Sands of Fate: The Wrong Side of History

Chapter 34: Bloody Climax

The villa of house Aurellius was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth and the soft pad of bare feet on marble.

Aurellia sat in a high-backed chair of carved ebony. Her red hair, unpinned for the first time all day, falling in loose waves past her shoulders. The bandage on her palm was fresh, white linen wrapped tight, a faint bloom of red already seeping through where her nails had bitten deepest.

She looked relaxed... almost.

The chief forger was led in by two guards. He was a small man, balding, with thick spectacles and hands callused from decades of hammering hot iron. He had dressed in his finest tunic for the occasion—a gesture of respect, or perhaps a prayer that looking presentable might save him. His eyes darted around the room, cataloguing the exits, the guards, the woman in the chair.

He had heard the rumors. ’The Matriarch of House Aurellius was a mad woman.’

But the hospitality he’s been shown had been polite. Almost warm. And the pay for the faulty swords had been triple his usual rate. ’What could possibly go wrong?’

"Domina." He bowed low, his forehead nearly touching his knees. "I came as soon as I received your message."

Aurellia smiled. It was the same smile she had given Ignatius in the pulvinar—dry, controlled, utterly unreadable. "You did well today. The swords performed exactly as intended."

The forger straightened, relief flickering across his face. "I’m pleased to hear it, Domina. I was worried when I heard the men of ludus Ignatius survived, but—"

"The men survived because a certain boy is a problem I hadn’t anticipated." Aurellia’s voice didn’t change. Still warm and pleasant. "That’s not your fault. You did your part. You deserve your reward."

She gestured to a small chest on the table beside her. One of the guards stepped forward and opened it, revealing rows of gold coins, more than the forger had ever seen in one place. His eyes went wide. His caution began to melt.

"Domina, I—I don’t know what to say."

"Say nothing." Aurellia dropped her cup. "There’s more. A token of my appreciation."

She clapped her hands twice.

A door at the far end of the chamber swung open, and two figures stepped through.

The woman was tall and dark-skinned, her body oiled to a gleam that caught the firelight with every movement. She wore nothing but a thin gold chain around her waist, the links catching the light as she walked. Her breasts were full, her hips wide, her movements slow and deliberate.

The man beside her was lean and pale, his chest sculpted, his jaw sharp. He wore nothing at all. His arousal was already evident, and he made no effort to hide it. He walked with the eased confidence.

The forger stared. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

"I—Domina, I don’t understand."

"You’ve worked hard." Aurellia sipped her wine. "You deserve to enjoy yourself. They’re both for you."

The forger’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. He looked at the couple, then back at Aurellia, then back at the couple. A nervous giggle escaped him—high, almost girlish. "I’m—I’m an old man, Domina. I don’t know if I can—"

"The bed is already prepared."

She gestured toward the side of the chamber, where a large bed had been draped in silk sheets the color of fresh cream. Rose petals were scattered across the pillows. The whole setting radiated decadence, the kind of luxury the forger had only ever imagined.

The naked woman approached him. She took his hand, and pressed it to her chest. Her skin was warm, her heartbeat steady.

The forger’s breath hitched.

The naked man moved behind him, hands on his shoulders, lips brushing his ear.

"Relax," the woman whispered. "Enjoy yourself."

They led him to the bed.

Aurellia watched.

Her wine cup rested on the arm of her chair. Her expression was placid, almost bored, the face of a woman watching a play she had seen too many times. Behind her, three figures stood motionless in the shadows.

The Trident.

They watched the scene unfolding on the bed with the same expression as their mistress—nothing.

On the bed, the forger had stopped thinking.

The woman was beneath him now, her legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back in theatrical ecstasy. The man was behind him, hands roaming, lips trailing down his spine. The forger’s bald head glistened with sweat. His spectacles had fallen off somewhere among the silk sheets. He was giggling again—that same nervous, disbelieving giggle—and then the giggle became a groan, and the groan became something louder.

His body moved with increasing urgency. The silk sheets twisted beneath them. The woman’s nails raked down his back, leaving red lines. The man’s hands tightened on his hips. The forger’s breathing grew ragged, desperate, his whole body tensing toward release.

Aurellia raised one finger.

Muktar stepped forward. His blade was already drawn—a short, curved dagger that gleamed in the firelight. He moved without hurry, crossing the marble floor in five silent strides. The couple on the bed didn’t see him. The forger certainly didn’t. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth open, his whole being focused on the pleasure building inside him.

Muktar reached the edge of the bed.

The forger’s body went rigid. A long, shuddering moan escaped his lips—the sound of a man reaching the peak of his pleasure.

The dagger sliced across his throat, and the moan became a wet gurgle.

Blood sprayed across the cream silk sheets in a single, explosive arc.

It hit the woman’s face first—a hot, red sheet that painted her cheek and bare chest. She screamed, a high, piercing shriek that cut through the chamber like broken glass. The man scrambled backward, slipping on the blood-soaked sheets, his arousal gone, his confidence shattered. Both of them tumbled off the bed and ran—naked.

The forger remained on the bed.

He was still on his knees, his body frozen in position, his back arched, and his hands clutching at his neck.

The wound in his throat gaped open like a second mouth, and blood poured down his chest in thick, rhythmic pulses. His eyes were open now, wide in confusion and terror. His lipsnmoved, trying to speak. A bubble of blood formed at the corner of his mouth, swelled, and burst.

Then, he collapsed sideways onto the ruined sheets, his legs still tangled in silk, his blood spreading outward in a dark, glistening pool that dripped off the edge of the bed and onto the marble floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Muktar wiped his dagger on a clean corner of the sheet and stepped back into the shadows.

Aurellia hadn’t moved.

She sat in her ebony chair, her wine cup still in her hand, her expression as placid as it had been when the forger walked in. She took a sip. The wine was a good vintage—she’d chosen it specifically for tonight. The blood had not reached her. The screams had not moved her. She watched the body on the bed with the same detached interest she might give a painting she was considering buying.

The silence stretched.

"Marta."

A serving woman appeared at the edge of the room. She was pale, her hands trembling slightly, but she kept her voice steady. "Domina."

"Have the maids clean this up. Burn the sheets, and dispose of the body in the usual manner."

"Yes, Domina."

"And send someone to find those two." She gestured vaguely toward the door the naked couple had fled through. "Pay them double. They performed well."

"Yes, Domina."

The serving woman bowed and retreated. Aurellia took another sip of wine. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward the three figures in the shadows.

"It’s time for the next plan."

The Trident said nothing.

Aurellia looked back at the body on the bed. The blood had stopped pulsing now. It was just a slow, steady leak, the last of the forger’s life emptying onto the marble in a thin red stream.

She smiled.

"Bring me parchment," she said. "I have letters to write."