Đọc truyện Author Games: A Prince's War

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♔Task Four: Elusia♔

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FOUND PEACE AMONG THE FLOWERS

Warriors don't weep and so naturally, Ro doesn't weep cuz she thinks she's too kewl for everyone. And then when the torture guy thing leaves, her ppl come to save her. But she be v injured and cannot walk by herself. So she get help from Jo the ho, but she pushes him away because oh ho ho, we have a traitor in our midst! And he apologizes but she's liek "don't talk to me" and then he be like a sad puppy because the girl he sacrificed his kingdom for (what an idiot lol) hate him now. And he try again to tend to her wounds and she's like "fuk u, I hate u" and then he continue looking slad.

And he try to tell her "Ro pls, I did it for you" but she's not hearing any of it bc her top priority is her family and he put them in jeopardy by betraying Elusia. So she hate him naow.

And this is why u don't betray ur kingdom for love, kids. They prolly won't liek it, and ur better off visiting the whorehouse if u really want "love." They'll make luv to you which is the same thing as luv kind of. (It's not but who cares, if ur gonna die, die having sex amirite? HAHAHA)

And this is why PEC prolly hates Lindsay after this.

She broke the fourth wall and be submitting entries liek these bc she can! She knows she sucks ok.

Now to fill in that word minimum!

CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON. CASSIUS IS GONNA DIE SOON.

RO WILL THROTTLE CASSIUS.

SHE WILL REKT HIM.

THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING. THIS IS A WARNING.

I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC. I'M COMING FOR YOU, CROC.

RO WILL THROTTLE CASSIUS.

SHE WILL REKT HIM.

Also Ray is the best this has been a PSA.

RO WILL THROTTLE CASSIUS.

SHE WILL REKT HIM.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Croc is a mugger,

This poem's for you.

Cassius can sing,

He sings with despair,

Aurora wonders what this war will bring,

O leary she is with this pain she must bear,

Josias betrayed her,

He is a traitor to his people,

Secretly Ro's heart is unsure,

No more sex near the steeple.

Pretend that last verse didn't happen,

No it totally did not,

Continue on clappin,

As Cassius says his last thought.

Listen closely to this rhyme,

It says what war's all about,

War is about time,

And what happens when the sun fades out.

Amen.

The earth is home to all living creatures, Sana Auxiliari included, and it is in this knowledge that she finds some peace of mind.

Ever since the knights from Adrigole snuck into the palace with the mission to assassinate Prince Johnathan, Sana has been...shaken to her core. She knew what she was getting into when she volunteered as a knight; she knew what war was and what it included, but she didn't know what it meant to live in that constant state. She knew that one day soon she would have to harm someone—physically harm them. She knew she would have to shoot an arrow directed at an artery, knew she would have to launch a spear at an opponent's heart. She knew she would have to harm someone eventually, because this is war and causalities are just as prominent as false hope.

Sana has been nothing like herself because she has been completely retracted from reality, thinking the things she has thought. Yes, she may have volunteered for a war, and yes, she may have expected that she would not come out unscathed, but that does not mean she has accepted what is coming.

She has been nothing like herself—that much is true, that much is accepted.

Florian Hawthorne, a great confidant, has attempted to talk to her, to assure her that whatever she did or did not do in the dungeon is nothing to take personally. There have been many times she has wanted to yell at him that it is personal, that the moment she decided to spare the man in the cell, that the moment Prince Johnathan found out about this, it became personal. How many times has she wanted to scream, one who peers into her mind may ask? Nearly uncountable, she would respond.

It has been personal since the very beginning; it has been personal, and that is the sole reason why she volunteered in the first place. How else could she repay the community that took care of her? How else could she say thank you to the people who have always said "you're welcome" before she even uttered a word?

This is how she shows her gratitude, by risking her life on the frontlines of Elusia's army, by being a knight of whom they could be proud. Sana is doing this for them more than she does for Elusia, than she does for herself.

Still, however, as heartfelt and brave as her intentions may be, she has retracted into herself, she has sunk into herself, and until this war ends and comes to a close there is no chance of her fully coming back. Still, however, all mindsets and trains of soul aside, she finds some peace of mind despite it all.

Around her, adding a small sense of security, the trees breathe of Fallholt. These dense forests feel as if she took a wrong turn and any minute now she will find one of her sweet water rivers and make her way home.

Over the river and through the woods, she sings, to the Palace of Adrigole we go.

She and a dozen knights, two of who she knows by name—Tedric North and her beloved Florian Hawthorne—have been sent on yet another specialized mission by Prince Johnathan. It's one of stealth and, while one would think that a smaller group would be more likely to fit in, they need the numbers.

Usually Sana would burst at the seams for a group mission—she does better with others, after all. But looking at their faces, some grim with the possibility of death—or worse, capture—and others grinning with the idea of rescuing allies, she is nauseated. They have been travelling for about three days, and they haven't lost anyone, but in a matter of seconds all of them could be lost.

She is not the leader of the group, yet if anything were to happen to them their deaths would be on her conscience. Their memories like a ghost would haunt her mind and plague her soul—that much is true, that much is accepted.

Around her, the forest becomes thicker still, the branches reaching out to adjacent trees and tangling like fingers interlocked with fingers. Such is the nature of nature, she thinks, common roots find common ends; such is the nature of man, with enemy finding foe and entangling until only one rises.

Once more, her heart lurches and drops to the very pit of her stomach; she is green and blue allover.

Before she can ask one of the leading knights for a respite, Florian approaches her once more. Whether he believes she looks green because she is physically sick or sick of seeing him, he doesn't bring it up, he simply begins conversation.

"I do not like what we are about to do," he states clearly, not a pause for reaction. "We have travelled for three days, but not once have we encountered any inhabitants. It is almost as if they are waiting for us, and any minute they will drop from the trees and attack."

Sana wasn't even thinking about that. Her mind was definitely elsewhere, and though she did examine the background, all she thought about was how the forest looks like that of Fallholt. "Maybe so, but cities in Adrigole are mostly centered on the east coast, and we are coming from the rural northwest."

"I suppose," replies Florian. "I just...do not enjoy the feeling. It feels as if we are passing through sacred land. Do you know any of the religious beliefs held by the people of Adrigole?"

"I know only of the Wicarians—we have passed their lands already—but for religion as we know it, I am unsure."

He takes a moment to process this and after a few seconds he thanks her for the insight and excuses himself.

Rather than focus on his sentiment and questions, she chooses to focus on the "sacred ground" he mentioned. Of course both kingdoms have pieces of land that have been nearly sanctified for being historical locations, but, from what she knows, Elusia doesn't have real "sacred ground." She is uncertain if there ever has been land set aside for special treatment, and she is completely clueless as to if Adrigole does, but she is sure that they—she, Florian, and the other knights—are stepping on sacred ground.

The earth may be home to all, but these forests—even if they mirror those of Fallholt—are not their homes. In the scheme of war, this is enemy territory, this is a possible location for battle and casualty; but in the scheme of the world, this land is home to people who already live here, and it is unknowable to those who trespass.

She realizes that is what she and all knights are: trespassers. Earth may be home to all—she will stand by that until the day she takes her last breath—but Sana knows that once territories are distributed and boundaries drawn, all outsiders are trespassers. Whether they be a peaceful passerby, the person is a trespassers. Whether it be sacred ground or common land, the person is a trespasser.

Sana is a trespasser; these forests will never be like the ones from home.

There is no more comfort in the thought that she could lose herself and believe that a wrong turn will lead her home—a wrong turn will lead to the loss of her life.

She and the knights are deep in the stomach of Adrigole, that much is true and accepted; she and the knights are headed into a mission that will lead to death and rescue, that much is true and accepted; she and the knights are trespassers, that much is true and accepted by only by her.

Yes, no longer will the interlocked trees and the trickle of river water be signs of welcome—they are warnings that this is home to others, never to them. And if Sana volunteered to protect her Fallholt and people from the possibility of invasion, what will those who have just been invaded do to protect themselves from the Elusian knights?

Things like those cannot be true and accepted until they are met, and Sana will find out what her sacrifice looks like to the people on the other side.

Almost like a warning signal, the wind picks up and changes direction subtly, moving a loose strand of her hair from the left to the right. Sana looks back up to the blue sky, slowly getting cloudier and grayer as the seconds tick. There has always been the possibility of a storm brewing because of her and the knights, but now there is a chance for a real storm of rain and thunder—lightning.

At last, they reach the outskirts of Erenad, and the group splits into three sub-groups. The first is comprised of Tedric and six other knights, who are to infiltrate the dungeons and try to rescue the five captured knights; the second is made of Florian and two others who are to go to a market and find out information from locals; the third is made of Sana and two knights who are to sneak into the closest war camp, roughly a mile away from the palace's grounds.

By the end of the night, they will meet at a base; by the coming of the sun, those who have returned will leave.

"What are your names?" Sana asks the knights who are in her group. "I am Sana of Fallholt."

"Anastasia of Migolith."

"Demetrius of Belmoor."

Sana smiles grimly at them because before they were simply people she had to work with, but now they are real and as human as she is; now, if they are harmed, it is personal.

Following the thunderous sound of footsteps, the lightning clap of laughter, they make their way into the perceived Adrigolian war camp. Fires are just beginning to burn; the smell of mixed wine is in the air; and the presence of both arrogance and fear are thick enough to choke on.

Small groups compete for titles all will soon compete: Erik, the man who can farthest throw a discus; Genna, the woman who can outrun others in her age group; Jubilee, the girl with only a knife who can disarm anyone. How long will their legacy live? Until someone better comes along? Or until they are discarded by the hand of an Elusian?

Part of Sana hopes they outlive their legacy, but that is not how kleos works.

After two hours of snooping around with Anastasia and Demetrius, a man takes notice of them. He immediately reminds Sana of the man she interrogated, as they both have the same dark skin and thick hair. Part of her wants to retreat immediately, but she knows that will only cause suspicion.

Beside her, Demetrius whispers, "We are from Laesh, okay?"

The man now stands in front of them and examines them, "Aren't you a little too young to be here?" he asks.

As quick as he was with his suggestion, Demetrius banters back. "Is that a jab? I cannot tell." Sana almost glares at him for being so harsh—the man is simply curious—but then she remembers those from Laesh are considered incredibly cautious, and a question like this is in character.

"What are you, kids from Laesh?"

"As a matter of fact," Anastasia buts in, with a small squint of her own, "we are. And we are also of age, to answer your previous question."

The man looks them over again and surprisingly apologizes. "I always forget that Laesh are...private people—no offense intended, of course. Were you all born there? You don't look like the typical sea people, and you talk all formal and stuff. I thought Laesh..."

Sana finally includes herself by giving him a pointed look. If she wants to be believable, she has to act a little harsh—not rash, harsh. Laesh are private, as the man has just confimed, and his spiel about their mannerism could cross a potential line.

"No need to apologize," she says when it looks as if the man is about to do so. "No offense taken. But if you excuse us, we must continue seeing...the javelin throw. My friend's sister is competing."

They leave the man, and around them the atmosphere continues to gray.

More crowds form, but the only stop to look at one, this one more boisterous than the previous, with more people too.

Demetrius, with his bigger figure, moves through the crowd with ease, his hand gripping Sana's, and Sana gripping Anastasia's. Though not all the way in the front, they do have a clear image: a boy with flowers in his hair, a woman who looks like Anastasia, and a man with scars across his neck are in the center; all are on their knees and have their hands tied; they scan the crowd, not with fear, but with determination.

When Sana makes eye contact with one, the boy with the flowers, she takes a step forward, but someone pushes her back.

Anastasia, however, isn't held back by anyone.

As quick and as cold as the bitter winds from Migolith, she takes out a sword and cuts the bonds on her sister. She moves to cut those on the man with the scars, but she is pulled from the hood of her coat.

Time is usually something Sana cannot count; she can spend days in the garden and have it feel like only seconds, but right now everything is slow and tedious. She sees how a group of Adrigolians quickly push aside the man with scars, pull their weapons out on Anastasia, and try to hurt Anastasia's sister. Florian, for the moment, goes unnoticed, until Sana makes her move toward him. Demetrius, once more, doesn't allow her. Instead, he pulls her over to where a smaller crowd is forming around the sisters, both of who are now bleeding and completely surrounded.

The commotion of everything, from people getting a closer look or simply moving away from the ruckus, has left things unattended, fire among them. Demetrius quick on his feet, picks up discarded torches and lights them on fire, throwing them into the crowd. Sana, however, doesn't join him, and goes to Florian.

Passing him nonchalantly, she cuts his bonds with a knife. When someone, a man who looks as angry as the sea and as rough as the rocks eroded by waves, tries to grip her, her knife is quick again. She doesn't stop to see if anyone else saw, or if he's following her—she knows where it hit.

When she makes her way to the crowds surrounded by fire, she doesn't listen to the people to get out before the flames become too big. No, instead she runs straight to the sisters, one who is already dead, and the other who has a few wounds too many.

"Sana," Anastasia of Migolith pleads.

And because mercy incarnate commits selfless acts, the girl from forest slits the throat of the girl from snow.

The earth—from sea to forest to snow to mountain—may be home to all, but this is something completely different. Sana Auxiliari and the knights from Elusia have trespassed into Adrigolian land, and as retribution they now have blood of their own kin staining their hands and their essence.

Lesson Four: Thorns and Roses

The paved roads fade away into dirt paths, and the Adrigolian castle becomes a thing of the past. I rein Herschel in at a trot, following at the back of the line. Hours ago I'd been worried about leaving him in the cold, but we found he'd wrestled free from his post and found a spot to graze. Still, I can tell from his heavy breathing that he's tired, but there's nothing much I can do besides share water and food.

The sky is drunk on a dark, inky hue. Two feet in front of me, Herschel's glossy coat glints under the moonlight, but I can only see the rest of him with my ears and hands. The only sounds behind me are those of his hooves grinding into the dirt. Off the path, silhouettes sway against the backdrop, crinkling with every gust of wind.

Fingers twitch. A pair of arms, circled stubbornly loosely around my waist, are barely enough to ensure that Herschel's second rider stays on the saddle. He jostles over a bump in the road, sending her into a collision against my back, arms tightening hastily around my waist. When the danger passes, she loosens them again, pulling herself as far away as her arms will allow her.

Sana turns, riding just paces behind Florian. "You alright?"

I smile back before realising she can't possibly see me. "Yeah, alright."

I see a swish of her hair as she turns back around, and then she's looking back again. "Aurora? Are you alright?"

The air behind me remains soundless.

I catch Sana's eye in the darkness and give her a reassuring shrug. She'll come around. She'll come around. I hope.

I flick the reins and continue moving us forward. The words at the tip of my tongue are both gentle and biting. Something frustrating is embedded in her silence, and yet there is nothing worth blaming her for. After all, there's no part of her behaviour that I hadn't come to expect. I settle on a sentence and run the words through my head, once, twice. "Are you going to keep mum forever?"

Aurora shifts and says nothing.

I feel myself bristling, the words in my throat growing an edge as they leave my mouth. "You really can't, you know."

Quietly, "I thought you could take care of yourself."

My chest expands with a deep breath, a biting, arrogant remark finding its way through. I wasn't taking care of me, I want to say. It was you.

I shake my head. "I can."

Her chest quivers, and this time her voice is louder than a whisper meant for me and me alone. "You betrayed the kingdom, Josias."

A part of me withers and dies like a cut flower in the sun. When I look up, I see that no one has turned around. "I know."

She takes in a shaky breath, but her voice remains even. "Why?"

"You'd be angrier if you knew."

"Are you not going to tell me?"

No.

The arms around my waist tighten like a corset. "For eighteen hours I sat in that cell, running through reason after reason as to why you could've done what you did. I thought of everything. I didn't buy a single reason on the list. I felt as if I didn't know you at all. And I asked you those questions because I wanted to understand. That maybe you had a reason I couldn't see. That maybe you weren't a terrible, absolute bastard. But you've proved me wrong."

"Get some sleep, Ro."

But I know he won't. Not on horseback, which she's always been terrified of, and not with the words left unsaid. When Herschel jostles us over a pothole, I feel myself shatter along the cracks and rain shards onto the dirt. The pain is sharp, not yet dulled to an ache by time, and feels like it'll go on and on and on.

But the path continues. The horse carries forward.

Thorns don't wilt, but roses do.

The hallways were alive inside the castle of King Gavin. They radiated magic through them, a steady flow that weaved itself through well-lit lanterns strung along walls and down the dark, crumbling stone steps that lead to the chambers below the castle. If the palace was to be a body, then the King's chamber was the heart, fortified by thick, bone walls and pumping out an abundance of protection spells and heavy wardings. It was a mystery to the boy if his companions could feel it too, the pull of the heart that mercilessly tugged him toward the center. Inviting and warm, but deadly beneath the skin.

In comparison, the vein North traveled down was tiny. Water dripped down the worn stone, curving around the thick groves formed long ago. It splattered on the ground below to create shallow puddles and brought to life the tiny, measly plants that had taken root in the cracks between the bricks. They were more like weeds, growing in near darkness, struggling to survive in the only place they had found a home. North avoided them carefully as he followed the faded hallway alone. Each of the other knights had abandoned him for their own pathway, Sana taking the wide corridor that led down through the guards quarters and Ansel slipping through the kitchen's back stairwell. They thought it best to split up, and while the idea was a large gamble, Tedric had agreed.

The boy enjoyed the silence that came with being alone. The only sound in the long, dark hallway was his own footsteps. Left, right, left, a thin scrape and stumble as he tripped over an overturned stone. Everything down there was falling apart. In fact, the path he was on wasn't even listed as an option on any war plans. It was lost among schematics and labeled as nothing. North was lucky he'd stumbled across it to begin with.

As Tedric traveled farther down, the incline biting into his thighs, he felt his messenger bag thump heavily against him. Placing a hand on it, he whispered a quick, "Stay still," and hurried on. It wriggled at the command, not pleased by the idea. He pressed against it harder and felt the fabric butt against his hand. A soft mew escaped the flap. Unable to keep the squirming, heaving mass from repeatedly smacking into his left hip, the boy gave in. He unclipped the buckles and watched the Abyssinian peak her head out of the bag.

"Hi, Kitty," he murmured, stopping and letting her take his hand between her teeth. She bit down with a soft nibble. North felt nothing from the love bit except for the pressure of her teeth, gone as quick as they came.

Her whiskers twitched as she took in the scent of the stuffy, rotten atmosphere, and another meow escaped her throat. Tedric scratched the spot between her ears, trying to assure himself she wasn't going to go leaping out of the bag before he started walking again. Thankfully, she seemed content to sit and watch the passing stone. Most of her body hid in the thick blanketing he'd provided, only her chin and above appearing out of the flap. Every so often the cat's ears would flicker in one way or another, detecting something he couldn't behind the thick stones.

When a wall appeared before the pair, Tedric stopped dead. Ice rushed through his blood, a warning weaving its way through the boy's skin. Prickling heat danced along the dark black streaks on his skin, warming his cheeks and chest. His hand ran over the cloak covering it, massaging the fabric with nimble fingers. The wall wasn't built of solid bricks or thick stone stopping their path. Any Elysian wouldn't have recognized it for a wall at all, but the shimmering, thin red was clear to North. It was an obvious trap, much like a tripwire back home. Unless you were going slow enough to see it, even someone from Adrigole could have barreled right through it and tipped off those who set up the safeguard.

Biting his bottom lip, he ran a hand over the alley cat's head. "What now?" The words hit the empty air and echoed back, traveling out into the darkness before them and returning.

Something flashed across the ground. Behind the red sat a small mouse. Its fur was a dark brown, flecked with grey. Nose wiggling, ears perking up it stared at both of them. Seeing no threat, it dashed across the floor and to the middle of the hall. Grubby little paws scratched at the ground. The boy felt the bag resting against his hip shift. His eyes darted down, catching the way the Abyssinian's paws perched on the lip of the satchel. Her eyes flickered and her whiskers twitched. Before he could think to stop her, the cat had leapt onto the stone and squared her haunches, tail swishing behind her.

"Sonja, don't," North begged. "Come on, let's go. We can walk back the way we came, find a different path." His urging fell on deaf ears. She was solely focused on her pray, waiting for the mouse to move again. Desperate, the boy crept up behind her. Silence settled in the hall as he made it behind the cat, trying to bend his knees slow, his arms stretched down. The moment his fingers brushed her fur, however, she pounced.

Lunging after her to yank her back, Tedric's elbows crashed against the stone floor, his stomach following. At a loss for breath, he swiped for the cat. His fingers touched her coat, only grazing it as she dashed through the wall of red and met her prey. With fangs sunk in deep and claws pinning a twitching tail, she turned back to him. It was a look of satisfaction, and as she wandered back over to him the ice flooded out of his veins, leaving him empty. Sonja dropped the mouse in front of him, coat rubbing up against his cheek as she purred.

"Don't think that counts as an apology," Tedric murmured, aching as he stood back up. "Now we're on a tightened schedule." He scooped the cat up in his arms, who now was all too happy to go back in the messenger bag with her new kill. Locking the clasps to make sure he wouldn't make the same mistake twice, the boy hurried forward.

If he could still outrun whatever the trap had triggered, he would be safe - or so he figured. Running down a darkened hall, though, proved more difficult for predicting when the stone changed directions. His nose almost smashed into a sharp turn, his elbow scraping against another wall when a curve came up. Even with his eyes squinted, North had trouble seeing two feet ahead of him. As he ran his foot found another upturned stone in the old path, sending him spilling. His chin cracked against the stone, hard enough to bruise. It didn't hurt him, but a hiss came from clenched teeth above.

Tedric froze for less than a second. He tried to scramble away, hands pushing off against the filth covered floor, but it was too late. A hand secured itself onto the back of his cloak, hauling him onto his feet. He could see now the stone he tripped over was a foot, covered by a thick, black boot. Air fled Tedric's lungs, strangled out of him as his cloak cut tightly into his neck. The man holding him was much taller, strong enough to force the boy on his tiptoes. Thankfully, it lasted more than a second before he was released, falling back on his feet and being pushed up against a wall.

"You should've been more careful," the man said, his voice surprising light for what North had expected from a royal adviser. Had it been anyone else, North wouldn't have had a clue of their identity. Garner, however, wore an aura as thick as the cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It was as intimidating, if not more so than his gaze. He looked him over in swift appraisal, choosing a to stare a few seconds longer at the boy's frightened eyes, and finished with a swift nod to himself. "Elysian, no doubt," he muttered the words to himself, almost sounding disappointed before he reached for North's hood. "Well, let's get a good look at you then.

Tedric struggled uselessly. He kicked out his feet, unable to land a blow with the length Garner kept between them, pinning him to the wall without the need of his hands. His hood fell back and pooled at his shoulders, revealing his pale face in the dim light of the torches in the hall. Silence swelled as North waited for more to be said, to be called scum or told he was going to be thrown straight into the dungeon he was trying to sneak into. Instead, Garner was frozen. His eyes had widened in surprise as he took in his opponent's face. Lips parted slightly, the mage struggled to find words.

"Those markings," he whispered, stepping in to get a closer look. A smile crept onto his expression, quickly widening. "My my, that's a surprise. Where did you get those?"

Tedric struggled against the wall. His feet scraped the stone in an attempt to push off and twist out of whatever power held him there. It was a useless fight. He was a bug pinned to the wall in the midst of being dissected. Garner's eyes flickered over with intent interest and as he stepped closer, the boy flinched. A thumb that should have been calloused with years of fighting and conquering was soft as it ran against his cheek, tracing one of the blackened markings.

"Handcrafted too," he breathed out, impressed as he grabbed Tedric's chin and tilted the boy's face to the side. "Someone really must have taken a shine to you." He mulled over his own words, forming a frown across his lips as his eyebrows knit. "But where... would they come from? The North Clan doesn't stretch as far East as Elusian. I've seen a few imitations, but nothing on this scale."

"Wha-what?" The word was a whisper as it escaped the knight's throat. He felt his heart sink deep into his stomach. His struggle died, his shoulders folding in. What was Garner talking about? Tedric parted his lips to ask more, but nothing came out. His body was near trembling.

"No," Garner dismissed his own train of thought, ignoring his captive completely. "It's certainly the real deal. One of the stronger curses I've seen." His eyes turned up to meet Tedric's eyes, watching them in a new light, almost greedy as he posed his next question. "How many of these have you got?"

His question referred to the thick black ink burned into the boy's skin, which he was again finding an odd need to touch. It made Tedric's entire body shudder with the cold contact of skin. "Nine," he admitted, watching fearfully for a reaction.

"Nine times dead, huh?" Garner mused, his lips twitching. "Rather young for that," he decided, not bothering to ask Tedric his age. A sigh brushed his lips, boarding on too long as his eyes wandered away, taking in the darkened hall and traveling to the messenger bag that hung beside the boy on the wall before coming back. "So, where did you get them?"

Tedric clamped his lips shut. He knew that much. His father had been the one to curse him, promising it to be a blessing. So long ago were the words that he no longer dared to believe them. A blessing didn't tear things away from you; it kept you safe and happy and alive. Alive, yes, but the others were far from the truth. Still, he wouldn't give the information to someone who was pinning him to grime ridden stone and pressing him for answers.

Something sounded, a footstep, or a scuffle, an echo far down the corridor from them. Both turned their heads to look to the left. A shoe lay there, beaten and muddied and bloody. It was the only thing illuminated by the torchlight, sitting perfectly in the middle of the old, warped stone. Garner narrowed his eyes and took to approach it. The moment he did, however, another shoe matching the first collided with his skull. The mage crumpled to his knees, head spinning as Tedric felt himself fall free of the wall.

The owner of both shoes, Aurora, appeared out of the darkness. She latched onto the boy's hand and yanked him forward, already off running after delivering the blow. He stumbled, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to keep up. "North, come on!" She tugged harder and this time he came with, rushing after her. Josias too was sprinting along with them, uninjured in comparison to the girl that looked ragged and weathered, blood soaked through her blouse.

As they fled, North cast one glance back. It chilled him to the bone. His eyes met Garner's, still recovering as the man struggled to stand. They were dangerous, and a recognition sparked in his eyes as if he had figured out something deadly important, something that North hadn't yet let click in his mind. Swallowing the heavy lump that burned in his throat, the boy turned away and kept running forward.

The trio made it out of the long, dark hallway out into the daylight. A tarp of heavy cloth was pushed aside to lead them into a courtyard, the one Tedric had passed when he first entered. Above the castle, however, the sun was beginning to set. Reds and oranges mixed together above as they slipped as silent as shadows through palace walkways and between empty rooms. They caught no sign of any guards, except for a lone one that rushed by on his way to the dungeons, his arm slipped through one shirt sleeve and the other whipping in the breeze as he ran.

North had no clue where they were going from there. The information had been dictated to Ansel, who meet up with them and the others out past the castle gate between heavy bushes of thorns. He led them through the underbrush of a nearby forest, forcing North to take the back and watch their tail. He felt uneasy, but he knew the others weren't fairing much better. Those that had been caught were either wounded bad or oddly silently, their heads down as guilt flashed beneath their eyes. Tedric had no room to speak on the matter, though, and even if he was in his own rights a saint he wouldn't have. The silence was better, calmer, quieter, and less stifling than the sound of voices.

Eventually, beneath the dying light of the sky, they stumbled upon an encampment of soldiers. It was easy enough to slip into the back of one of the empty tents, to watch as the wounded settled down and they regrouped. North tried his best to calm himself, to believe the other's words that they would be safe there for the night, but an unease crept in North's throat when he peeked outside the tent. Among soldiers and horses and stacks of supplies, his eyes caught hold of black ink. The mark was on a young man's skin, encircling his neck and marking him with what North knew to be his curse.

Waking up this morning was definitely a mistake, Constance thought dryly as she experienced yet another type of pain. Really, she could've written a book over the differences between whips and stones.

"Spill your secrets," the man Constance had the displeasure of meeting snarled, saliva spraying from his canines as he leaned close, yanking her head by the hair closer still. "Spill, or I'll force them to gush out with the blood you will lose!"

Constance smiled her crazed, bloody, broken little grin, proudly displaying the chipped teeth she sported. Her throat worked and a tiny choked sound emitted from her. Constance wanted to laugh. She continued to grin despite the pain growing in her leg as the man's patience began to wear thin. Constance thrusted her chin upwards and pushed a single word through, her fiery eyes churning like the angry seas and the pupils reducing to slits. They spoke thousands as her mouth uttered one. "Never."

And then she did laughed. Her body began to quake and the blood that had started to clot shook loose, running down her bruised and muddy skin in rivets. Her eyes widened impossibly wide and her blackened teeth parted as the raspy, crackling giggles rose and echoed in the room. Shrieks of insanity wove themselves into her voice and cries settled in comfortably. Constance threw her head back and kept her eyes peeled open, tilting her head to the side as she stared unblinkingly at the guards standing guard at the entrance. They recoiled in disgust and she laughed more, delighting in their squirming.

She had power! She could make them feel and show emotions! She could force them to move and scramble! She grinned, closemouthed chuckles mixing with the decidedly delicious sound of her bones moving and clacking against each other under her flaky skin.

"That's it, you filthy pirate," the man she had come to call Jared in her wrecked mind wheezed. His voice sounded choked and strained. What could possibly cause that? Constance lifted her head to look at him, a confused pout on her lips. He seemed paler since the last time she had glanced at him and — hey, when had he moved her leg there...

The heavy stone fell on her leg with a sickening crunch. Constance felt herself begin to scream.

Pain ignited in her limb as bones shattered and fragments broke through the thin skin like needles and thistles. Nerves were brutally crushed and blood oozed out from under the stone like water from a fountain. Fire burned through, and then ice pierced, a constant icy hot that entirely destroyed her mind and leg.

She heard herself scream, an almost incredulous screech that shook the ground and rattled the walls, dust collected over the ages dislodging and raining down. She felt herself laugh, a sarcastic shriek that seemed so out of place mingling with her cries and yet right at home.

Constance's back arched and a ringing entered her ears. It masked the sound of the stone lifting. The pain flared and she clenched her eyes shut. Her chest heaved and Constance found it difficult to remain conscious. Jared must've realised that as well, because she felt rough hands slid under her, moving her body off the table and a cool wind ruffled her hair that stuck to the sweat drying on her forehead. No use torturing a prisoner when she couldn't feel it, eh?

A sparkle caught her attention. It was an awkward thing, its blade thin and flimsy and its hilt clunky and large, but the knife was sharp and usable. It would have to do.

Constance forced her groggy body to spasm, stretching and contracting harshly. Jared and the guards yelped, pouncing to control the erratic prisoner. Constance's finger caught the blade on the table as they passed, its tip lodging deep and she winced. She flicked her wrist, bringing the knife with it and pushed it into her wide, open sleeve.

Her body stilled and she mimed unconsciousness, correcting her breathing accordingly. The guards sighed in relief and hurried down the corridor. The torches in either side of the passage flickered, little red balls of light filtering through her eyelids. It was soothing and Constamce wished she could relax into sleep's comforting embrace, but she doubted her fellow imprisoned knights would know what she needed them to do. She would have to deal.

The footsteps ceased and in its place was the clicking of keys and a lock. Seconds later came weightlessness as she was thrown in, and after that was more pain when she hit the ground and rolled.

"Constance!"

That was Josias. Constance felt him shift and the sound of cloth sliding on skin reached her ears. He pressed the grimy tunic to her leg, to which she hissed at, and gasped. Constance was suddenly extremely glad she stayed conscious.

She cracked open her eyes. The horror on their faces — Josias crouched at her leg, Aurora on her knees at her head, Ansel further in the cell with Lark, who was still laying down where she had been when Constance had left, they were all there and accounted for — told her exactly what she needed to know and she sobbed, her muscles giving up and slumping to the floor. The dripping cloth and warm hand at her leg jerked, bringing her attention back to that little matter.

"Don't," Constance gasped out, yelling at her hand to raise until the knife she had nicked clattered on the cell floor. She lifted her gaze to meet Aurora's wide eyed stare unflinchingly. She nodded at her, a small, remorseful smile painting her lips. "Please," she begged. "It's my only chance."

Aurora's eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping out. She nodded and unfurled her own leg, pointing to a section where Constance knew the bones met. "Here?" she inquired, choking on tears and her own throat.

Constance confirmed, and let sleep take her with a sob. She trusted her patrol would follow through. If they didn't, if they chickened out at the last moment, Constance would die.

Which, you know, isn't exactly ideal.

:-:-:-:

The first time she woke, — a mistake if you asked her — there was a sense of loss. She was sick to the stomach and the weight from her legs hung unevenly. However, that feeling could be from the way she was hurriedly being manhandled.

"Where're we goin'," Constance mumbled sleepily. Her chest was pressed against someone's sharp shoulder and she struggled to breathe properly. Not that she really noticed much in her drunken state. Her mind was all loopy and swirly inside. She giggled.

"We are going on an adventure." Male. Hushed. Strangely familiar but definitely rushing. Constance shifted over his shoulder, which allowed air to rush into the lungs she hadn't realized were cramped, her attention pinned down on the weird tone.

"I feel funny," Constance mumbled, startled by his low voice. Why was he whispering? "Off balance."

The man chuckled humorlessly. "I imagine you would." His chest heaved irregularly under her and his footsteps barely clicked as he swiftly steered down and up corridors.

Constance's head had started to hurt and she let it relax and fall against his shoulder blades. She stared at the ground, bored and curious about that alien feeling coming from her leg. But she felt too lazy and sluggish to lift up her head and strain her neck to investigate. It'll probably go away soon anyways.

Constance began to count the little splashes of red she saw on the smooth stone of the passage. It was the only color in the dull corridors and it immediatly attracted her, like a child to chocolate. Something in her mind clicked by the tenth dot and a spear of some sharp emotion stabbed her straight through her heart. She stiffened and the man grunted an inquiry.

"Are you injured?" Constance wished her voiced sounded steadier, instead of the raspy and wobbly thing it was.

The man hummed noncommittally. "Why do you ask?"

Constance swallowed hard. "There's blood on the floor."

He stopped. Constance heard his sharp intake of breath and the sudden clenching of his hold around her back. Nausea hit Constance like a truck as he whirled around, jostling her. She groaned, her head throbbing. Black had begun to curl at the edges of her vision, but she fended off the stalking tendrils with a hasty "Nope, not today, thanks."

The man gave a close mouthed whine of frustration and shook his head as he surveyed the mess, unceremoniously dumping Constance to the floor and ripping his shirt up and off, shredding the garment in half.

Constance was too focused on his face to process his request to lift up her leg, her eye twitching as it always did when she was thinking hard. She knew for sure now. She knew him, but from where or how she did still evaded her. Constance internally screamed.

"Oi! Constance!"

She didn't respond. He snarled and squatted down, yanking her leg up to lay across his knee. Or, what was left of her leg. Constance stared at the pitiful stump stupidly, thoughts having completely fled her brain. She didn't blame them. She wanted to run away from it, too.

The fabric of her pants had been cut away along with her limb and she realised whoever did the job had also wrapped up the leg in the cloth, its grey material soaked a blackish red. No wonder she felt off balance.

The man tied the final knot to secure his ruined shirt against her stump to catch the dripping blood. He glanced at her pale face and his expression softened. The male patted her fully functional leg comfortingly.

"Well," Constance said after a moment of silence. "This really isn't ideal, is it?"

"Not exactly."

"That's fine." Constance's voice rose several octaves as she felt herself slip sideways and the black at her vision's corners moved in.

"This is fine."

"Oi, Consta—"

Thud!

:-:-:-:-:

The second time she mistakenly woke, she was moving. She rolled around lifelessly in the bed of the wagon, watching as light filtering through trees dappled the canvas top. The horses bellowed and knights shouted orders over the rumbling of the wagon as it streaked across some rocky path. Bowstrings twinged and arrows thunked against the wood of trees they passed and the actual cart. The metal of swords clashed against each other as opposing knights fought on horseback.

The air was crisp and clean, minus the slight stench of blood and sharp herbs, but Constance didn't feel like breathing it in. The wind raced and goaded her, but she ignored it.

Constance groaned and pushed a wavering hand through her greasy, tangled hair. She lost her bandana in the hellhole called the Adrigole dungeons and she piteously lamented its loss.

"Ah, you're awake."

She turned her head to the voice, wincing as pain stabbed her forehead. Sana sat at a corner of the wagon bed, balancing with ease as the wagon rocked. "Unfortunetly," Constance agreed.

The woman laughed. "Perhaps not," she said. "Tedric would have thrown you out if you did not rouse soon."

Constance huffed. "Nice to know he cares."

Sana wilted. "He does care," she said in a decidedly small voice. "At least I think he does," she hurriedly added when Constance raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Constance sighed, slumping back down to rest. "The rest of the patrol. Are they okay?"

"Mostly unscathed. You were the only serious case. Ansel and Josias are out on a horse, Ansel shooting and Josias steering. Aurora is up front driving the wagon and Lark is..."

"Lark is what? You said I was the only serious case." Constance could feel her eyes burning with tears. At first they had been relief, but now she was terrified they would turn into grief.

Sana refused to meet her eyes, staring resolutely at her lap. "Only case when we got there. She took a sword to the stomach, Constance."

"Constance!"

She glanced up at the canvas flap pinned up by Josias' body. He grinned at her, Ansel peeking over him. "Welcome back to the world of the living."

Constance nodded, a small smile curling her lips, before the two boys disappeared and resumed defending.

"We should probably check your bandages," Sana said, scooting closer to her, brandishing wound dressings.

Constance's eyes narrowed. "Huh?"

"Your leg." She nodded towards her lower body. Its starting to bleed through and the numbing herbs should be fading away."

Constance froze. Her leg? What was wrong with her leg? Had she nicked it somehow? But nicking it wouldn't require the sheer amount of cloth Sana held, nor would numbing herbs be a nessecary. They would save those precious plants for a lost limb or something of the sort. She sat up and glanced down at her legs.

Or leg.

An arrow broke through the canvas, cutting deep across the bridge of Constance's nose. She felt blood leak out and heard Sana's panicked voice, but she could not react.

"Some herbs for shock," Constance muttered.

Oh what she wouldn't do for a pillow, she thought as her head thunked against the wood of the wagon.

:-:-:-:-:

The third time she woke, in the infirmary tent set up for the group of foot soldiers, she was safe and warm and correct in her timing.

She stared at the spot her missing leg should have occupied thoughtfully later that night, after all her visitors, friends she hadn't realised she had, had left to turn in for the night.

It could have been worse. She could've lost a tongue like Ansel, an eye as Aurora had, maybe a missing finger on her right hand to match the one on Josias' left, or even her life like Lark had. She had lost a leg and that was that. No use crying over it after it was said and done. After all, if she lived to tell the tales of her adventures when the war ended, she could still work as a scout on her father's ship.

Peggy Leggy made spectacular wooden legs, she heard.

Ansel was far too familiar with sickness.

It had been with him since his fourth autumn—the leaves had just begun to redden, and the wind had blown wild in warning of the hardships to come. It was the first of countless famines, and though it had been brief, the disease that had come with it was not. It was relentless, and far more than a half of the population suffered its brutal manifestation. The following winter, the snow-covered hills ran red with blood and were piled high with a body count far worse than any year prior. Ansel lost all but one of his grandparents that winter.

When Ansel turned fourteen, a deadly famine struck again, and the Migolithians coined the repeated occurrence the Ten Year Curse. This time, the famine lasted the entire winter, and a far greater number fell sick. Great Aunt Maria vomited blood for weeks, and though the sickness would eventually abandon her body, it left behind dark, nasty scars that were etched in detail in Ansel's mind. By the time midwinter came around, the temperatures had dropped depressingly low and the future looked as bleak as the gray sky above. Ansel's father had lost both of his brothers and a sister-in-law, and his wife was confined to a bed. Ansel vividly remembered Cecily's pale, stricken face at the sight of their mother on her deathbed, fair skin a sickly yellow and slender fingers far too still to be normal. Death took her gracefully, dimming her old, regretful eyes until they were never blue again. Cecily spoke no more than a word a day for a whole two weeks afterwards, and Ansel realized that not only had they lost a mother, but his sister's sweet, bubbly innocence as well. Perhaps, that was the greatest loss of all.

So when the pungent scents of blood and vomit invaded Ansel's nostrils, and the thick iron bars rang with the desperate cries of the incurable, he should've recognized what it was that had ignited within him.

There was a numbness that had began to crawl up his arm from his wrist, and though the mark on his forearm still burned, the pain has lessened considerably. He peered at the blurry, spinning world through half-shut eyes, and his head felt light as if it was afloat. His forehead burned with a heat far more intense than Migolith's arid summers, brewing a grueling storm of fever and sweat. His mouth was numb at the sides, and he couldn't feel his jaws, but the lingering taste of blood was bitter. His lips burned, dried and littered with cuts.

But there was something was wrong; there was something was gone.

A sudden desperation washed over him as he his head lifted, eyes widening with terror. His lips parted, but no tongue emerged. He felt for it at the back of his throat, but grew frantic as he searched for the roof of his mouth. When came up short with nothing but air, a sound so low, so wild, was thrown from his throat, and his vision flashed with colors. His hands tugged at his chains, and metal clanged against the stone as steel dug into his wrists.

No. A violent yank. No. Iron broke the surface of his skin, a messy array of cuts formed, scarlet red leaking out. The blood dribbled onto the floor, painting the stone red. No, no no...

Then, it was a boom far louder than anything he'd heard before. It was fire raging red and orange in a flurry of colors brighter than he'd seen before. It was smoke, gray and thick, spilling into his cell, clouding his vision, filling up his lungs. He coughed, eyes seeing nothing but gray, as his chains clattered on the stone beside him.

"Ansel." The voice was gentle like the wind, and with it came a rush of air, a breath of relief.

And when a man of golden hair pushed a key into the lock of the shackles that bound him, Ansel felt as free as the mountain air. He opened his mouth, about to ask about Aurora and Josias, but the stub of a tongue in his mouth moved without sound. The world came crashing down on his shoulders and he was, once again, in chains. Tears pricked his eyes, hues of blue swirling in a violent storm as a reality of his future settled within him, echoing through his hollow heart: he could never be free, not anymore.

"We're separating, so take this," Florian reached out a hand, and Ansel's gaze fell to the handle of the sword settled in his palm. He reached forward, stretching his aching fingers as his wrists burned, poisoned air toxic to his tender skin. The sword's hilt felt cold in his hand, and though it was smooth, it was unbalanced. He couldn't remember the last time he held a sword. He'd wielded a bow when he'd been caught, and even that felt like it was ages ago. Ansel looked up, expecting more orders, but Florian's smile was grim. "I'm freeing the others. Get back to camp, and don't get caught. Eliminate anyone you consider to be a threat."

Ansel tilted his head, but Florian was already walking out of the cell. The smoke curled around him, billowing and dancing as if it was bowing to its master. Ansel looked down at the sword, examining the blade of beautiful, gleaming iron. There was no blood, no stain of dirt or grime. It had been used not once before, but now it was time.

The Prince had declared war, and he'd given him his orders. Ansel was more than ready to obey, to slay the men of the country that took his freedom. He'd given his heart a chance, but all he'd felt was pain. He'd soaked in the pain, but he'd been stripped of his freedom. He was done with being a brother; done with being a man. He was ready to play the soldier.

What he didn't know? The soldiers always lose.

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