by Alex Shobe
“Phylix.” In succession, I flick my fingernail against bar of the gate and hope the dull tinging will get his attention.
No answer.
I step closer and poke my head inside. The faint scent of a rank sweetness lingers in the cell.
“Phylix, wake up. We can go.” My voice is a half-whisper, half-shout.
Still no answer.
I drag my feet into the cell, determined to not let Phylix oversleep on his release. The scent grows stronger. I kneel at his side and place a hand on his shoulder. My fingers jerk at the coldness of his body. I pull him over toward me so he’s lying on his back. His eyes are half-open, and it doesn’t take long to spot the pool of blood left behind from where he was lying. His arm is wrapped around his torso, concealing the large wound to his stomach.
“Damn...” I reach my hand to his face, my fingers forcing his eyelids shut. I whisper the relinquish prayer to his unhearing ears. Then, with a sigh, I pull myself back to my feet. A sinking feeling finds my chest as I walk out of the cell.
Less than twenty-fours were the difference between his death and his freedom. Now, his wife is left a widow, his four children left fatherless. My foot draws back, and I strike the gate. It rings out, louder than I expected, and remembering the guards, I reach for it to calm the vibrations. I lean out of the cell and glance down the corridor, but the guards are no longer there. The dungeon has an eerie quietness, for at this moment, it’s just me and the lifeless body of Phylix who occupy it. There’s nothing I can do for him now. I walk toward the exit and pause, taking one last glimpse back before stepping into the fresh air.
Leona
In the drawing room, a bead of water travels down the windowpane, gaining speed as it collects droplets along the way. I chase it with my fingertip, but the raindrop wiggles away before continuing its descent. A sigh rolls under my breath. I lift my hand to the glass once more and begin pursuit on another drop.
“You could at least pretend to be present in the conversation.”
The raindrops on the window become blurry as I focus my vision on the dreary clouds in the distance. “I would hardly call this a conversation, Aerok. This just seems like you are telling me everything I’ve already heard from the council. Almost verbatim.”
He shifts so he’s standing at my side and his arm brushes against mine. “Well, they’re not wrong. Those men have served for many years.” He tilts his head down, his eyes dull with misdirected sincerity.
“Of course, you would say that. Your father has a seat—” I pause, a bitter taste forming in my mouth. I whirl to face him. “Is that it, then? He sent you to speak to me—to handle me?”
He groans then turns his gaze out the window. The skies have gone gray, the clouds casting the grounds into darkness before the wind carries them away and reveals the sun again.
“The fact that he’s my father is irrelevant.” There’s a sharpness to his tone. “The city is spiraling and you’re in here watching the rain. Perhaps you could make better use of your time by reconsidering your decision.”
I flinch, grateful for the sudden dimness of the skies to obscure my reaction. Aerok’s clean-shaven jaw is set and unwavering as he continues to stare out the window. The air around him seems incomplete, like a raindrop without moisture or a flame without heat. I step backward, my feet skimming the floor, before the suffocation claims me whole.
“As you said,” I start, my fingernails digging into the palms, “it is my decision. How much longer must we hide behind barbaric ways and call them traditions? The only thing traditional about the gladiator fights is the turning of the sands to clear the arena grounds of blood, only for more blood to be spilled there the week after.” I drop my head, giving a sharp shake before lifting it. “I won’t have it anymore. And neither you nor the council is permitted to overturn that decision.”
His eyes meet mine, the high collar of his double-breasted coat giving him a much leaner appearance than usual. He stalks toward me, bringing with him his airless air. I release my fists, only to exchange them for trembling fingers. His stature towers over mine, and for the first time, I’m aware of our height difference. His hand reaches forward and tucks a loose strand behind my ear. As the tips of his fingers brush against my skin, my body fills with ice, the coldness maintaining a strong grip on my bones. His mouth twists into an uncomfortable smile.
“Love,” he says, crooning the word. His hand lingers near my chin. Then, his fingers hook underneath it to keep my head from turning away. “Reconsider your decision. It will be in the best interest of your reign.”
At this, my eyes narrow and I jerk away from his touch. I stumble to the side and bump into a pedestal table, the empty teacup and saucer atop rattling before stilling. My heartbeat quickens, a mix of anger and fear constricting my veins. “Are you threatening me?”
He glances down at his hand and rotates the Barlow family ring until the engraved cobra’s head is centered on his middle finger. “Just think of it as a step in the right direction for our union. A wife should lean onto her husband for guidance, yes?” His thin lips pull into a smirk.
The sun breaks through the clouds, a ray piercing into the room and making Aerok’s brown eyes resemble gold. As warm as his irises appear, there’s frigidity behind them. Heat flushes through my body, my toes flexing in my boots, my face reddening.
“We are not yet married.” I turn away from him. There’s a slight quiver in my voice but I force it down like a thick gulp in my dry throat. “So, you should leave before this betrothal becomes dismissed as well.”
I feel his eyes on my neck and bare shoulders. They glide over my skin, pulling each tiny hair straight with anxiety. The temptation to reach up and release my hair from its chignon crosses my mind, but I keep my hands in front of me, clutching the fabric of my gown instead.
Finally, he clicks his tongue and his footsteps retreat from the room. When the door pushes shut behind him, I gasp and double over. My breaths come in ragged waves. Though he is gone, he’s taken all the air from the room with him. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My mind replays his words, his underlying threat. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to allow them to break free. He doesn’t deserve my tears. My eyes darken and I set my sights on the teacup, the one he’d been drinking from earlier. I rear my foot back and kick the table. The teacup and saucer fly across the room and smashes against the wall, the ceramic left in shards on the floor.
Colton
My feet pound against the cobblestone as I sprint through the castle gates. I peer up at the sentry points, but they are abandoned. Each high post watches with an unseeing eye. When I’d arrived a year ago, chained and battered in the back of a splintered wagon, dozens of guards glared down as we crossed into the castle grounds. Now, the wall is deserted.
I enter the heart of the city, the top edges of the stone arena fading from view. I try to use the shadows from the sun to guide me, but this proves difficult when storm clouds fade in and out, blocking the sun’s rays. The roll of thunder sounds overhead. Raindrops fall onto my face, breaking on contact and splashing into my eyes. I wipe them with the back of my hand, but each cleared drop is replaced with a new one. Come to think of it, it was raining when I’d arrived, too.
I have no clue how to navigate Demesne. Red-roofed buildings are set in clusters, each apartment picking up where the last one left off. If not for the white shutters flanking the windows and the white doors to match, they’d be seamless slabs of brick. The consecutive housing doesn’t allow for the twists and turns of the streets I’m used to in Maburh.
The sun peeks through the clouds, gifting me with a moment of direction. I reach the end of an avenue and turn the corner, but more apartments line the street in an almost identical fashion. Thunder roars again and a streak of lightning courses through the sky. The rainfall increases. I keep moving between the buildings, occasionally catching the glance of residents watching from their windows. I don’t know much about Demesne, but I do k
now that this is where many of the nobles live—the same nobles who fill the arena stands, week after week, demanding blood and gore at the expense of me and my countrymen.
I rake my soaked hair back with my hand. My shirt clings to my skin and rain soaks through my pants and pools into my boots. Up ahead, I hear yelling, but over the steady rumble of thunder, I can’t make out the words. It sounds like a great deal of people, different pitches and tones stacked on one another. As I get closer to the commotion, it’s clear now why my instinct is to run even though we were released with the Queen’s blessing. Those who are screaming aren’t declaring celebratory remarks at the top of their lungs.
They’re insisting on retribution.
My pace slows at the end of the street and I keep against the wall. My hands grip the building’s corner, and I lean out just enough to see what awaits me if I try to cross the intersection. At least ten men, all nobles, stand huddled on a nearby street. Each has the same look of disgust plastered on his face and a sword clutched in his hand. There’s only one reason why they’d be gathered like this, and I find it tough to believe that they’ve assembled to contend with the guards.
I draw back from the corner. My shoulder bumps into an open shutter and it swings shut, knocking loudly against the window. My body tightens and I suck in air through clenched teeth. When I look up at the window, I am met with a woman’s eyes. She scans me over, her gaze lingering on my tattered clothes and the dirt on my face that has not yet been washed away by the rain. Her nostrils flare and her wrinkled face stretches into a snarl. She turns away from the window, the curtains swaying close behind her.
I let out a breath of relief, but that breath is short-lived when her door opens. The woman steps onto her stoop just far enough to not be drenched by the rain.
Her hands cup around her mouth. “There’s one right here. Hurry—get him!” Her voice is shrill and carries over the sounds of the storm.
My knees lock and the only thing I can do is blink at her as she hustles back into her home. I pull my gaze back to the intersection, and the men, whose numbers have doubled, charge toward me.
Fight or flight dashes through my mind. In the arena, its second nature for me to meet a challenger with the same ferocity. However, this is not the arena. And I am not armed.
My breaths become shallow as a glimmer of panic washes over my face. I shake my head, refusing to allow my sanity or rationality to get away from me. I need to think clearly—I don’t have time to lose it.
The men, teeth barred, are at least thirty feet away from me and closing in quick. I can’t pause. I can’t take a moment to figure out where I’m going. All I can do in this moment is run, to go as fast as my feet will allow, and hope for the best.
I race back down the street as more people emerge from their homes. Though they don’t give chase, they shout encouragements to the men as they follow me. A wave of heat flushes my skin and every raindrop that lands on my forehead feels like a pearl of ice.
Still, I run.
I turn another corner, not knowing what lies ahead. Although the street is clear, further down the stone road, another group of nobles stand over a man, his hands up as he pleads from the ground. The nobles shout at him, then each takes a turn running their sword through the man’s body. His screams are deafening. A bitter tang fills my mouth as I make a sharp left into an alleyway, the man’s cries dwindling until it ends abruptly.
Discarded barrels line the narrow passageway. I throw a look behind me, the men hot on my trail as they enter the alley as well. Their coordination is awful as they struggle to maneuver, all of them overweight and ambitious as they try to run shoulder-to-shoulder in the small space. This buys me some time—just enough time to flee out of the alley, run down the street, and seek safe passage in another alleyway, all while maintaining an eastern direction as best as I can manage.
I continue to rush between the apartments, my lungs on fire and sweat being washed away from the constant downpour of the rain. I find another barrel and hide behind it, doubled over as I struggle to catch my breath. I feel numb. A day that I’ve dreamt of, but never once thought possible, threatens to be taken from me. It was clear that the nobles, with their fancy clothing and golden spoons, thought us villagers were less than the dirt beneath their exquisite footwear, but for them to be chasing us through the city? This takes their hatred to an all new level.
How many other villagers lost their short-lived freedom to the blade of a noble? Perhaps many of them managed to escape the city before the nobles realized what was going on. I’m sure the highborn were enraged when they saw the same fighters traipsing through their city streets.
I try to regulate my breath, but every inhale is like crushed glass working its way into my lungs. Something pokes my side. I gasp and my body lurches upward, a pins and needles sensation coursing through my veins. My head jerks behind me to find a little boy, probably eight or nine years in age. He’s wearing the same gaudy clothes as the men who were chasing me earlier. Clutched in his hand, a wooden sword, carved meticulously with details and its length almost as long as the kid himself. Great. Even the noble children are assholes.
I put my hands up in front of me and take a step to the side, away from the barrel.
“Hey there, little guy...” I say, my voice as light as I can achieve. “What’cha doin’?” I nod toward his wooden sword.
The little boy, bright blonde hair and deep brown eyes, scowls, his fingers flexing over the smooth hilt. He turns his nose up as though he just smelled something rotten.
“You’re not supposed ta be here.” His high-pitched voice makes my mouth twitch into a grin. “Come on, I’m taking you back to the jail.” He jabs me again with the sword. The rounded edge of the tip produces more of a tickle than pain.
I shake my head, dissolving the humor from my face. “It’s okay, buddy. Everything’s all right. The Queen let us go.” I drop my hands to my sides.
“The Queen’sa idiot.” He spits the words and raises his sword so it’s pointing at my throat. “Now, let’s go.”
His voice is getting louder. I put my hands back in front of me, palms down as they pat the air and I shush him. This kid’s not going to give up.
“Okay, kid. You’re the boss.” I glance down the alley in the direction I need to go. It’s clear. I take a step further from the barrel, widening the distance between me and the junior asshole.
He shakes his head. “Uh uh—this way.” He jerks his head behind him, back toward the arena, back toward despair.
I nod but take another step toward my destination, my eyes focused on his as though that wooden toy sword he’s clutching would actually do some damage. I take one more step backward, and he growls, his teeth clenched between chubby cheeks.
“Papa! Come quick! I got one!” he says at the top of his prepubescent lungs. “Papa!”
I turn my back on him, my legs launching myself forward into a sprint unlike no other. My soaked clothes should be slowing me down, but I feel weightless—a new surge of adrenaline overwhelming my body. In seconds, I leave the little boy behind, his top-heavy stature failing him in his quest to catch me.
Another mob, or maybe it is the same one as before, emerges into the alley after me. It’s no use, though, I’m too fast and too far ahead.
These nobles have never had to run for anything in their lives. Well, maybe to run after a merchant who’s selling the latest in assholery apparel. Most of them are obese, a natural side effect from having too much to eat and plenty of time to eat it in. Nobility will be their downfall.
I run freely for a few more minutes, avoiding the various mobs that have formed around the city. The rain has let up and the sun takes its rightful place in the sky, no longer hindered by the clouds that threaten its presence.
As I near the city’s outer edge, the sounds of chaos fade into a low hum. I reach a tall mahogany tree, one of many in the forest that lies ahead. My palms smack its bark, my arms wrapping around it to keep my balance.
The lower half of my body is paralyzed and can’t be trusted to support my weight. I press my forehead against the tree. A rumble begins in my stomach then rises through my throat, and a soft chuckle escapes my lips. I’m free. I’m actually free.
Something a short distance from me moves in the corner of my eye. Not again. I drop into a crouch. At my side, the top of a rock juts from the ground between exposed tree roots. I jiggle it loose, my fingers just long enough to wrap around it. If the nobles have found me, I’m going to make them earn my death.
A faint moan gets louder as it approaches me. I grip the stone tighter, then spring out from behind the tree. My body freezes, mid-hurl, and the stone falls into a puddle at my feet.
“Help me, Colt,” Aiden says. “He’s dying.”
Leona
I’ve spent most of the day in my bedchamber, still upset with Aerok’s words. They loom over me like a shackle to the floor, an invisible wall that no one can see but me. Both my morning and midday meals sit untouched on the table despite Gracen’s hope that the bisque would lighten my mood.
I sit at my vanity, its hundreds of tiny gems painstakingly mounted by hand to the decorative wooden trim. This piece of furniture once belonged to Mother and holds a special value to me. Father had it commissioned in Gasmana shortly after she and Father wed. It was the first token he presented her and was meant to bring good luck in their marriage. Although it failed to provide good fortune, she loved it all the same. My fingers graze over the gemstones, and I take comfort knowing in a way, she is still with me.
Evening is drawing to a close and Gracen is late to do my hair. After our lengthy conversation earlier in the day, it concluded with me agreeing to come to the dining hall for dinner, to allow the guards to see that their hushed rumors haven’t shaken me.
