Chapter 3
3069words
(Killing strangers- Marilyn Manson)
Act 1 (The Mark)
-The Kingdom of the Flame Born... located deep in the desert of Egypt-
That boisterous, mule-headed, divine-cursed, infant bastard of a man.
How dare he send another one?
Akisha paced at the base of her golden throne, the crimson scarf that was attached to her crown rippled behind her in quick and short waves.
Each step struck the marble, the sharp clack of her gold sandals sparking trails of heat that shimmered up from the floor.
The scent of jasmine clung to the air, warm and heady. Her skin, the shade of caramel, shined with a faint ember-light when her flame stirred. Long, thick black kinky coily curls spilled past her waist, some strands kissed brown from firelight. Her eyes—silver as steel—held the weight of a thousand years and something darker hidden beneath black pupils.
Her red-yellow flame woven gown flickered with life. Threads of linen kindled by unseen fire cast shadows that moved like omens across the black tile. Her body was lean and curvy, a muscular built but her thighs still jiggled when she walked. She didn't slouch, didn't blink too much, and didn't allow softness to exist in her face.
The fabric shifted with every breath, alive with the power it had been soaked in — not just worn but it was one with her body.
On her right hand, two long claw rings glinted — delicate in design but sharp as a dagger. Forged in gold, shaped like talons mid-swipe, they flexed as her fingers twitched, responding to the wildfire tension coiled in her spine. She only wore these when she ruled.
Her crown — the Twin Flames of Nekhbet and Wadjet — shimmered with a fire all their own. Carved from burnished gold and set directly into the coils of her hair, the twin serpents rose like guardians of old: one a vulture-winged serpent etched with mourning glyphs, the other a cobra coiled to strike, its eyes inlaid with red sunstone.
The flame between their fangs flickered constantly, though no wind touched it — a divine ember that burned without fuel, reacting to the rise and fall of Akisha's will.
And behind her stood the throne — carved out of gold and inlaid with cracked crimson glass that caught the firelight like blood flowing over bone.
Its towering back split into two jagged pillars, curving toward the vaulted ceiling like the fangs of a forgotten creature.
The armrests twisted into serpent heads, mouths agape in an eternal hiss as if tasting the air, their blood-jeweled eyes glinting with silent judgment.
The flame within her stirred, it was no mere magic. It burned like the sun — a gold-red inferno forged from something older than memory, older than gods. It was inside and around her like blood and bone. It reacted to her emotions, cracking and snarling when her anger flared, pulsing with heat when her own beast stirred beneath her skin. The flame curled at her feet like clothing and licked at the air when she moved.
The messenger was already sweating, though the room was cold. Her flame had that effect — it didn't just warm the air, it changed it. Turned it thick. Stifling. Divine.
His breath came shallow, eyes watering like he'd stood too close to the sun. The golden scroll in his hands trembled, ink smudging beneath the sweat of his palms.
He dared to disturb her palace.
"No," Akisha said and sat down. The word left her lips like a dagger.
"P-Pardon?" the messenger croaked, clutching the golden scroll like it might shield him. His hands trembled. His knees already knew.
Akisha turned. Her fangs extended with a soft click — his legs buckled at the sound.
Poor thing. They always sent the soft ones. He wasn't even fun to play with.
"I said no," she growled. Her voice was sharp as the claw-rings resting on her fingers, metal points gleaming under the flamelight. "Tell your King that if he ever sends you into my palace again with demands, I'll decorate these halls with your skin."
He gulped. Hard. His throat bobbed like he was choking on his own breath.
"Your grace, I—I must insist. H-He was not pleased the last time you refused—"
Her silver eyes flashed white once, so fast.
"Then perhaps," she said slowly rising again her skin shimmering as she rose, "he should come deliver the message himself."
The air thickened. The flame stirred hotter, like it was listening. She watched him shudder — crying for his manwhore of a ruler.
"Mercy, my Queen," he whispered, dropping to his knees and bowing his head repeatably. "I only serve. I was only—please forgive—"
"Then serve."
The flame at her feet coiled forward, tasting his fear. A soft hiss of smoke curled up at his legs as the sweat turned into steam. With a flick of her wrist, two guards appeared from the shadows. Silent and masked in all black attire, they seized him and dropped him at her feet.
"I'm not in the mood for groveling," she simply said, circling him like a serpent. "You came into my court bearing his name. That alone is annoying enough."
He flinched when she grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head back. Sweat was already dripping down from his forehead and his eyes watched her franticly back and forth. His scent wasn't terrible; it just smelt like cowardice- and men who don't wash behind their ears. That bronze skin was flushed, too warm. His blood screamed alive. Akisha's fangs throbbed the more she watched his pulse quicken.
"What do you offer" she asked.
"My.. M-my blood, your grace. Forgive me, for commanding you."
Tsk. Mortal men were always so willing when faced with death or desire. She ran a single clawed ring down his chest, watching the tremble in his core as neared the line of his waistband. His pulse.
Thump-Thump-Thump.
His heart raced faster than her patience.
Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump.
"You're lucky I'm bored."
Then she sank her fangs into his neck.
His cry was a half moan, half whimper, hands clutched her arms in a pathetic plea. She drank, feeling his memories bubble up, his thoughts scatter like birds before a storm. Blood and lust tangled in the air, and before long, the floor bore evidence of both.
She pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and flinging it off to the side. "Disgusting," she murmured, more to herself than him.
His eyes were so glassy, he'd still be begging if he could still speak. She seen enough to know Rakh didn't want anything but to pester her.
"Remove him," she ordered. "If he stumbles, drag him. And if he dies.... burn him."
The two black dressed soldiers hauled him off like a sack of meat. She sat once more on her throne, arms resting on the serpent heads, her fangs still aching. Still unsatisfied.
She needed more.
More than blood.
More than submission.
She needed war, or at least something to break.
She didn't need the Sky Palace. Not anymore.
Let them look down from their clouds, polishing their jewels, have their parties, and clutching their rules.
Let them whisper that she was careless, that her punishments were too sharp, her mercy too rare.
She was not made for gilded judgment.
Yes, Rakh reigned as King of All Beings — the divine balance, the holy law.
But she was fire, and Rakh knew she burned bright as the sun.
And unlike them, she had never hidden her fangs. She rolled her eyes at the thought.
The throne room had barely returned to silence when she smelt him.
Wet fur. Rotten musk barley masked by expensive oils. Her nose wrinkled, lips curling into a snarl before the doors even opened.
King of the mutts. Leader of the werewolves — whom she created.
Or rather, his ancestors.
She had made them all.
With tenderness. With flame. With grief.
The werewolves came first — gnawed from bone and wrath, born in the blood-wild hush of war, when no army could answer her rage.
The Fae... they bloomed from mourning. From the moment she realized she would never age — not like the others.
The first vampire was shaped in the aftermath of hunger, these were her favorite, the most loyal to her.Forged from blood that refused to die. She was their only God bound through blood, even the half vampires found their way home eventually.
The Fae and the wolves had their own gods now. Their own rituals. Myths that whispered of the Flame-Born and called her a legend.
But she had made them.All of them.
The lesser things they spawned — mirrorlings, hybrids, crownleeches — were only echoes.Diluted sparks of that first divine fire.
They forgot their mother.
But their mother did not forget.
This dammed fool strode into her palace like he belonged in it.
He was already talking before the guards could announce him. "Still using your throne as a feeding table, Akisha?"
She didn't rise.
"I am the Empress of Creatures. My power screams promiscuity."
She flashed him a sharp smile, her fangs glinting like knives while the blood still present in her mouth.
He walked towards her with swagger He looked like a man carved from a stone named stubbornness — broad-shouldered, all muscle and sweat. In a way that tried too hard to remember its own power.
His skin, a deep olive, was slick with desert heat and animal pride. Thick arms flexed beneath his sleeveless black leather vest, veins bulging like he needed everyone to know he had them. Scars traced his forearms earned in battle but kept like trophies.
His hair was brown and curly that hung wild around his face, some of it tied back, some loose — a mane trying to match the beast inside. His jaw was square, beard trimmed just enough to say he'd tried. But not enough to impress her.
His eyes, blue held the glint of a wolf who believed he could still dominate the den. Smug. Arrogant. Reckless. The kind of man who confused proximity with permission.
Even now, dripping sweat, reeking and masked in cologne, he had the audacity to grin.
His voice grated too loud, too bold like a wolf marking territory in a lioness' den.
"Not going to offer your guest a drink?"
"I did." She gestured lazily toward the blood-stained floor. "He didn't last."
Andrew chuckled, a low rumble that crawled up her spine like mildew. "And here I thought you missed me."
She stood and narrowed her eyes.
The room got silent and grew hot again.
"Let's not pretend I ever tolerated your presence, Andrew. This is my kingdom, my court, and my rules. Speak quickly or bleed slowly."
His blue eyes quickly flicked to her soldiers, they were always alert and watching, then back to her. "I bring a proposition."
She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, "Bring me the blood of the unwilling," she commanded a servant. Then she turned her gaze back to Andrew, nose wrinkled. "And water for the dog. He's panting."
He growled- low, guttural and challenging.
"And Akisha the bitch returns," he spat with a voice dipped in venom. "Tell me, what has King Rakh done this time to get you frothing at the mouth?"
She hissed, tired of the game.
"Why are you here?" she demanded.
He smiled wide, almost too wide. "Why wouldn't I come to greet The Flame Queen? You know the royal etiquette; it'll be rude not to stop in to greet my ancient creator."
She tilted her head. "Royalty doesn't show up unannounced. Not unless they want war. So why did you truly come Andrew?"
He stepped closer.
Her eyes narrowed to thin silver slits.
"I just missed you, I suppose. I couldn't wait for another council meeting." His eyes glinted from blue to a strange shade of purple. "Gods, you're fucking hot when you're pissed at me..."
Andrew was close now, close enough to reach out and touch her. As his hand rose, the flame snapped. A whip of heat lashed upward between them, not quite touching him, but enough to curl the hairs on his arm and make his skin hot.
Her skin itched, and her beast howled in warning.
She snatched his hand before he could touch her fangs and twisted.
Andrew sucked his teeth, and his wolf flashed in his eyes, but she didn't let go. She tightened her grip until she heard a pop in his wrist.
"Careful, dog." she half whispered and hissed "I bite."
He smiled through his clenched teeth. "If I were Rakh, I'd make you submit."
Her vision blurred and her flame got erratic. And the air grew heavier than before, the floor trembled under the pressure.
She didn't need to say anything anymore.
Four more of her black armored soldiers moved faster than Andrew's breath with weapons drawn. Andrews personal guards reached for their own, but they hesitated. They could feel the power shifting, not in their favor.
And so could he.
She let go of Andrew's wrist, only to slam him to the ground with her aura.
He collapsed like a fallen tree — knees crashing against the marble with a crack that echoed like thunder. He yelled in protest, but no one cared.
His guards surged forward, drawn by instinct, but her soldiers were already there — silent as shadows, blades pressed to throats. They would not get far. They would not get back up.
"Bloody—" Andrew gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. His ribs had crumpled beneath the weight of her fury, cracked like old stone.
Afrina, Akisha whispered inward.
And Afrina didn't wait. She had been watching — a panther behind the ribs, coiled in patience, waiting for the moment to hunt.
Akisha stepped back into her mind like a queen temporarily yielding her throne.
The shift was immediate — violent, graceful, and divine.
Their forms merged, shadows threading through skin and bone as the goddess-beast unfurled.
Her eyes shifted to radiant white no pupils, seared clean of humanity. Her fangs dropped — not dainty points, but curved like a predator's, sharpened for ruin. Her hair rose in slow motion, thick curls lifting and spreading like a mane caught in the breath of gods, each strand crackling with silent power. Her flame coiled around her body, she looked like a true goddess.
She towered over him now.
Bigger. Wilder. Eternal.
Afrina had arrived.
Andrew screamed.
Broken and strained. The sound of pride fracturing.
His body bowed beneath invisible pressure, spine buckling like Atlas trying to hold the sky.
"What. Is. Your. Purpose?"
Afrina's voice poured from Akisha's lips — low, lethal, laced with heat and venom.
He coughed up blood.
She watched his men begin to shake, their instincts screaming even when their mouths stayed shut.
Andrew tried to lift his chin, but even that was too much.
"Why don't you... search my mind... beautiful?" he rasped, blood dripping from his mouth. "You know you want to."
She narrowed her eyes to thin slits.
She reached in — psychic tendrils slipping past his thoughts, skimming the surface of his soul—
And then she screamed.
Pain detonated behind her eyes but like ice-cold needles jammed through her temples,
then it twisted.
It wasn't a just the feeling of pain.
It was the kind that made the lungs forget how to breathe,
that made the bones pulse,
that made the veins itch beneath the skin like they were trying to crawl out.
It tore through her skull like a lover's hand—
delicate at first, then ruthless,
until it sank all the way in.
Her vision snapped white.
Her fang clamped.
Every nerve lit up as if her body knew it was being seen from the inside.
Afrina's scream ripped through her like a second spine breaking —
This wasn't a wall.
It was a trap.
Something inside his mind bit back.
Like something that had hungered for her.
She saw it for a blink. A smile in shadow. Watching her.
Something ancient. Something wrong.
And then it spoke.
A whisper, soft as silk soaked in sin:
"You feel as exquisite as I imagined."
She staggered. Blood ran from her nose. Her flame flickered uncertain, flicked out at nothing.
Afrina surged forward, fully now — claws dragging across the black marble like knives across bone as they rose together in fury.
Kill him.Kill the vessel.
The palace guards moved as one — swift, silent, merciless. Before Andrew's wolves could shift, steel split bone. One's throat was carved open so cleanly his howl came out in a gurgle, spraying blood like a burst pipe. Another dropped to his knees mid-transformation, paws half-formed, as a blade punched through his open mouth and out the back of his skull.
A third tried to run — his ribcage was opened like a gift, organs slapping wet against the obsidian tile as his body skidded through the gore.
Screams tore the air in ragged bursts. The scent of iron and fur and burning sweat thickened, stinging the lungs. Blood painted the throne room like a ritual — a slick, arterial baptism soaking the seams of the floor.
One guard's spine was severed mid-pounce, his limbs twitching even as his head hit the ground with a hollow clunk. Another's jaw was cleaved sideways, tongue dangling like a pink rope as he collapsed, choking on it.
They were butchered. One by one. No hesitation. No mercy.
The throne room was no longer a hall of judgment — it was a slaughterhouse.
Andrew whimpered beneath her, choking on blood. His wolf flickered in his eyes terrified. Submissive.
She grabbed his hair, yanked his head back.
"You let it inside you," she snarled, fangs inches from his face. "You let that... that thing ride your mind into mine."
He trembled.
"For-forgive me... my Queen..."
His wolf rolled over. Submitting. Neck exposed. Whimpering.
A King? No. An unloyal mutt.
"Throw him into the silver dungeon," she spat, stepping back. "Burn him slowly. If he escapes, he dies."
She turned without another glance.
Blood on her hands.
Fire in her veins.
And somewhere deep inside Akisha's mind...
Someone had marked her.
