Katherine Freeman

Midterm Story: Chapter 20, I Am King

What You Should Know Before Reading
Prince Waylon Odenkirk has struck a deal with a forgotten goddess of the afterlife,
Breone. In exchange for compensation of lost followers, Breone will destroy the dangerous
creatures known as Devil’s Bane that ravange his country. She gives him a set of instructions
written in an unknown language and claims when translated, the instructions would lead him
straight to her. However, before leaving the palace after his father’s funeral, Waylon is attacked
by an assassin sent by an unknown pursuer. Barely making it out alive and believed to be dead
by the whole country, Waylon is taken into the care of a Nomadic – a group of religious people
who believe in vengeful Spirits that will punish them if they settle on their land – tavern dancer
who saved him from a few muggers by the name of Sariyah Bourne.
Now, Waylon is on the hunt for a translator when Sariyah confesses that the instructions
are written in an ancient Nomadic language and albeit she may not be able to read them, but her
father will. Waylon decides not to tell her that it is actually the goddess’s forgotten language.
Before seeking out her parents, Waylon begs Sariyah to let him attend the execution of the
assassin, The Shadow of Te’eka, who killed him. She’s been caught and is poised to pay for her
crimes against the crown. However, she escapes and sees her target within the crowd. Choosing
freedom and life over going after Waylon, the Shadow escapes. Now, the Shadow knows the
prince is still alive.
They leave the capital city of Kalne with a navigator by the name of Malik Aiken who is
taking them to a city known as Te’eka, where Sariyah’s parents are rumored to be. However,
Waylon knows Malik is harboring a secret about his family that he is refusing to tell them. All
the while, the goddess keeps whispering things into Waylon’s ear, encouraging him to do some
things. Waylon hates it.
In the chapter previous to the one you are about to read, Waylon experiences a nightmare.
In this nightmare, the Shadow has finally come to finish the job she has learned was never
finished in the first place and shows Waylon all the ways she could kill him: poison, bleeding to
death, drowning, buried alive. Malik wakes him up from this nightmare and Chapter 20:
Bargains and Ashes and Bitter Pills takes place:

1
Chapter 20
Bargains and Ashes and Bitter Pills
“That must have been one nasty nightmare.”
Waylon awoke in the grass with a cold sweat soaking his body. Shaking hands wiped at
his brow as he sat up, the firepit reduced to ashes. He remembered where he was. The forest. Not
in a coffin, not in the palace, and certainly not dead. It had all been a nightmare. One cruel,
horrific nightmare.
Malik gave him a knowing look as he pushed up from the ground and stalked away. To
where, he wasn’t sure, but he needed to get away. He approached the back of the wagon and
pretended to get something, having no real need for anything other than a new life and a device
that could erase memories. Osma Almighty, he would never sleep again, not after that. He would
never risk having such a terrible nightmare ever again. And with the constant threat of the
Shadow, he had a feeling this was not a one time occurance.
When he reappeared, Malik was still sitting on one of the logs, likely where he’d been
sitting for a while. Waylon resisted the urge to cringe at the idea of dreaming in front of the
navigator. He could have been talking to himself, yelling, or worse. Though if he’d been yelling,
Sariyah would more than likely be out here too. At least that was reassuring.
“You okay?” The navigator asked from his spot by the fire.
By the Queen’s heart, he did not want to talk about this with Malik. “Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine,” he countered, folding his hands together in his lap. It was a cool
night and yet, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing his ink covered arms. “In fact, you
seem the opposite of fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Reluctantly, he took the seat across from Malik, only the ashes of the fire and their
unrelenting mistrust separating them. Grateful as he was for being woken up from those horrors,
Waylon wondered why it had to have been Malik. Even if Sariyah likely would have pressed
harder for answers than the navigator was now, he would have taken her over him without a
second thought.
And as if he read his thoughts, Malik asked, “What was the nightmare about?”
A simple answer, really. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

2
 “Well --” Malik looked up to the stars with a sigh, “--from my professional experience,
holding in trauma only makes it worse so you can either help yourself or hurt yourself.”
“Why can’t I just leave myself alone?”
Malik shrugged, as if he didn’t have an answer either. “Not an option.”
Gooseflesh settled over his arms from a cold, night wind and Waylon’s muscles tightened
against its biting sting. “I will not be throwing myself off a cliff over a simple nightmare, but
thank you for your concern.”
“That would make for an interesting ending,” he said through his growing smile.
“Could you be serious for once?”
The navigator shrugged. “I will once you stop lying.”
His anger slipped from its leash. “How about I stop lying when you stop lying, Malik
Aiken.”
The navigator went so, very still. Waylon partially regretted broaching the subject he’d
been harboring -- and intentionally ignoring -- for days but he supposed the navigator had
brought it upon himself. If he’d just left him alone like he’d asked, Waylon would never have
been forced to spit the words in his anger. And from the look in the navigator’s cold eyes, he
guessed this was a conversation he didn’t want to have either.
“So you know?”
“From the moment that shop vendor said your name,” he confessed, bearing the full
weight of the navigator’s eyes. “I am going to be king. I know every nobility family in all of
Osma, most of them personally. I’ll admit your family is relatively new but I know them.”
“You met my father.” It wasn’t quite a question.
Alderich Aiken was quite possibly one of the most proud men Waylon had ever met in
his entire life, but he didn’t mention that as he saw the dim despair in Malik’s eyes. There were a
handful of different, horrible things he could say about the Aiken family, especially the younger
son, Amon, but Waylon bit his tongue.
“Briefly.”
Malik huffed a humorless laugh and leaned forward against his knees. “So you know how
much of an ass he is?”
Apparently he didn’t need to hold back those horrible words.

3
 “He is an…” Waylon searched for the right words, finding that there were, in fact, no
right words to describe Alderich Aiken at all. “…an interesting character.”
“You don’t have to spare my feelings because he’s my father.” Malik said, shaking his
head. “The man is a jackass and so is his wife. So is my brother. All of them are horrible, greedy
people.”
Waylon remembered the conversation they’d shared before leaving Kalne. The small
piece of vulnerability the navigator had offered him that very first day. He’d been so lost in his
own grief and anxiety he hadn’t seen it for what it had been: a kernel of himself that he’d been
willing to share. A part of him he was likely ashamed of, if that was even possible. Malik Aiken
didn’t seem like the kind of person who would ever be ashamed of any part of himself. Waylon
wished he could say the same.
“Is that why you left?” he asked quietly.
“I didn’t leave.” Malik rubbed his face with his hands as if the thought itself was too
much for him to handle. “I got kicked out. Disowned.”
Waylon felt himself blanch. “They kicked you out? You said in Kalne they didn’t love
you, but not that they disowned you.”
“Ina didn’t want a child with a peasant job. Alderich didn’t want to be associated with a
simple laborer. Amon was overjoyed that all the family belongings and inheritance went straight
to him. They kicked me out years ago.”
He said everything with such a matter-of-fact tone like he was…okay with it. Like he’d
come to terms with it. The way he saw it, Malik had been disrespected by the ones he loved in
the most horrendous way possible. He’d been humiliated. That didn’t seem like something one
would just…get over. Not to Waylon at least.
And because he didn’t know what else to say, Waylon asked, “Where did you go?”
Malik dropped off the log and sprawled out in the grass. “I went straight to the first
navigation company I could find. Rosewear took me in, gave me a job and a roof over my head.
He was more of a dad than Alderich could ever be.”
The old, eccentric man they’d met in the navigation company floated behind Waylon’s
eyes as he listened to the story. That man had been more loving than his actual father. That man
had been more accepting of his wandering soul than the mother that had birthed him. The mother
that was supposed to love him. Waylon found himself thankful for the mother he’d been given.

4
 And when Waylon didn’t say anything, Malik continued. “A few years later -- just a
couple months ago -- they were invited to live at the palace. I heard about it through word of
mouth. Didn’t get a single letter from any of them. First I’ve heard from them since they kicked
me out was a couple weeks ago; a letter from my mom saying that my grandma passed and that
they were staying at the townhouse. Then you happened. I doubt they’ll be at the townhouse
much longer.”
“I had no idea,” Waylon admitted, wringing his hands together as he stared into the
navigator's open eyes.
Malik shrugged as if it were nothing serious. “Nobody does. And I doubt anyone will.
They act like I’m some sort of plague. Like I’m a disease. You know, I’ve thought about making
their life hell, showing them exactly how much damage a little plague can do, but I never go
through with it. I’ve promised myself I’d be the better man. I’ve promised myself I won’t go to
their level.”
“That’s…really mature of you.”
“I can be mature when I want to be,” Malik said with a wink, but Waylon saw the sadness
behind the gesture.
And maybe it was that sadness that made him do it, but Waylon pushed away the
nightmare, pushed away the emptiness in his soul and said, “So is it a rare want?”
A harsh, surprised laugh escaped the navigator’s lips.“By the Queen’s heart,” he gasped,
a little bit of his normal humor returning to his eyes, “he does have a sense of humor!”
“When I want to.” That was a smile tugging at his lips.
A smile to match Malik Aiken’s. “Ah, is that so?”
“Leander thinks I’m hilarious,” Waylon bragged, straightening his spine to look more
proud and regal, like the king he should be.
Malik’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, his smile growing wider. “Well when we get back,
Your Highness, I may need to hear those words from Prince Leander myself. I find them very
hard to believe.”
When we get back. Oh, Malik truly had no idea how much unrelenting shit he was in.
There was so much they had to do. So much they didn’t have answers for. They didn’t have time
to be laughing around a burnt-out fire while the salvation of the country lay somewhere within

5
his father’s land. With all the laughter gone from his chest, Waylon looked at the navigator and
decided something. If he’d been able to share that part of him, Waylon could do the same.
“I can’t go back,” he said quietly. “Not now, at least.”
The navigator’s smile faded and Waylon silently apologized for the harsh turn in the
conversation.“I doubt whoever tried to assassinate you will try a second time.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Waylon let his head drop into his hands as his eyes
filled with the images from his nightmare. The blood. The bodies. The coffin. “It’s the Shadow.
She won’t stop until she knows I’m good and dead.”
Malik sat up, bringing his knees close to his chest and resting his arms atop them.“Well
she doesn’t know your ali--”
“She does.”
“Shit. How?”
“The execution,” he said, remembering the feel of those demonic hazel eyes staring back
at him from the stairs. “Sariyah and I went. She and I saw each other while she was making a
break for it. She knows I’m not dead.”
“Well --”
“I’m afraid she’s after me. I’m afraid she’s coming for me to finish the job. She once told
me she would forever be known as the woman who killed the king. I don’t think she’s going to
give up that title easily.”
Malik reached up and laid his hands on Waylon’s shoulders. Instead of pushing him off --
probably as he’d been expecting Waylon to -- he found comfort in the touch. He felt more
grounded. “We won’t let her get you,” he promised.
“No, you don’t understand,” Waylon pushed up from his seat on the log and out of
Malik’s grip and began pacing. “She’s smart. Her name runs true, Malik. She’s truly a shadow.
She’s a demon. She tried to drown me and I barely made it out alive.”
His voice cracked at the last word. He hadn’t realized how terrified he was until the
Shadow had appeared in his dream. Until the wound had reopened.
“Well,” Malik looked at him with a mixture of pity and humor, “she obviously hasn’t met
the idiocy that is Malik Aiken and Sariyah Bourne.”
Waylon saw the words for what they were: a mockery of the Shadow. “I’m not sure two
untrained teenagers could beat a master assassin.”

6
 “Firstly,” Malik had the audacity to look offended, “I’m twenty. And second, don’t shoot
what hasn’t been done before.”
There was no holding back the cringe. “Should I be afraid or reassured?”
“A spiritual tavern dancer and a sinfully handsome navigator are your bodyguards and
the only ones who know you're alive,” Malik said with a shrug and a smile. He pushed up from
the ground and stalked back towards the tent. “You can either choose to appreciate us or drown
in your own fears. It’s up to you, Your Highness. You should get some sleep.”
Despite his desperate need for sleep, Waylon still sat by the fire for a long time after that.
Sleep seemed like an invitation to death and he was not fond of the idea, so he kept his eyes
fixed on the small pockets of smoldering orange in the white ashes. Whether he knew it or not,
Malik’s words meant a lot more to Waylon. The only two people who believed he wasn’t in a
casket were him and Sariyah. The thought was terrifying and freeing at the same time. There
were no servants to tell him he had a council meeting in a quarter hour. There was no crown to
tell him he could not marry who he wanted. He was completely and utterly free to do whatever
he pleased. And he was completely, utterly alone.
But the back of his mind screamed a different perspective. The country thought their only
hope no longer had a beating heart. Osma was kicking, trying to keep her head above stormy
waters and Waylon was out in a forest dreaming of freedom. What kind of king abandons his
people? He’d done what he had to. He left to find salvation for the country. But how were they
supposed to know that? How would he justify his abandonment?
The Shadow of Te’eka was coming for him, he knew that. Her pride would drive her to
finish the job once and for all, to be the woman who killed the king. The question was, though,
how would she kill him with all that she could do?
Maybe Waylon had taken on more than he could handle.
Maybe an assassin was after him.
Maybe he wouldn’t survive.
And as he pushed up from the log, deciding to give sleep another useless try, a twig
snapped in the distance. Every muscle in his body went rigid, but his panic was short lived.
There was no assassin in the distance, it was probably just an animal swinging from tree to
hanging tree. Shaking his head clear, Waylon headed back to the tent.
But then he heard it again. It sounded closer.

7
 Palms sweating, Waylon scanned the forest around him. There was nothing to worry
about, nothing hiding in the woods, but if he could make it to the tent’s opening, Waylon could
wake the others and it wouldn’t be one against one. Malik would help.
Making no sudden movement, Waylon listened and watched the dark forest. The sound
echoed again and again as if it were advancing, each echo becoming louder, drawing closer. It
was as if, like the sound, Waylon’s heart played back the same repeating chorus, except this one
pounding and panicking.
“Who's there?” Waylon called into the dark, his voice cracking with panic.
A growl was the answer.
And it was a growl Waylon was all too familiar with.
Though its body was darker than the night, its figure penetrated the darkness. Black skin
and shining talons shimmered in the moonlight as Waylon beheld the gruesome face of the
Devil's Bane. Here, in the middle of the forest, with nobody around, the Prince of Osma was
trapped between certain death and running forever. There were no guards, no maids, no friends,
no Alarik. He was alone. Alone and as good as dead.
“Osma Almighty,” he breathed.
It was a coward's way to go out, but Waylon closed his eyes. If he was to die tonight, he
would not see the blood lost in the fight. The pain would be too great and the sight would be too
gruesome. Praying for his companions who sat mere feet away from him in the tent, Waylon
hoped the monster would not sense them. They did not deserve to die.
Waiting for the monster to strike, every muscle in Waylon’s body tensed. There was no
telling how much it was going to hurt, how long it was going to last. These monsters were
bloodthirsty. Perhaps he’d escaped the Shadow’s grasps, but he would not escape this. The
monster would attack, and he would die.
Except, seconds went by. Minutes, even, and the monster did not attack. Slowly, Waylon
opened his eyes and the devil merely stared at him. Well, stared at him as much as it could with
no eyes. Still not moving a muscle, Waylon held the gaze of the creature and watched as it
slowly bent down to the grass, its head touching the ground.
The monster was bowing.
Waylon’s mouth hung agape, shock overtaking his mind. This was a monster that sought
for the kill, yet it bowed for an abandoned Prince. He was a prince with no crown, a king with no

8
kingdom. Osma was going to drown if Waylon did not gather everything in his arms and carry it
to safety. He couldn’t do that if he was dead, though the monster showed no signs in wanting to
kill Waylon.
“With me, death shall never worry you.”
An eerie stillness settled over the forest as the voice of the goddess echoed. Daring to
take his eyes away from the bowing devil, Waylon scanned the forest. The damned goddess,
she’d gotten him into this mess. Convinced him to save his father’s country. Waylon would have
done it anyway but he had a feeling that he would have been content with believing his father’s
letter had been nothing more than a dying hallucination.
His eyes settled upon the silhouette of a female figure, cloaked in darkness. And as he
stared at the goddess, anger filled his chest.
“Get out of my head,” Waylon snapped.
The goddess laughed, a soft, innocent laugh that made the hairs on the back of his neck
stand on end.“Did you really think I wouldn’t check on our deal?”
“Is that what this is?”
“I don’t see,” the goddess purred, “how this could be anything else.”
As much as he didn’t want it to be, Waylon couldn’t deny the fact this was, in fact, a deal
he’d made with the forgotten goddess Breone. Destroy the devils for compensation. It was a
bargain, a trade, a peace treaty, if one could call it that. Waylon knew from the very beginning he
would do anything to keep Alarik’s country safe but was bargaining with an angry goddess truly
the best way to do it? Was he willing to keep up whatever this was?
He had to. He already had his side of the bargain.
Now, he just needed to be rid of the devils.
“When we meet in the flesh, Waylon Odeknirk,” she stepped closer and Waylon saw the
spiked crown that sat atop a veil that obscured her face, “I do not want this disrespect that I hear
in your head. It will do you no good to voice your thoughts. So when we meet, leave it at the
door. We will talk as we are: leaders of a dying people.”
“Osma is not dying,” Waylon snapped.
“Have you not thought so yourself?” the goddess purred. “Have you not thought that she
is drowning? That she is in need of saving?”
“Get out of my head,” Waylon growled again.

9
 Breone stepped even closer and Waylon could see the smoke curling off her form, as if
she were more darkness than anything. Her movements were too fluid, too graceful. As she
approached, Waylon began to wonder if the goddess was truly here or not.
“Your country is nothing more than an ember in the ashes.”
Any leash Waylon possessed on his anger broke loose. “My father’s country,” he
growled, not caring if the goddess took his inoslance for what it was, for what he’d meant it as,
“not mine.”
The goddess looked upon him as if truly seeing him for the first time. She devoured every
inch of him from the golden hair upon his head -- hair that matched the locks that laid in a coffin
deep beneath the earth, far beyond his reach -- to the borrowed, almost too big shoes that
decorated his feet. And as she stared, a predator scanning its prey, Waylon could almost feel the
judgment radiating off of her as if the soon to be King of Osma was nothing but a speck of dust
on her silk clad shoulder.
As if he were nothing.
“You want to save his country so much?” Breone asked quietly. “You want to see it
restored to its former glory?” Waylon held in the words that threatened to come out of his
mouth. They would only earn him trouble. The goddess smiled as if she could see the restraint.
“Then do as I say.”
Behind her, the same cloaked statues from the vault appeared in a protective arc. Four,
from what Waylon could see. Those same, human-like forms underneath the white cloths, but he
knew better than to believe those silhouettes. He knew what laid beneath them was not human at
all. It was shadow and darkness and fear.
And somehow, Waylon was more afraid of the monsters behind her than the goddess
herself.
“You need not be afraid of me,” she whispered, circling him like prey. “I do not wish to
harm you. Only to direct you.”
“Do you talk to the others?” Waylon found himself asking, never taking his eyes off the
cloaked monsters.
The goddess stopped her pacing. “No. I do not need to.”
“But you need to talk to me?

10
 “The circumstances are different,” she said, resuming her place in front of the monsters
like a queen. Waylon supposed she was a queen. Queen of the afterlife. Queen of death. “You are
much more important than you understand, Waylon Odenkirk. I have no reason to speak with
your friends.”
“They're not my friends.” It was out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying.
The goddess laughed.“Oh? Then what are they? Servants?”
Waylon wrung his hands together, the skin turning raw from the friction. A nervous habit,
one his father used to scold him for. Waylon found his hands stilling at the thought. “They are
people. They are helping me. Nothing more.
“I can hear your heart beating,” said the goddess. “I can hear it racing. Why do you lie,
Waylon Odenkirk?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Why do you deny what you are beginning to feel?” Breone purred and Waylon tried to
shut out her words. They echoed through his head, persistent. “The comfort you are finding
within them? Do not balk from it. Embrace it.”
Waylon wanted to say that he, in fact, did not find comfort within the navigator and his
companion. Sariyah and Malik were nothing more than people willing to help a dead prince.
Gratitude and friendship were two very different things, and Waylon was grateful for their help.
Companionship was not something to search for on this journey and he’d known that from the
very beginning. This was a journey of a king, not a lonely traveler.
“And what if I don’t want to?” he asked.
The white cloaked monsters behind her stirred and Waylon found himself praying for his
life. “Then you will suffer.”
Whether the goddess knew her mistake or not, it was the wrong thing to say. “To hell
with that, I’m suffering now,” he yelled, not caring if it woke Sariyah and Malik. “Why not add
some more to the mix. I don’t need anyone except my father so if there is any way you can make
that happen with your strange god-like powers --” he broke off, dragging a hand down his face.
“-- if there is any way you can bring him back then do it, damn it.”
Again, the white cloaked monsters bristled at his harsh words and instead of praying,
Waylon wished she would let them devour him. Wished they would end this miserable life of his
so he would never have to worry about the Shadow or Osma or his father ever again. So that he

11
could be at peace once again. But the goddess didn’t, and Waylon somehow knew she wouldn’t
unless he forced her hand. So he was stuck here. Stuck with a group of low-life travelers and a
forgotten goddess.
With a wave of her hand a throne of roses appeared behind her, black as night. Woven
into a beautifully crafted seat fit for a goddess, she stalked back, her cloaked monsters
disappearing into the night and sunk into the throne. Gone was the veil that obscured her face
and the crown of spikes atop her head. Gone were the long nails that had resembled that of
claws. And even though Waylon still couldn’t make out exactly what her face looked like, he
could see the smile decorating her fuzzy lips: the perfect image of trust.
The goddess whispered, “Do you see these trees?”
Waylon didn’t respond.
“These trees,” she continued, waving a hand to the forest around them, “your
unbreakable mountains, your sinking sands… I created them, molded them from my own hands. I
hung the forest and liquified the grains and strengthened the stone. I may be the goddess of the
Afterlife, Waylon Odenkirk, but the abilities you speak of lie within my messenger of souls. Those
abilities lie with the god of death.”
Osma Almighty, Waylon was standing before one of the most powerful entities in the
whole world. Before him, a woman with the power to shape the world casually rested. He’d
bargained with a goddess not knowing the true extent of her power. Perhaps that made him
foolish, and perhaps that made his next words that of a child’s. But Waylon was willing to do
whatever he could to see his father again.
“Then let me talk to him,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Let me talk to the god of
death.”
Breone leaned forward in her seat as if she, too, were anticipating the meeting of the
assassinated prince and the god of death. “Soon enough,” she promised. “You will meet him soon
enough. But for now, you must listen to me.”
“Why should I? You’ve done nothing but hurt me.”
The goddess folded her hands in her lap, fingers finding themselves lost in the black
fabric of her flowing dress. And even though they were alone now, no devils or cloaked monsters
anywhere in sight, Waylon had a feeling all the creatures of the wild were watching as if they

12
knew exactly who stood before them. A goddess with the power to change the world with a mere
thought. Waylon wasn’t sure what he was more afraid of: the goddess or her devil’s of darkness.
And Waylon found the answer to his question when he heard the annoyance in her voice.
His hands trembled as she said, “There are more pieces moving along the playing field than you
know of, you insolent boy. Find a translator and find your way to me. I will not ask again.”
And with that, the goddess stood once more. With another wave of her hand, appearing
from Osma knew where, the cloaked monsters carried her rose throne away and stalked off into
the darkness once more. And somehow, Waylon knew they would not be returning. The goddess
sketched a mocking bow, her black hair falling to one side of her shoulder.
As she made to move away, Waylon -- unsure whether he had a death wish or truly was
this stupid -- called after her and said, “Stay out of my head.”
Breone, her form dissolving into black smoke, smiled, as if she were amused by his small
scrap of bravery.
“No.”
And then she was gone.

13