The moral of the story is kind of tricky. Was Lawrence Daxley in the right, taking his own money? Did his risk save him a lot of embarrassment from a jail cell later? His uncle still could have pressed charges for breaking and entering.
Considering it was his money to begin with, his uncle didn’t press any charges. Mr. Guyer did, however, change the combination to his brand new safe the insurance settlement bought. He also began to withdraw much smaller amounts from the bank for Daxley after that.
I saw to it Daxley was put in a rehabilitation program for gambling addictions for Charlotte’s sake. I think he’s doing quite well now that he’s cleaning up.
Did I ever catch the thief? Well, eventually. You wanna know how? Take a guess.
Have you given up? It was the counterfeit bills. But that’s a story for another time.
The Witching Hour
Emily R. Saunders
Emily R. Saunders is a “writer of all genres, master of none.” At least, that’s how she sees herself. She often spends her time with a warm drink and writing. When not writing, she spends her time going on a binge watch.
“The Witching Hour” was the first time Emily had dabbled in Grimdark. Coming up with a story for this genre was a challenge, and she doesn’t feel like she has clicked well with the characters. While fun to tackle, it was the exact opposite of what she is used to writing (urban fantasy is the genre she is most familiar with). All in all, while it was tough to tackle, she enjoyed writing “The Witching Hour” and hopes that you, fellow readers, enjoy what she had to offer.
She would like to dedicate this story to Cassandra Myers, who motivates her to “sit my ass down, and write.”
Dorien started off his day like he always would – fishing by the river bank. The young satyr’s hooves clopped upon the forest ground, stomping on pebbles and snapping twigs along his path. The tune he whistled added an extra layer to the symphony of chirping birds.
The rush of the river could be heard in the distant, causing Dorien to smile in anticipation. He was not in possession of many talents beyond fishing, nor did he care for other lines of work. He had been capturing, selling, and eating the water dwellers for a good number of years, and he had little intention of changing his ways.
Dorien trotted along, the sound of the flowing water getting stronger and ever more dominant with each step. Only once did he spot a bear from the corner of his eyes. He deemed himself fortunate that the wild beast did not attack, for he had forgotten his sword back home.
Note to self, he thought, always leave the house armed.
He cleared his thoughts of the matter as the river came in sight. The trees of the forest did not block out the sun, allowing its warmth to play with Dorien’s bare skin. He took in a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh, somewhat cool air.
He sat himself down on a flat rock – as he would always – and admired the view the bank presented. It was not often one would see a sight so pleasant and peaceful. Certain creatures in the forest would make trouble for would be travelers and occupants of the forest, and Dorien was no exception to the rule. Yet, never had he encountered anything foul or of ill intent near the river. He never took the location for granted.
Yaan must be watching over this place, he thought blissfully.
Taking in another deep breath, the fisherman let his gaze look over the bank, admiring the sight it offered. Confusion took a grasp on him, however, as he came upon a sight he had never seen before: a woman in a flowing purple dress lying down near the bank, face down on the dirt. Her body was bruised and soaked from blood – her own, Dorien assumed, as well as the water. Her raven black hair obscured her face, ensuring that Dorien did not get a proper glimpse at her.
“Hello?” he called out, getting to his feet. He cautiously approached her, absentmindedly reaching for his blade only to remember he had left it back home. His inner voice screamed at him, demanding that he make a run for it back home.
Of the many malevolent creatures that called the forest home, wolves and grizzlies were the least concerning of the lot; the forest was home to the dead – the living dead, raised from their graves. Dorien suspected this woman was nothing more than an undead. Humans never travelled alone and rarely made it out this far into the woods. Gulping, and with a pounding heart, the anxious satyr found himself standing on top of the woman, looking down at her body, noticing that she possessed one thing that the dead – walking or not – did not: breath.
Her breathing was slow but ever present, and it filled Dorien with a sense of calm and newfound panic soon after. Making haste, he knelt down beside her, pulling her mess of a hairdo behind her ear, revealing her pale complexion, pointy nose, and a scar that starting from her left cheek and ended at her chin. Dorien found her to be quite attractive but did not deem the time appropriate to remark on her beauty.
Using what strength he had, which was quite more than an average satyr, Dorien did his best to lift her up. She showed her first signs of consciousness when she moaned in agony. “Sorry,” Dorien said, wincing on her behalf. He trotted back into the forest, the weight of his would-be guest and fishing tools slowing his walk down. Where he mustered that much strength, he did not know, and he prayed that no ill would come their way.
King Henry Irons – once great ruler of Kyros - was many things; bored and bitter were two of them. With his cheek resting on his fist, Henry looked out upon his once mighty and cheerful court; not long ago was the room echoing with song and flowing with drinks. It was now silent, barren, and Henry was its sole occupant.
The stone walls were littered with torches which did little to provide warmth and illumination. Opposite to him, Henry could make out a dust-covered, long, wooden dining table where his knights once feasted. Spider webs formed in the corners; how the eight-legged creatures survived in such a gloomy and chill environment, Henry did not know nor care.
With a grunt, he rose to his feet. Adjusting his belt, the king strolled through the court and made his way out into the open. Hunting was a hobby of his, and he opted to go out on a hunt to clear his head as opposed to sitting about and moping on days long gone.
The doors creaked open as Henry slipped out, gazing upon his kingdom. A series of stairs separated him from the rest, as his court lay on a hilltop overlooking the common folk. Squinting from the sunlight, the king could barely make out his subjects scuttling around the marketplace on foot, no doubt purchasing whatever they required for everyday life.
Confliction grasped at him, at the sight of his would-be subjects. Henry was a king without a crown, without people, for they looked elsewhere for guidance. He was a king only through title and not through authority. What power and influence he had gained over time was lost four or so years ago. And he knew exactly who was responsible.
He pushed his bitterness to the back of his mind and tried to occupy himself with the thrill of a hunt. He looked over at the stables and began to make his way there to get on a mount when the stomping of metal boots rushed towards him.
Henry looked over his shoulder at the source of the disturbance – a knight in grey armour, looking frantic and out of breath.
“My Lord,” he panted.
“Catch your breath, son,” said Henry.
It took the knight a good few minutes to regain his composure. He stood still, took in deep breaths, but remained red in the face nonetheless. “My King,” he said, “The High Priest demands–”
“He demands?” Henry growled.
“Er, seeks an audience with you,” the knight corrected himself rather frightfully.
“Does he now?” said the bitter King. “If he does so, he knows where to find me.” Henry put his back to the boy of a knight and walked off towards the stables.
“My King, please,” the knight said, rushing to keep up. “The High Priest says it’s urgent he sees you.”
“And he would not come down here to see me himself?”
“Elias is busy, your majesty, what with the upcoming festivities an
d what not.”
Henry halted in his tracks, looking over at the knight, waiting for him to stumble and correct himself. No correction came. This knight – this boy – had called the High Priest by name. Not many did so, not without seeing the tip of an axe… or bringing down the wrath of Yaan.
Or so superstition says, thought Henry.
Sighing, Henry cooperated with the knight and changed directions, and he headed off towards the temple of Yaan. A flight of stairs leading upwards separated the King’s court and the Temple – similar to the flight that separated the town from the throne room. Henry found the walk rather uneventful with the most interesting thing being spotting a pile of goat droppings. His companion, the knight, was silent for the most part.
After a long and dull climb, Henry came upon a set of wooden doors – large, with letters engraved upon the wood in a language that Henry knew not of. The inner structure of the temple was built deep within the mountain it sat upon with the entrance being the only section of it which came in contact with the outside world.
Tightly, he gripped the hilt of his blade, whitening his knuckles. He took one slow step after the other with his blood rushing through his veins and taking heavy breaths. A fuming King made his way in and walked about in the stone hallway of the temple. Torches hung from the pillars, illuminating the hallow interior. Henry’s footsteps echoed out for all to hear, and his metal clanked with each step. From the corner of his eyes, he made out figures in navy blue robes walking about with candles, singing in unison of the might of Yaan – Father of the Gods. Henry was never a man of faith, and he often wondered if that was the reason behind losing his people.
His train of thought came to a halt when he reached the far end of the temple which held the altar. Candles aided the torches with illumination as they shone their light on a painting of Yaan himself – a bearded deity, muscular as well, sitting on his golden throne with a sceptre in one hand, an eagle on his shoulder, and two nude women by his feet. Most would get down to their knees at the sight of it, yet Henry stood tall, still, and held an expression of utter indifference.
He allowed his gaze to wander down to the kneeling man in an emerald robe with beads wrapped around his head. He was an elderly fellow, and what little hair he had left on his head was turning grey. The difference in colour from the rest of the robbed figures told Henry he found his man: Elias.
“Your Highness,” Elias greeted, slowly getting up to his feet, “thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”
“Why did you summon me here?” said Henry, already grown tired of the priest’s company.
“Yes, yes, of course, but would you rather not pray first?”
“No, now get to the point.”
“I see faith is not all you lack,” Elias chuckled. “Patience is a virtue, my dear King,”
“Your king will not be dear for you long if you waste his time.” Elias’ facial expression grimmed at Henry’s remark, his once wide smile turned into a frown, and the twinkle in his eyes had all but banished.
“Do you know the laws of the land?” Elias asked.
“Of course, I decreed them all.”
“All but one: the banning of magical practices. I believe I decreed that.”
Henry opted to remain silent but remained uncertain as to whether or not that was the best of decisions. He had chosen to be vocal on the matter four years ago, voicing his thoughts as to how he disagreed with its passing… and lost. He had no intention of having a repeat of the debate.
“I need you,” Elias continued, despite the King’s silence, “to have a handful of your knights hold a perimeter for next week. You remember what next week holds, I assume?”
Silence was the only response that Elias would receive, accompanied with a deathly glare. Henry did not take kindly to those who would speak down to him and had every intention to unsheathe his blade and swing it at the priest’s neck. Resisting his murderous rage, Henry simply nodded.
“Good,” Elias said, his smug grin taking hold of his features. “Unfortunately, I hate being the bearer of bad news, but a witch has been spotted – had been,” he quickly corrected himself.
“What do you mean “had been”?”
“I mean she escaped,” Elias sighed.
It was now Henry’s turn to be smug as he gave a toothy grin. While it did present an issue (to Elias, anyway), Henry found pleasure in knowing that the priest was in turmoil over it. “Would it not be best to cancel the festival?” he teased, knowing fully well how much of a rile it will bring the priest.
“Yaan, no,” Elias barked. “The festival must go on, for how could it not? It is to celebrate our defeat of magic. I will not have it cancelled over one, hopefully dying, witch.” The priest took in a deep breath, trying to bring himself to calm.
It took every ounce of Henry’s strength not to groan out loud. It was likely he alone was not in a festive mood. “Is that all?” Henry asked, wishing nothing more than to leave the wretched temple and get himself a glass of wine… or ten.
“There is the matter of the rebels,” Elias stated matter of factly.
“I assure you,” Henry said, “they won’t be causing any trouble.” Henry turned his back on the High Priest, doing his best to hide the smirk that had taken hold of his features. Elias was stressed, Henry knew that much, and seeing the High Priest in such dismay pleased him so.
“Thank you,” Elias called out, as Henry reached the wooden door and made his way out to the warm embrace of the sun.
From the moment she was born, Eileen had found herself in one tough situation followed by another, but never once did she feel like a rat in a wooden box… or stone, in her case.
She gazed upon her surroundings, not that there was much to look upon – three out of four of her corners were nothing more than stone walls, windowless, offering naught a sight of her outside surroundings. Her only view existed outside the bars of her cell door.
Some view, she thought, sliding her back against the stone wall as she stared at the empty cell opposite her, stretching out her legs as her rear came in contact with the cold, hard floor. Hope slipped away from her as the seconds passed. She had been locked away in her cell for two days with her thoughts and occasional guards for company. For two days, she attempted to break free, but to no avail.
Sighing, Eileen closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift deep into her mind. Memories took hold of her, occupying her thoughts. She thought of a beach with warm rays of the sun touching upon her cheeks as sand played between her toes. Soft and rather warm fingers wrapped themselves around her own as the fragrance of jasmines made their home in her nostrils. Turning to the source, Eileen came upon a woman. She walked upright, towering over Eileen ever so slightly. She wore a dress of a bright yellow colour. A toothy smile formed on her face, highlighting her facial scar.
Whatever words Eileen wished to say refused to escape the tip of her tongue, causing her to simply stare at the woman before her. She lost herself in her – having been bewitched by her presence.
“You okay, sweetie?” the taller woman said, snapping Eileen back to reality.
“Beatrice, I… um…” A lump formed in Eileen’s throat. Her heart raced as her nerve all but fought against her.
“I know, sweetie,” Beatrice said as her toothy smile widened. “I lo-” Eileen’s trip down memory lane came to a sudden halt as a loud clanking sound was made. A large metal rod was driven into her cell door by a guard once… twice… and a third time for good measure.
“Prisoner,” he barked, “on your feet and face the wall.”
Eileen complied with the guard’s orders, slowly rising to her feet whilst dusting off the dirt on her clothing. She turned her back to him, planting her head against the wall.
“Place your hands behind your back.” And Eileen did. She felt an itch clutch onto her wrists as a sharp knot tied her hands together. The rope left little room for her to wriggle out of, and she did not consider kicking her way out as a wise exit s
trategy.
The guard gripped tightly onto her shoulder, violently turning her forward and slamming her against the wall, causing her to whack her head against the hard, stone surface. Wincing, she failed to hide her pain as a ringing sound echoed in her ears.
A second guard walked in, holding a tray of food and water. He placed them in the corner, straightened himself, and gazed upon Eileen and then his partner. “Why are we feeding traitors?” he asked. “She should be left starving.”
“The High Priest wishes to keep her alive,” was the response as he turned Eileen back and began to untie her ropes.
“What for?”
“Questioning, you fool.” The knot was untied, releasing Eileen, but he kept his hand placed on her back and his gaze on her. “I don’t suppose you would just tell us now so we can be done with you?”
“Tell you what?” Eileen said, opting to play dumb.
“Don’t take me for a fool, girl,” the guard barked. “Your bitch of a witch, where is she?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Knuckles came in contact with the back of her skull, increasing the pain already orbiting her head. She slid down, her face rubbing against the cold wall as she did. The grumbling and angry guard left with his partner not far behind, and Eileen could distinctly make him out, hearing words such as “waste” and “time.”
Their chatter and metal footsteps faded away, leaving Eileen alone once again. Nursing her skull, Eileen turned her sight back to the cell door. She pressed her back against the wall, closed her eyes, and attempted to focus on anything but the pain.
“Beatrice,” she muttered under her breathe, “stay safe.”
Pain coursed through her body – each joint and muscle giving off their own silent screams, letting their aching be heard. Beatrice slowly came to, trying not to succumb to her aching body.
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