stomach drop, and instinctively pulled back, though it was too controlled to be a flinch. His voice came out uncertain, almost a bit frightened, though there was a clear attempt to conceal it.
“Did I…say something wrong?”
“Do not bring that up again, Hunter.”
Belos’ tone had turned sharp, as though a blade had been unsheathed. He appeared noticeably more tense, barely restrained anger clawing at his tongue as he practically glared at Hunter. He seemed completely focused on him now, his left hand beginning to subconsciously squeeze the quill, the feather beginning to fray beneath the pressure of his grip, ink still pooling onto the now forgotten page, his written words being bled on.
Although it was a dying lightbulb, Hunter’s curiosity still flickered weakly.
“What’s wrong with it? Is it a part of your cur-“
“ENOUGH!”
With sudden rage and an undertone of unease that would completely pass over Hunter, Belos slammed his free hand into the side of the throne, making Hunter visibly flinch back, his chest tightening, breathing picking up even though he desperately tried to will it down. He now stood in the spot he’d begun in, faintly shaking and desperately trying to uphold the prestigious image of the Golden Guard that weighed upon his shoulders. He kept his hands behind his back, fingers tightly squeezing his wrists to the point of subtle pain, but he couldn’t feel it with the overwhelming anxiety that’d begun to claw through his chest. The adrenaline and urge to flee was almost suffocating.
Suddenly every smell in the room felt too strong, the lights felt too bright, and sounds too loud—his ears rang from the sheer volume of Belos’ outburst, which was still echoing across the glimmering walls. The room had also begun to feel too small.
Hunter didn’t move, and Belos simply breathed for a few seconds that felt like hours. The time stretched like a frayed thread as the sound of metal etching into wood cracked the tense atmosphere, leading Belos to pull his hand from the armrest of his throne. There were marks from the tight grip of his fingers, and he kept his hand tightened in a fist as if to suppress something.
Hunter flinched when Belos began to speak again, even as his tone returned to a normal, soft volume. There was something erratic rimming its performative edges.
“Go. We will not speak of this again.”
Hunter’s heart wanted to protest, but his mind wouldn’t argue—he nodded and swiftly exited the room, trying desperately to keep his pace even and not break into a sprint.
Belos let the sound of the throne room’s heavy doors shutting echo through the room, exhaling with an irritated sound as he looked down at his ruined page, his writing ruined by the ink that’d not only bled onto some of his words but through previous, completed pages. His hands had a subtle shake to them, and suddenly he felt as though he were back at a distant time centuries ago.
Where he could remember the faint sound of the village nuns screaming, and the feeling of being harshly smacked on the wrists each time he raised his left hand. The words that he’d kept buried for ages all flooded back at once like a tidal wave.
“Witch’s child!”
“Devil!”
“Monster!”
He slammed the book shut with a little more force than necessary, putting it and the ruined quill at his side, shifting to place his mask back on his face—concealing the hint of fear and shame that gleamed in his eyes for the briefest of seconds, before his usual cold stare returned.
That wasn’t before something more comforting surfaced in his mind, forgotten words from an unforgotten brother.
“What they say doesn’t matter—they can’t just call you a monster because of what hand you write with.”
They were quickly extinguished, with Belos forcing himself to return to thoughts of his plans and the Day of Unity, although he didn’t write anything this time.
And he didn’t even glance back at his hands.
While they might’ve been wrong to dub him a monster so long ago, what Belos wouldn’t admit is that it was certainly more than true now.
He was barely even human anymore.
And above all, he was more rotten than any witch could’ve ever been.