Four walls. No window. The air is thick and suffocating and I take care in inhaling heavily due to the unknown stenches lingering in the air. I was escorted to who knows where last night by two guards who oh so politely dragged me out of the house with a bag tossed over my head. That was hours ago. My sense of time has been jumbled, the darkness making my head spin with uncertainty. I couldn't see a thing, although that heightened my other senses. I really wish it hadn't.
I sit on the cold ground, huffing, hungry, tired and smelly. I shift uncomfortably, thinking of a way to get out. But I can't. Generals usually host trials for their prisoners in a matter of hours. Soon, I wouldn't have to worry about the smell from the other enclosed rooms. Soon, the life I'd been thrown into will cease to matter. My brain and heart fight for dominance, I do not yet know if this a good or bad thing. I slump against the cold ground, willing sleep to come before the guards greet me once more.
There's a voice from the other end of the hall. Muffled and laced with years of torture and imprisonment. Most of us who are caught are either killed under the Crown's rule or are brought here to be tortured for information. I know it is not one of mine due to the fact that one of our rules state we are bound by tongue. Any information regarding the Creepers shall be taken to your grave. Within a week, if the information is not given, we die by the blade of our region's General in the circle of the Rig. Sometimes we may do it ourselves. It is why I despise the General status. They're the ones that wield the blade to take lives they have no idea how to understand.
All death sentences are carried out by the General once they are given the death penalty from their Trial. I should be glad. Some of them don't make it to their Trials.
I dream of nothing that night, and I thank the heavens for it. I don't dream of the fire that ripped my parents from my arms. I do not dream of Alec's tears upon my leave. I do not dream of colour or faces or what has happened in the last six hours. But I feel a presence whilst I sleep. Calming. It means no harm, and it is not here to kill me. It is not the Creepers. I want to wake but my body is so tired, so drained. I just wanted a normal life, instead I am stuck in a Royal Guard's cell under his complete beck and call. His protection as a prisoner of question. I cannot overpower him, but I hope for a chance to outsmart him.
I wake with a start, sweat beads on my forehead and the leather on my soaked body clings uncomfortably to every inch of my being. It does not help that my thighs are plump and muscular, and they chafe in agony.
I stay up until dawn, at least to my assumption, plotting how I can get a message to the Creepers, holding back the inevitable. I think of ways to withhold the trial, to not face the wrath of the Rig and it's blade. Will I ever get a chance to become close to the General? Will I ever learn the important information I need? Yes, exactly that. Why take a life in exchange for yours when information holds more power than spilled blood ever could.
The door clicks open, and my hands curl into fists, immediately in defense mode. His silhouette is not the General; this man is shorter and stubby with a broad hat that shadows his face even in the fading moonlight.
"It can't be..."
"It is not." He responds. His voice is grating and hard to listen to, as if he's been smoking since he was nine years old. I want to clamp my hands over my ears. He assesses the cell, eyes gleaming grey from the light behind him. I feel them settling on me when he approaches and asks, "Did you do as the boss asked?"
"No. But—"
"How disappointing. Another young life lost to such stubborn mentality." He flicks his hand with ease, a knife flashes in his palm, mocking my inevitable death.
"Wait. I can provide you with something more useful."
He does not startle, as if this isn't the first time one has offered the Creepers an ultimatum. "And what might that be?"
"Information. His name, his background, his age. This is information not even the other underground leaders now."
"But we do."
I stop. My breathe catches in my throat, and for a moment my heart stops. "How..."
"It is not about the how girl. You underestimate the Creepers. You underestimate him." Him. The Reaper himself. "We do not care for information, we care if you've completed the task you are given."
"If you're already here then why not kill him yourself."
"It is not for me to decide. I have more important matters to attend to than disobeying the boss." He retracts the knife back into the cuffs of his black sleeves, his chubby fingers playing with a pink slip of paper in his shirt pocket. "The Reaper has taken a liking to your Godmother. He believes her visions of your fortune may come to fruition, and for that he is almost reliant on her word. Let's hope she isn't a liar, we all know how the boss is with those."
"If you so much as touch her—"
"She will live. In any circumstance, you will not if the Reaper is...displeased by her unfortunate placement of hope." He places the piece of paper on the bed before turning and leaving, brimmed hat tipped low against the rising sun. "Do not make the same mistake twice."
When he leaves, an eerie silence befalls the room. No, even the sounds that echoed through the halls hault. The air is still, my heart thuds in my chest, the only moving, living thing. A second chance. This was not supposed to happen. I have yet to figure out if this was Kat's doing or a fruit of good fortune.
Nonetheless, one part of my plan is solved. The Reaper will send messages to me if necessary, I need not seek his attention, no matter the way in which he presents it. Now to piece together the next part of the puzzle. I read the paper with laser focus, the lack of light pressing against my eyes. I do not want to let any piece of information go unturned. However, it is impossible. There are only two words written in red ink on the pink sheet in my hands. Three weeks. I have three weeks to escape this place and kill the General. Or it will be my life instead.
The General enters the prison chamber nearly an hour later. He is not disturbed by any unwanted guests besides myself. These chambers, according to my guess, are the Trial chambers beneath the Rig. The chambers they hold you in until they're ready for your execution. They rarely let criminals like me go. The worst that may happen is that I'm sent to UnderLand or permitted to serve a member of the Royal Court under a leash and a whip for the rest of my life. I prefer death. And that says a lot.
"How'd you sleep, my lovely killer." He croons, and I take the opportunity to glare at him. I don't know if it's because of a dreamless sleep, or because my life has been given an extension, but I take the time to look at him. Truly look at him. His honey irises glow from the lit torch in his right hand, his scar angrily pink on his brown skin. His hair is loose, sagging wet against his neck and clean shaven jaw.
"Is it me, or did my attempt at murder make you glow."
"Ah, so you think I'm glowing." He tilts his head slightly, a smirk on his lips. "How quaint."
"Not in the least."
He studies me for a while, eyes covered behind a veil roaming my body like it did last night.
"Do you enjoy leering at me?" I ask wryly, knowing smirk mimicking his.
"I'm assessing. I've spoken with my subordinates and after heavy discussion—"
"Merely." Another voice says. I assume it is the same man who brought me here a couple hours ago.
The General ignores his interruption, "I believe I've been given an opportunity. One I should not waste."
"Oh? Am I that important."
"Merely." The man speaks again. I can see a smirk under his red mask.
"Is that the only word you know?"
"You'd be surprised at my extended vocabulary. Perhaps I'll teach it to you before your death day."
"Rider." The General's eyes is still on me, narrowed as dangerous in the artificial lighting. Rider goes quiet but the smugness he radiates does not pass me. "You do not meet the criteria of those before you, and I believe it to be a break in the seam of your people's patterns."
"Criteria?"
"Those before you...they matched the three points I've learned through the months. Ruthless and conniving; will continue to pursue me until they injure or are injured. When caught, most of them are so biased to their people, they simply give up completely. I think you know what I mean."
"I do." I glance at the blood stained walls, my mind struggling to rid the now engrained scent of something unearthly. He steps closer, eyes darkening.
"It doesn't always happen, but when their identities are placed, they are sent to the Royal Cells, where they await execution."
My heart beat skips, and I think of the next thing to draw him away from the place. "What does this have to do with me?"
"You do not match any of the three. You hesitated to take my life where another would be happy for that chance. Neither is your pulse flat nor your blood cold. Lastly, some of the people sent before you were known to the directories. Either their name, a skill, a trademark, a crime. You're a clean slate."
"Again, how does this help me?"
"I'm not dumb enough to pass up a chance when I see one. Therefore I'll make you a deal." The Man hangs the torch on a nearby stand, one I hadn't seen before due to the lack of light. His hands go behind his back, his stance stiff yet dancing with ease.
"What might that be?"
"You will attend your trial where, as you know, have two options; death, or a lifelong fulfilment of being a Royal Member's servitor. There have been instances where a prisoner caught by a General was sentenced to the fate I am giving you. I will allow you a level of freedom. In return for not hanging your head, you will be bound to me. You will be supervised at all times and will assist my house members as they see fit."
"Are we taking the path of slavery?" Which was a measly step down from being a mercenary with expectations. A blow to my pride and skill.
"Would you rather be dead?" A threat. If I do not accept, it would mean there is no chance. It will be harder to enter the house again, nonetheless kill him when I get another chance. Three weeks is too short if I'm thrown into a cell far away from this city. Not to mention if that happens, I'd be dead within days. "It's a generous offer if I may say so myself. An offer I'm giving simply because I'm tired of playing games."
"And you think my presence will end these so called games?"
"I think that whatever skill or brain you may possess, there will be use for it. If I request help in matters pertaining to attempts on my life, you will help me in whatever manner I ask. It's the only thing you will be good for at this moment."
A servant, yet a spy for the enemy. A means to an end. I will help him capture the same people I've sworn fealty to, in order to survive. In order to have a chance at his head for my own personal freedom. This is better than being locked in a cell miles from here with a time limit on my life.
"I do not have a choice, do I?" I ask quietly, the cogs spinning haphazardly in my head.
"Smart girl." He huffs, turning to leave. "Your trial will be held in an hour. I must remind you, seeing as you're now wanted for treason and is now at my mercy, by some circumstance you are obligated, and will be willing to answer my questions." If I answer his questions, I will remain a prisoner. I will remain under his protection. Answering his questions with the truth is a way to gain his trust. He does not have to know that, of course.
"What if I refuse regardless of choice or not. You mean if I don't answer your questions or serve you as you like you'll throw me out on my ass?"
"Such a foul mouth for a young lady. But yes, precisely. Cooperate, and you will stay. Resist, and I'll let whoever sent you gut you instead." They can gut me either way at the end of three weeks. "Disobey, and you will be sent to UnderLand for the rest of your life."
"UnderLand?" I startle, unconsciously following him with my eyes when he walks back into the room. "That place is for monsters."
"You are now under the judgement of treason against the Queen and a murder attempt against a Royal General. People like that belong in UnderLand. Do as I say, and we will not have any quarrels."
I'd rather wait the entire three weeks for the Reaper to gut me than go there. They do not kill their prisoners. No. They do worse than torture them. Worse than the Reaper could ever muster. They drive them insane to the point they no longer exist within their own minds, their own bodies. That place is for serial killers, high degree murderers, rapists, psychopaths. I do not belong there.
"You're bluffing. I will simply be sent to the Royal Cells. Not to UnderLand."
Within two strides, he is looking down at me, shadows shield his once beautiful eyes. They darken, and they grow serious. He leans down, his breath tickling the edges of my face as he says, "I have never lied a day in my life." My body stills. There is no forgiveness in his voice, no hesitance. He's serious, and I'd be a fool to misplace that with persuasion.
He leaves without a second word and I'm left in silence to contemplate the changes in my plan.
The Rig stands before me; a machine made of wood and a horizontal silver blade as sharp as the sword of a King. The judge stands beyond, ready to dish out my ruling. It was longer than it should've taken, but what I got from it was that I was to serve under the General for the rest of my days. I will not complain, nor will I disobey. Any reason for him to return me to the chambers will result in imminent death. I will be on a three month trial period; meaning within that time frame I will be treated as a prisoner of the General until stated otherwise. I'm taking that as chains and locked doors for sure. The Judge ended it with a "he did not let many go; be grateful he spared you that fate" whatever the hell that meant.
"Rider will see to your meals and hygiene. He will also be your supervisor, and I don't think you want to try anything with him, he will put you down." Like the dog I am, apparently. "I spoke to Daina, although reluctantly, she has agreed to give you your commands. Poppy will provide you with your clothes. You will do as they say." He spins on his heel, a hand kneading the hilt of the long sword strapped to his side. The only hint that he is nervous for something. "When I return, we shall talk." Then he is gone without so much as another breath.
°•°•°•°
The day crawls with uncertainty and menial tasks I have no choice or will to do. This morning, Poppy; a tall, black haired girl with a scar cutting across her jaw guided me to the room I was in before. The room I failed to kill the General in. She lended me clothes as the General commanded. Although, the clothes felt more like a mode of torture. I assumed there were only four females in this household, including Poppy, and all were smaller than me in bust, shoulder and leg size. I ended up having to throw on a gaudy old dress suited for a pregnant woman about to pop at any moment.
Before that, Rider stood guard by the bathroom door while I freshened. Yes, stood there, albeit with his back turned to me, and waited for me to finish my very purposefully drawn out bath.
"Why didn't he put one of the women to stand guard?" I asked him, scrubbing the dirt from under my nails. It is not that I cared whether it was a man or woman standing there, if they attacked me I would take them down regardless. It was the fact I needed a guard to shower that bugged me.
"The women are busy."
"And you have nothing else to do but stand there listening to me wash myself?" He bristles a little, and I smirk. The tough guy who didn't smile actually ticks. "You know, there were muffins in that basket. Sad they all had to rot."
"Rot from the poison you laced them with or from your lies?" He counters, and I find myself extremely entertained with his defensiveness. He was the third guard on duty that did not approach me that night. I can tell from his height; towering at six foot four, long blond hair and gleaming silvery eyes set in a beautiful dark shade.
"I find it insulting you'd even ask that. What if I laced them with poison as you say? Will the animals who wander upon it die then? You think me cruel?"
"I think you're insane. Sneaking into this house? Trying to kill the general? Suicidal." He grumbled, leaning against the doorframe, his back muscles shifting in his thick leather clothing.
"If I was suicidal, I would've killed myself when you were asleep." Then I pause, registering. "Is that why he has you as a guard? Afraid I'll drown myself? The only living thing that can answer his questions about his assassinations?"
He almost turns around, but bristles when he realizes what he nearly did. I could see a piece of his ears behind blond hair redden a bit. "You are not that highly valued. You are just the only living thing that reminds him..." He freezes, and I know why. Too much information for a prisoner to know. Curiosity burns aflame in my heart, the bath water suddenly too cold. If my life was threatened every waking minute, there would be spilled blood; accidental or not. But there has clearly been many sent to kill him, many who have not been successful. What makes me the black sheep? What role do I have on this new chess board and who exactly is controlling the pieces?
I stored questions for later and dressed as quickly as possible.
Now I am standing in front of a very pissed off Daina, a woman in her forties who stands three inches shorter than me, stubby and round in all the right places. Her face however speaks something fierce. It is very safe to say she hates me.
"About last night—"
"I do not need an apology from the likes of you." Her voice cracks, a motherly tone laced through her sternness. "What I need you to do is mop the ballroom, dust the chandeliers and organize the guest dining room for Saturday's feast. You will do all of this while keeping your mouth shut."
"What's Saturday?" I follow her out of the hall and into a grand room, pillars of gold and russet; diamond chandeliers floating several inches below the ceiling that towers like a mountainous cavern. There is a stage filled with props and decorations for some kind of celebration, and I gawk at the royal ambience of it all. "This house definitely looks bigger on the inside that the outside."
Daina shoots a harsh glare at me, smoothing out her skirts and clenching her hands together as she turns to me. She explains where the cleaning supplies are, where the ladders are kept for me to reach the chandeliers and the where the dining room is located. I have half a mind to sneak off once she is distracted but when I turn and find Rider starting at me with cool disdain, I think twice. Underland whirls in my head like a picture out of a fantasy book and I nearly shudder. I'll sneak off later.
Several hours later, I'm covered in sweat, dust and some other liquid, I have no idea the origin, from head to toe. Daina leaves me to peace with a glare once she sees that I am fully exhausted, almost slumping over from the headache that's begun to manifest. When Rider finally leaves me to gather my sanity from climbing fifteen ladders, mopping the acre of land that is the ballroom; twice, and setting the dining table the way Daina insisted it be, I collapse on the bed, enjoying the way my tongue goes numb from the warmth of sleepiness.
The door flings open, a resilient whoosh of the door flying tugs me from the dreamland I was just about to enter. I already know who stands there, and I already know what time it is.
"Oh lovely, you're back, how was your vacation General?" I say in oozing sarcasm, but to my surprise, I get none back. I sit up on the bed, and I almost flinch at what I see. Blood. On his hands, his armour, in his mouth. His hair is tousled and messy, eyes gleaming something furious.
"What the hell happened to you?" I ask incredulously, although I could take a guess. As a General, he is in charge of weekly executions by order of the Queen. He is also given civil duties to kill first degree criminals and royal traitors on sight. Blood is not a surprising thing to see on a man of his status. His eyes are what haunt me. A General is not supposed to look as if he had his entire life flash before his eyes, they were trained to handle all situations with calculated calm.
My eyes flit down his body, assessing, looking for any signs of attack. There, on his side, the blood does not simply rest on his armour, it slides and oozes from a wound that cannot be seen. "You've been hurt. I thought the armour was supposed to be impenetrable I—"
"Well, he definitely penetrated it." I stand, almost immediately following his command as he whispers, "Sit down."
My backside is planted firmly on the bed, curiosity a flooding ocean inside me.
He pulls out a parchment of paper from his pocket, unfurling it for me to see. "Do you know him?" The suspect on his paper is familiar, but his name is not one in my checkbook. He is young, maybe in his teens, maybe younger.
"No."
"Do not lie to me." He grits, a low rumble of his voice reaching towards the inner workings of my core. "Do you know him."
"I said no. I've never seen him before."
When he tousles his hair and drags the chair from the side table, flipping it around to straddle it, he sighs; a very tired sigh. "This boy tried to assassinate me on my way to Fyolm. I do not know where he came from, I do not know how he managed to sneak up on me especially with guards around. He is the only one who has wounded me and managed to escape."
"Which is a problem I'm guessing?"
"Big problem." His eyes dart across the room like a fox on a high, trying to figure out God alone knows what.
"Why are you telling me this?"
His eyes stop on me, narrowing, assessing. "You're one yourself. I'm assuming you know most people in the little cult you have going on." A weary nod. "If you do not know who he is, then there is more than one group trying to kill me." He looks up at me, a growing wariness entangled with eyebags of exhaustion. "She really didn't send you?"
I shake my head. If there really are two groups, I know just as much as he does, just a little more. It could as well be the Reaper, sending another to complete a mission I failed. It seems many people have failed at this one task.
"Do you know why these people are trying to kill you?" I ask wryly, and he looks a minute away from strangling me.
"If you do not even know when you were sent to kill me, how would I?" Okay, Fair point. "We will continue this conversation after. I have many questions for you."
I lay back on the bed, closing my eyes as I hear him scoff. "I'm not in the mood for your silly games criminal, take me seriously."
"I am. I'm just exhausted."
"Saying that to a man who almost lost his life today is very cute of you."
"Why thank you, I do try my best sometimes." I hear boots hit the floor, the scuff of a chair being pushed. Before I can rise, his body looms over me, a deliciously dark nightmare about to wake me from slumber.
He rests his both hands against the bed, enclosing me in a cage. Strands from his ponytail come loose, dangling in front of me like I'm a kitten with a toy to play with. "You're going to behave like the willing prisoner you are tonight. You're going to answer my questions with perfect honesty, and you are not going to continue this silly banter game you think you and I have. Am I clear?"
Before I can even respond, he straddles the seat again, wincing slightly. I do not make a comment about his groan as he does so. I cannot, even if I wanted to disobey him. My mouth suddenly feels dry, as if the air has been sucked from the room.
"Your name. Your age. Your guardian's name. Now." A simple but assertive command. The man is not for games tonight, as he said.
"I cannot give you my name if you do not give me yours. I turned twenty yesterday, and my guardian's name is. . .Katrina."
"Last name?"
"Doesn't have one." I shrug my shoulder to feign nonchalance. The truth is she indeed didn't have a last name. Kat was married and divorced nearly six times. In the end, she took so many last names she was afraid they'd link back to her ex-husbands. She dropped them altogether.
"Liar." He responds immediately, a glint of anger shining through his honey gilded eyes. "Do not lie—"
"It is not a lie." And this is the truth. The trial was done on my twentieth birthday, and Kat's real name is Katrina, although she technically doesn't exist anymore. When Kat was twenty one, she ran away from the orphanage she stayed at. The first thing she did was erase the name her birth parents gave to her as part of her way to freedom.
"Your name. Now."
"If I tell you my name, you might as well kill me right now." I retort, back straightening, eyes glaring at him. He does not respond outwardly at least.
He huffs a sigh of defeat, "Where are you originally from?"
"I was raised in Poor Man's Grove."
"With whom were you working?"
"Just Katrina but she is almost retired now. I'm on my own." Half lie.
"What—"
"If I may interrupt," I cut in, acknowledging the raise of his eyebrow and the impatient tap of his foot. "I have a proposition."
His eyebrow nearly touches his hairline, the tapping haults. "Oh?"
"I will answer your questions with more than seventy percent truth if you answer three of mine."
"Three? That's a poor bargain." Not if three is all you need. "Fine. But no personal questions. You are still a criminal."
"As expected your majesty." I smirk a little, bowing my head in mockery. I lean forward, placing my skirts inside my legs and my elbows on my thighs. He looks at me as if I'm mad. "Firstly, you said I had a clean slate. Yet with so many attempts, as you've said, on your life, there were bound to be more than just me. What makes me the black sheep? Secondly, a General is supposed to have a heavier guard, plus the fact that there so many vulnerable people in your home. A blind person? An old maid? A child? Do tell. And thirdly, why do you need sleeping flowers? They're illegal in most parts of the world and are rare to find anyway."
He leans forward, mocking my position, hands crisscrossing against the backrest of the wooden chair. "Why does my decision concern you?"
"You said it yourself. Nobody escapes you and lives. Why am I the odd one out?"
"Oh? Someone thinks very highly of herself. Is that what they teach you in assassin school?" He smirks at me, some life returning to his eyes. He rises from his perch, sauntering to the barred window that signals the last dregs of dawn leaving this world. "There is something the teachers at the royal academy say; You can never study what must be learned. It means you don't study for life. For an experience you encounter for the first time; it is therefore a lesson. My lesson for the past three months has been to decipher the eyes of hunters from the eyes of the hunted." He turns around just in time for me to stop gawking at him dumbfoundedly and resume my icy stare. The bastard smirks at that. Okay, so the man likes riddles. Two can play at that game.
"As to why I have so little people in my home, all oddities in their living forms, I do not have a sincere explanation to give you." He folds his arms behind his back, eyes distant and hollow for a second, as if he's disappeared into a place I can no longer reach him. There lies the explanation he's so hesitant to share with me.
"And the last question?" I lean forward in anticipation, the curiosity threatening to kill the unconcerned cat.
"I do not enjoy killing. I don't think even some assassins take pride in knowing they've taken innocent lives." He turns to face me, sauntering towards the bed. "All I can say is that sleep is not a luxury."
"Does that mean it is easier for me to kill you in your sleep?"
"You can try, my little lynx. You will fail."
His eyes burn into me, as if wanting to reveal something to me. See what I'm showing you. Read between the lines, he seems to say. "I know what you are. You hesitated, that alone says a lot of silent stories about you."
"Don't start changing the subject." I spew, voice hardening instantly. He startles, a bit taken aback by the sudden outburst. "There is no way you just saw something in me that was different. You don't know the first thing about me. You don't even know if I have silent stories to begin with."
"Care to explain to me then?" His voice is a calming river. I am unknowingly caught in its current, peddling, falling, gliding in the water's pull.
I bow my head, hearing a gruff agreement in response. "I'm exhausted. I think you are too. Get some rest."
I glance up at him, suddenly wary of his bipolar moods. I take my chance at prodding the viper. "Clearly you weren't vised in interrogations."
His face is flat, eyes focused but distant. "The interrogations are for the Captains. I handle the executions."
He makes to leave me to my newfound information before stopping at the door. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, a muscle jumping in his bloodied jaw. "I may have said it was easy for you to simply slit my throat, but it was impossible for you to execute." He turns to look at me, his once assessing gaze turns into something else, something sincere. "I would not have handed you the blade if I thought you had it in you."
Then he leaves me to the loud silence of my own thoughts. I stare out the window, staring at the winking stars that mock my cage with their everlasting freedom.
My mind wanders to Kat; a silent evening with the two of us conversing over a cup of spiked tea and butter smothered bread. Instead of sleeping, I stare at the sky until the stars say their goodbyes.