Kyzar could not breathe. A lump stuck in his throat, a complex mix of feelings welling up inside him, joy, anguish, relief, fear. He pulled Chrys towards him, skin to skin, so close he could feel her heart beating through his chest. This was the moment he had been waiting for, a seven-year long wish that he had buried deep inside him because of how insurmountable it was. But Chrys was breathing life into him once again.

He flooded her.

The world came to a standstill. Chrys in his embrace, her arms wrapped around his neck, their bodies connected in a bond that traversed mere physical relations, their hearts beating in unison – it was a miracle they had even gotten to this point.

Alas, nothing changed. 

His yellow eyes and green hair, the face he used to see every day in the mirror but could no longer remember. His human skin, inscribed with scars so innumerable his soldiers joked that he had one for every night he spent out in the battlefield. None of them returned to him. It could only mean one thing: they had failed.

Oh god, no. No, no, no, no, no!

“I’m so sorry, Chrys.”

They both froze. The voice was hoarse and masculine, one that Kyzar was unfamiliar with, and one that definitely did not belong to the naked lady in his arms. 

“I…can speak.”

It was his own voice. It had been so long, that he did not even recognise it. He had actually spoken real, human words.

Yet, why was he still a monster?

Chrys flinched, and Kyzar feared the worst. Her head cocked to one side, as if she sensed that something was amiss. Was this it? Was her body going to explode into flames? He grabbed her arms, not a clue what to do to prevent her imminent death. He could not lose this person, he’d rather take her place if it meant she could live. 

Without warning, she was yanked up into the air, wrenched away from him so forcefully he was sure her skin ripped through his fingers, and flung across the room. Her body slammed into a wall, and she instantly crumpled to the floor, limp. The sick, wet crack of bone against stone made his blood run cold.

“How dare you think you can touch what is mine.”

Standing in the middle of the room, fuming, black smoky wisps of malice diffusing all around her, was the witch who cursed him into infinite despair.

She was the sole target of his hatred and vengeance, but every muscle in Kyzar’s body refused to act in her direction. He rushed to Chrys’s figure, dragging the heavy bedcovers with him, pulling her into his lap and swathing her. No sooner did his fingers brush her hair away from her face than they came away bright red. 

She…can’t be dead, right?

“Chrys,” he whispered. He placed a finger under a nose. Time passed slower than a snail’s pace as he waited. Only when he felt the warm tickle of her breath did he let go of his own.

Seething, he finally turned his attention to the repulsive harpy that managed to worm its way into his bedroom.

The evil witch, Millse Horan. A rat so abhorrent that he would voluntarily douse himself in gasoline before stepping into fire if it meant he did not have to think her name.

Her eyes were feral, vile. Anyone with a beating heart could tell that she was irate, but Kyzar did not care. On another day, anger-steeped him would have gone straight for her jugular. But Chrys, his saviour, was injured. No doubt, him placing the highest precedence on her safety while treating Millse’s presence like nothing more than an afterthought was something that wicked, deluded wench’s pride could never accept. 

“Did you think my magic could be so easily broken? Did you think that little harlot could save you?”

She was taunting him, and he could not do anything about it. Without his sword, and stripped of his soldiers and his ancestral powers, he was effectively useless. If not for this curse, he could simply revert to his theriomorphic shape and wipe her existence off the face of the earth. In this state, brute strength the only plus point on his side, he did not stand a chance against Millse.

“Get out.”

“I underestimated her. A whore like her, she’s the same as her mother. She would breed with anything and everything that had a cock.” Millse laughed manically. “And today I find out that you have two. How much fun I shall have, playing with the both of you. She’ll never be able to undo my magic. Mark my words as I say them: you’ll come crawling to me and begging me to let you fuck me.”

Kyzar had heard enough. If Millse would not remove herself, he was going to act as if she had. His eyes returned to Chrys. The blood on her forehead had finally dried, so he had hopes that her wounds, wherever they were under her red-sodden hair, had also crusted over. He had known how dangerous it would be for her to help him, but the dangers he had anticipated only related to the incompatibility of their bodies; he had not thought so far ahead to the threats posed by the damn Millse Horan. Unfortunately, this oversight could not be undone. No matter the cost, he would see to it that Chrys made a full recovery.

His obvious dismissal of Millse was a grater on her nerves. The room was shrouded in the black of her rage, but for some reason, she was not wreaking up a storm. Both he and Chrys were down on their defences, and it made no sense that Millse was not taking action right then. Something was up.

“How could you choose that whore – over me? She is nothing. She’s under a curse herself, the weakling. If you had just come to me, I could have turned you human in an instant. And now—” she gritted her teeth. “Now, I can’t kill that useless—”

“Get. Out. Now.”

“You’ll regret this.”

He did not pay her any heed, but Kyzar knew Millse was gone because the air in the room immediately lifted. With the rat out of his horns, he could focus on the only person who mattered. Chrys. He pulled on his pants, bundled her up in the sheets, and walked out of the room.

Elliot was waiting outside for him, squatting on the floor in an anxiety-ridden crouch completely unbefitting of his post. Kyzar stared down at him, and his butler’s face fell. Of course he was disappointed to be looking at a monster, but what was three days after seven years? Horror displaced letdown in quick succession, because Kyzar remaining a monster spelt disaster for Chrys’s life, but when he saw the little lady in his arms, still alive, confusion knitted his brows as much as relief coloured his cheeks.

“I can speak.”

“Holy pigs from the sun – ahem, I apologize for my lapse, Your G. Is my lady quite alright?”

“Send for Andrea. Full body examination for a noble lady.”

“In your room?”

“Yes. She’ll have a better understanding of the situation when she sees the state of the bed. Call me after they’re done. I’ll move Chrys to her room after, and you can send someone in to mine.”

“As you wish, Your Grace. Have I told you how much I missed your voice?”

“Have I told you how much I missed yours?”

“Why, no, Your Grace. In fact, never.”

“Exactly. So, shut up.”

“Zi…on?”

Kyzar frowned. Internally, at least. Chrys, with her half-opened eyes, was struggling to sit up, not realising that she was no longer on a bed. She was also entwined in his sheets.

“You’re awake.”

“Lady Chrys!”

She leaned into Kyzar’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he growled in reply. “The doctor will be here soon. I’ll be back to see you once you’re done, okay?”

A small nod, a meek glance. Chrys was clearly not reassured. But he could finally use words instead of sounds and gestures. He could communicate with her. With this one ability to bring him closer to human likeness, his chances of pursuing Chrys could be taken out of the negatives. He freed a hand by shifting all of her weight to one arm, and with it, he brushed her blood-hardened hair away, sliding his fingers across her cheek.

“Don’t worry, my lady. His Grace might sound fierce, but he’s the most even-tempered person all around.”

Kyzar grunted. “Don’t listen to him…my lady. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

“Please.”

She genuinely wanted to see him. Kyzar settled her in his bed, and her cheeks pinked. This was where they went on an incredibly intimate journey, and like her, he also felt bashful. He was luckier, though, because he left as soon as he heard a maid announcing the doctor’s arrival by the main door, so he did not have to stew in the evocative scent of their activity. Nor did he have to face an outsider, a complete stranger, and whatever judgement that may come with the evidence of all their adventures and how her body ended up the way it was.

Elliot followed after him into his study. The moment the door closed behind them, the dam broke, and thought vomit burst forth from the beaver-haired man.

“How did this happen? Is Lady Chrys okay? I heard a loud bam. What did you do to my lady? Why are you still like this? But you can speak now, and Lady Chrys is still alive. What in the pigsty is going on?”

Kyzar rubbed his face. “I’m not sure what is going on myself, okay, Elliot? Horan, that abomination, appeared. Chrys took a solid hit from her. As for why I can speak and why she isn’t dead from the curse…I don’t have a clue.”

“Millse hurt my lady.”

“Flung her against the wall, basically.” Kyzar winced. “And the fact that she could apologise to me after everything she’s endured simply flabbergasts me beyond words.”

“I told you, Your Grace, Lady Chrys is special. Aren’t you glad you trusted me?”

“You were right. Thank you, Elliot.”

Knock, knock.

“That should be the doctor. You’re most welcome, Your Grace. I’ll be back as soon as I get the doctor’s report.”

A timely interruption, for Elliot’s face foretold sly gloating, and plenty of it. He sat down at his desk, drumming his fingers on the wood finish. Curiosity and hope piqued, he picked up a pen and pressed the nib to a stray paper. 

I can write.

It was so momentous a discovery, he had to put his head in his hands and grit his teeth to stop the tears from coming out. If only he had protected Chrys better, she could be by his side and be the first person he embraced and told this news to. With this, he could finally take charge of his land again. He could do a great many things. He could write whatever he fancied, where on and where at were irrelevant. If he so wished, he could draw on Elliot’s face even. Documents, business deals, letters, administrative duties, territory laws – the doors, hell, even the windows were wide open to anything and everything accessible by the written word. More importantly, speech that was once so impossible between him and his people, was no longer a dream. He could converse with Elliot and Chrys. He could try to woo Chrys.

But first, who from hell’s gates was Zion?