A single lily rests atop his lapel, falling over all the while. Its petals are drooping, its stem browning; all life has been drained from it the moment it was pinned down, made to have no purpose but to please the eyes of he who picked it. It has been discarded, now, tossed aside and pinned to a tunic like countless of flowers throughout the kingdom, and it is dying. Perhaps Florian is dying. It certainly feels like it.

But this is melodrama, and he will not tolerate it. The luxury he has lived in the castle has softened him, but somewhere at his core is still a scrappy peasant boy who made his way into the castle kitchens and ran knives to the butcher without ever fearing of dropping out; closer to the surface is the young man who survived the training it takes to be a knight, the fighter who knows how it feels to kill a man. Prince Johnathan plucked him from the ground, tore him from his roots, and re-potted Florian for his own pleasure. Used him to line his palace, then left him to wilt.

That's unfair, a voice echoes in his mind, persistent and irritating. It's right, nonetheless. Florian knew what he was getting into. A flower's life is but a moment, fleeting and temporary, but when winter comes the winds strike it down. Such was the nature of their agreement.

There's no denying the castle feels darker, though. The hallways are dimmer, the flaming torches lighting it more dangerous. Someone could pick it up and start a fire, if they so wanted. The thought crosses his mind, briefly, but he shakes it off; he is a knight of the realm before all else, and that has not changed. Even without a prince to serve, Florian Hawthorne has a duty to fulfill, a mission to accomplish.

Torture. He can sugarcoat it all he wants, but in the end the mission is as simple as a word – how did he never realize the amount of power in a single word? Torture. Death. War. Love. All the greatest plagues humanity can face exist as a word, no bigger on the page than any other, and yet the meaning people put onto them; but the meaning is nothing, either, without someone to interpret it. Perhaps, then, people are what truly kill this world. Without them, after all, what meaning would torture have? Or death? What would war be, if there was no one to fight it? What meaning would love have, with no one to feel it? Nothing. Another word; another answer. And yet, if it stood by itself, it would have as little meaning as parcheting or grastel, thymbol or asteride.

Torture. There's no point in avoiding it, no success in rambling on until he forgets it. As surely as the sun will set, Florian is heading towards a duty he never would've predicted for himself. He is many things, has been even more over the course of his life, but a torturer has never been one of them. Killing an opponent is much different than tormenting them; wounding an enemy is far from toying with them. The idea of inflicting pain on someone for the sole purpose of hurting them harrows him, but he walks on nonetheless. Sometimes, one must do what they despise for the sake of keeping their vows. Such is the nature of his position.

No flower could ever grow in the dungeons of Elusia. There is no light; rather, they're filled with the scant remains of the torches that line the nearby hallways tunnels. They drown the place with a grey sort of glow that makes the underground prison look as though fog fills it, an impression which is only countered by the absolute dryness of the air. The second Florian steps into the dungeons, breathing becomes twice as difficult. Really, the conditions here should be torture enough, and rumour has it that some in the past have actually cracked under its pressure. It is said that, after weeks here, the scarcity of air gets to prisoners' head and that they begin to hallucinate: some face their most atrocious memories; others, still, forget where they are, and think they're whispering secrets to their lovers in their beds. Out of the two, Florian would prefer the latter – delusion seems much kinder to him than reminiscing. Funny, how only a day has passed since he decided yesterday was the kindest day. But he didn't know, then, how distance can wrench a sword in a wound caused only by a knife. He had no clue that memory could worsen every word that leaves a lover's mouth.

The dungeon door opens with the faintest creak, loud enough to send the rats scurrying back into their holes but too quiet to disturb any of the people within it. They are almost empty, holding no one but its four new acquisitions. But these are days of war; it's only a matter of time until its collection grows.

He walks past the cells one by one until he reaches the back, where the Adrigolian invaders are kept. The first cell contains the only man, rough-looking and bearded with only one eye left. It stares at Florian with an intensity unparalleled by any stare he's ever seen, and he wonders if the man can see into his soul. A shiver runs down his spine as the thought crosses his mind, and Florian turns away from the stranger. Something tells him he'd never be able to make the man talk, however much he tried.

"I didn't realize they chose knights for being pretty," taunts the woman at the end of the tunnel. "Bet you're shit in a fight."

Florian ignores her and walks to the next cell, staring at a woman with dark skin and a fiery look on her face. Dirt covers her face, but if she's aware of it she doesn't let it show; the pride in her raised chin feels unsinkable. No matter how often Florian could try smacking it down, she'd raise it back up.

The next woman lacks the fire of the other prisoners, but there's a determination to her nonetheless. She's a rock, but he could chisel away at her if he so chose. As he reaches for the keys, Florian notices the patterns on her skin, the tape over her lips. There's no point in interrogating a witch; she'd hex him the second he freed her mouth for an answer. This leaves only one prisoner for him to interrogate.

"Isn't that sword a bit big for you? You should go see the False Prince, I hear his is tiny."

Florian flinches at the mention of Johnathan. The last knight doesn't look impressive in any way, but her tongue is sharp enough to chase away enough doubts that she lacks ferocity. Though her eyes are big, there's no innocence in them, and anyone who talks as much as she does is bound to let a secret slip out at some point. He clangs his sword against the bars of her cell, hoping to startle her. She raises an eyebrow.

"You smell like fish," he says.

"And you smell like a perfumed prick," she counters. "What do you say, Sir Smallsword? Do you want to dance?"

He hits the bars again and attempts to turn his pout into a snarl with what he can only describe as minimal success; the smoothness of his face disagrees with any kind of vicious or angry expression; perfect for a consort, but much less for a knight. Upon realizing that he's spent his entire adult life – and most of his teenage years, for that matter – thinking of himself within these two terms almost makes him shrink. It feels as though he's missing half of himself, and Florian has no idea how to fill the void. Maybe this is another answer he'll find during his interrogation. He doubts it, but the idea calls out to him nonetheless.

"Come on," he hisses. "Get up. No bullshit. All I want from you is some answers."

"Ooh, yay," she drawls. "I get the guppy."

\

"Again," he asks. "Who are you?"

"Anita. Anita Goodlay"

Florian glares. It's a contorted sort of expression, half frustrated and half desolated, so he bites down on his lip and hopes that that'll make him look more severe. The woman who is not Anita laughs, and Florian lashes out, pushing her onto the table. If the dungeons are unpleasant, the torture chamber is even more so. The light is a faded sort of red, and it makes Florian feel as though he's bathing in fire and blood, the smell of which fills the room; it makes him wonder what others have done in this room, and it convinces him he never wants to find out. Not-Anita doesn't struggle as Florian ties her up. Instead, she laughs, something which frustrates him even more. He'd slap her, if it wouldn't make him look weak. The thought of torturing her is much more inviting, now, and he can almost ignore the way his stomach twists into a knot when he looks over the rack of torture devices, most of which he doesn't recognize and can't begin to guess the use of.

"Come on, then, guppy," she taunts. "Give me your worst."

Florian smiles. "You're from Laesh, aren't you?"

Not-Anita blinks. "What makes you say that?"

"Like I said, you smell like fish. That kind of stench doesn't follow anyone as bad as Laeshans. Did you work on a boat?"

"What do you care?" she spits.

"Oh, I don't. But you're from Laesh, and you probably worked on a boat at some point or another – doesn't everyone, over there? Tell me, what was the worst storm you've ever seen like?"

"About as painful as this conversation."

"Still playing tough, then," Florian notes. "Did you ever fall off the boat? Maybe you took a hit on the way down, and it took you a few moments to gather your consciousness. Did you ever think you were going to drown?"

A look of panic flashes across Not-Anita's eyes. It disappears almost immediately, dies like the first bud escaping winter's frost, but Florian sees it and that tells him all he needs to know. He grabs a bucket from the wall and fills it with water, then another and another after that. They're heavy in his arms, rough against the smooth skin of his hands, and when he puts them down his back cries with relief. A single bucket is plenty, and three is definitely overkill, but it's too late to turn back. He picks up the first and props it up against the table, right in front of Not-Anita's face. She closes her eyes.

"Alright, Anita, I'm just going to give you a little taste of what's ahead. Whenever you feel like cooperating, just let me know, alright?"

She grits her teeth and digs her red nails into the table. He can't help but admire her bravery, but of course that won't do her any good now. Florian's hands shake as he lifts the bucket, water spilling from the edges with each tremble. He moves it over Andrea's head, takes a deep breath, tilts the bucket, and

drops it.

The bucket comes crashing down onto the stone floor beneath him, water erupting from the wreckage and soaking his feet. Not-Anita's eyes jump open, startled by the noise, and when she sees the mess on the floor, all fear dissipates and she begins to laugh again.

"I knew it, guppy!" she exclaims, "You can't do it, can you?"

"No," Florian admits. "I can't."

Perhaps this should bring him shame – not-Anita certainly thinks so – but instead it leaves a hollow sort of feeling in him. This was his mission, and he has failed. He disrespected his position.

But duty – position, agreement, mission, too; they're all just words. And they don't define him. They won't define him.

Sounds of clashing metal shook the streets as father and daughter sparred in the narrow alleyways next to a bar. Beyond the cheers of drunken commoners were the grunts and groans from the Gordon twosome. It was strength versus agility, will versus stamina. Aurora danced with her father, swinging her sword as she spun around, building up a steady rhythm. She could feel the rhythm move through her bones and the racing of her heart play like steady drums inside her head. She matched each beat as the dance went on, and when she raised her sword to block her father's blow, a loud crashing of blades echoed off stone walls. The force shook her skeleton, and when her father's sword cut through the air before landing its blow, Aurora's shaking hands let go of the handle. Now armless, she raised her small fists as a last-ditch effort to win the battle, when her father's hand knocked her off her feet. His blow stung her face and her cheek throbbed with pain. Hot blood trickled from her lip, and her eyes began to water.

"Get up," her father said.

Tears rolled down her face and she tried to wipe them away but the tears didn't seem to want to stop. Her throat was tight from trying to choke it all down and her inner lip burned and throbbed. She could taste the blood from the scrape in her mouth and through gritty tears, she began to cry.

"Get up," he repeated again.

Aurora didn't move. She continued crying and her chest started to ache for her mother's warmth. Whenever she was hurt, her mother always knew how to make things better with a stroke of the hair or a protective embrace. But her mother wasn't there to cure everything and it was that sadness that swallowed her whole.

With a face wet with tears, she met her father's cool gaze, looking for comfort but being met with none. His hardened eyes showed no sympathy for his crying daughter and when he struck her again, she forced her pain down, trying to stop herself from crying harder.

"I said get up," he growled. "And stop crying."

He spat at the ground.

"You're a warrior, and warriors don't weep."

~

A tight-lipped scream escaped Aurora's lips as her body jerked forward from the whip that lashed her back. Her skin stung like it was on fire, and the shackles that held her up, cut into her wrists and gnawed at open sores. Hot blood stung her entire back, drilling into wounds like pins and needles. The pain was becoming overwhelming and never had she wanted to pass out from blood loss so badly in her life.

Josias. She thought to herself. Her mind spun like wheels to a carriage and she tried to think about his blazing eyes that told tales of adrenaline and wild horses. The thought of him kept her from letting out all the screams she was holding down, and when she went back to the time they danced under lilac skies, her pain was relieved if only for a second. She remembered the way he watched her move and how his unblinking gaze yearned to join her. She remembered taking his hand and leading him to a song that could only be heard by the two of them. Together they had moved in sync, and when she had laughed as he fumbled near the end of the dance, the world stopped for a moment. He'd looked at her in a way she hadn't seen before. His bright eyes silencing her and when he had kissed her, it had left her drunk. She'd been kissed stupid and though nothing came of it, the memory eased the pain.

Until it didn't.

The reality of where she was came crashing down when her back arched forward from another lash. She bit her tongue from the force of the blow, and the taste of copper and salt tasted bitter in her throat. The chains and shackles that held her arms up shook with her body tremors and blood dripped from her mouth. It left a blood spatter pattern on the dungeon floor and Aurora felt her head begin to feel light. Black splotches clouded the edges of her vision, and the room spun before another lash snapped her out of her daze.

"Are you ready to cooperate yet?" a voice hissed.

Aurora let out a small laugh and spit out the blood from her mouth. You would like that, wouldn't you?

Through watery eyes, her words were like venom.

"Go to hell."

Another lash jerked her forward, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wasn't crying and she tried her hardest not to. She missed her family, she missed Josias, and she was going to die alone down there. Her thoughts swallowed her whole and she felt an emptiness she'd only felt once before.

Stop crying, Aurora.

You're a warrior and warriors don't weep.

 Sana Auxiliari has every reason to be restless.

She is sitting on the edge of her bed, staring straight at the mirror. In her reflection she can see her small hands clutching the corners of her comforter, her feet taping at an uneven rhythm, and her entire figure quaking. If this was an ordinary morning in Falholt, or if she was in front of others, she'd try her best to appear composed. But here, in the farthest tower from the garden, in the privacy of her own room, she has no need to present herself as anything but what she feels.

And what she feels is restless, and she has every reason to be.

Moving from where she sits, she flops down onto her bed, wraps the covers around her, and tries to get some amount of sleep. No matter how much she tries to close her eyes and fall into darkness, the light pouring in from the window is too bright. Brining one of the pillows to block out the light, she turns to her side and tries to rest there. After a few minutes of sedated breathing and heavily dropping eyelids, she is still wide awake. However, she remains underneath the safety of the blanket and the darkness of the pillow, glad for at least one place where she can be hidden and exposed at the same time.

At her windowsill, a bird lands and begins to tweet a soft song. Sana uncovers herself to glare at the bird, only to have the sun blind her instead. With a groan, she pulls at her hair and brings it to her face. "Please, birdy, quiet down. Please, sunny, go down."

Not once has she not enjoyed a bird's song; not once has she not enjoyed the sun's rays.

Today is an oddity, but last night—a few hours ago, really—was stranger still.

Sana remembers the man from Adrigole and how he whispered, pleaded, "Have mercy." Those words, which oftentimes comforted her and reminded her of some of her best memories from home—handing out food, having a conversation with Eleos—now have been stained, reeked with the smell of an injustice done.

The grand knights of Prince Johnathan, Sir Adeline included in the bunch, removed the man from Adrigole and his other accomplices, placed them away in some secret location, and were never seen. The only person who talked to Sana since the events took place where Tedric North, but only to tell her he has nothing to do with the infiltrating knights from Adrigole; Charlotte Blackwood, who was very surprised as to how the night turned out; and Florian Hawthorne, who, though very quiet, approached Sana to make sure she was okay.

Florian walked her to her room that night, but before she could fall into her restless fit of sleep, someone came knocking to her door. Rather than calling out her usually chipper, "Who is it?" she hid in the shadow casted by her door, peeped out the little looking glass, and was surprised to see none other than Prince Johnathan.

Before she could bow down to him and ask if he was alright—an infiltration in the castle, especially in time of war, can be no easy situation to handle—he spoke almost stoically. "Thank you for her your bravery," he said to her.

And, again, before she could have a verbal response to his presence, he spoke. "Tomorrow you and the other knights who showcased their courage and loyalty will have a...special job. That is all for now. Have a good rest—you will need it."

Hours have passed since the event, hours have passed since she had a one-sided conversation with Prince Johnathan, hours have passed since she first went on her bed, hours have passed since everything occurred. And yet, in all those hours, all she has managed to do is stare at her reflection and attempt to sleep.

Sana is restless, and she has every reason to be.

Seconds expand to minutes, but minutes to not become hours. Soon after the bird takes flight, there is knock at her door. Though there is clear daylight thanks to the rising sun, she does not risk being compromised. She moves quietly to the door, inconspicuously looks through the glass, and opens the door.

For the second time that day, Florian Hawthorne is outside her door.

She greets him like she would any other knight and invites him into her room. He turns down her offer, but instead tells her that Prince Johnathan is calling for a small meeting between him and the four knights that paid a service to the Kingdom of Elusia and the war.

"Tedric and I have been down in the mess hall all night, unable to sleep. We assumed you and Charlotte were sleeping, so we waited until just now to wake you," he says as the go down the first flight of stairs.

Florian continues to speculate what the task assigned by the prince will be, and as he does this Sana contemplates the idea of these stairs, the ones that are her favorite in the castle. Her quarters are located in the farthest tower from the garden, and because her room is high above the stairs to reach her room are curved. The first times she travelled up and down them, there was glee in her smile. With each new turn, she would find something new; she never saw her destination until she reached it; it was a constant adventure.

Now the stairs are uncertain: will an Adrigole knight come out and cover her face with burlap? Will she fall into a trap? Will she be pushed into a wall and her death deemed an accident?

She doesn't know; she doesn't want to find out. Never has she been afraid of steps and falling...

"...down," says Prince Johnathan. "Please take a seat."

Florian pulls the sleeves of Sana's shirt down and ushers her into her seat. She doesn't remember travelling through the halls and corridors, she doesn't remember greeting the prince or the other two knights. Perhaps unconsciously she has been absent, but consciously has been present, as no one looks at her in a concerned manner.

"Like I mentioned last night," Prince Johnathan says, "thank you for your bravery. I doubt any of you were expecting an invasion, but I knew it was going to occur—if not last night, than perhaps tonight, or the night after that. The point is, the Adrigolians are becoming restless."

At the mention of "restless," Sana becomes the type of awake that is correct, that is right—not the one that kept her up last night.

The prince continues, "They, I believe on good word, infiltrated the castle for me. Not to steal my possessions, not to slaughter my sleeping knights, not to capture other on-duty knights, but for me, for my blood. In the process, however, we did lose a small group of knights."

He lets that settle in. He gives the names of the knights who were captured, and he gives the name of his best knights who are currently looking for them. "In turn, we have also taken four of King Gavin's knights. In this war, in all wars, it is 'kill or be killed,' and I intend to have the least amount of casualties. We will reciprocate what is being done to our faithful knights, if they are not dead."

Again he pauses, waiting for all his words to sink. "Please follow me into the dungeons. You each have a task to complete. And it will not be a pretty one."

Like blindsided devotees, the four knights follow him. Rather than remaining with Sana, Florian takes his place next to Prince Johnathan. Charlotte walks right behind them, and Tedric behind them. When he notices Sana at the very end of the group, he moves down, not to walk by her, but to close off the group—such is his nature.

The walk to the dungeons isn't a long one, she believes, but the toll of what she is about to do is heavy on her shoulders.

As the group of four and the prince walk by each cell, Sana is very relieved that at least most of them are empty. Then, when she realizes what she has just thought, she shudders. It doesn't matter if most of them are empty, if at least one cell has a prisoner it means there has been some injustice served. Whether that injustice has been done to harm the Royal Court or someone else, or whether that injustice has been done on behalf of the Court itself...it is still an injustice. No, it does not matter that most cells are empty; these people have suffered and now the suffering will only grow with introduction of Sana and the three knights.

When at last they reach the very ends of the prisoner corridor, they stop in front of four cells with knights standing in front of each, their arms crossed with one hand resting on the hilt of a sword.

"Remember who these people are. Remember where they are from. Remember what they planned to do." The prince pauses. "And remember that some worse fate awaits our own knights who were wrongfully taken."

There is quiet for only a second, and then Prince Johnathan speaks again. "Tedric, take the cell on the west wall; Charlotte take the cell three to the right of his. Sana, you will go directly to the one in the north. Florian, take the cell on the east wall. The guards will let you in, and once inside you must go down the stairs. Your prisoners await."

Sana does as she is told, but when she is greeted by the sight of the big man who Charlotte whacked upside the head. The torches close to the second door reflect on the side of his head and show the bruise, a deep blue and purple. She knows skin cannot throb, but still she imagines a growing pulse underneath the heavy colors.

With a croaky voice, he mindlessly taunts, "Ah, they have sent a little girl to do a man's job."

Still next to the door, she spots an abundance of weapons, all of the rusted over and with wicked curves. How easy it would be to gouge out his eyes for that comment, to set his long hair and beard ablaze for saying those words; there is no offense for being a woman, but there is when being called "little." She is not small. Everything on the cart of weapons can fit into her hand; she is not small.

She eyes particular knife that isn't as sharp as the others, but is colored a dusty red—dried blood. She doesn't know how long ago these were used, under what circumstances, and with who, but what she does know is this: she will not use the knife.

Sana won't use the knife. She won't use the sword. She won't use the whip. She won't use any of the torches.

She won't use this or this or that—she won't use any of it.

Staring at the man, she recalls all he said. This large man, tied in rope and bounded in metal, with a bruise marking the side of his face, with a notable beard, this large man has only said two things to her. When surrounded, have mercy; when captured, little girl.

How easy it is to say no to the first and yes to the second.

How easy it is to play a game. She understands human nature; she understands this man; she knows what he fears after having two, one-sided conversations with him.

Grabbing the knife—the sharp one with dried blood—she brings it close to his face. Pulling away the hair on his face, she places the end of the knife underneath his chin, but she doesn't press on his skin. The reaction is the one she wanted: a hesitant laugh.

Looking the man in the eyes, Sana says, "You were captured because they sent out a little boy to do a woman's job. And my job is understanding, not harming."

Stepping away from him, Sana Auxiliari extinguishes the torches and walks out of the door. There is no point for torturing someone simply on the idea that someone else, even if it is someone she knows, might be receiving the same punishment.

This may be war, and she may be restless, but war is not restless. War is understanding the opponent—not the enemy. This is a war that can be won, but to win one must be willing to spare the lives of others at all costs. 

[AUTOMATIC SCORE USED]

Lesson Three: Human

My lungs fill with shallow air. The dark stings across my back burn with every twitch and shiver, and a ragged breath escapes from my chest. Sweat or blood trickles down the bare, wounded skin, cold against the night air and the freezing stone walls of my prison cell.

The door opens. Its creak is almost bold, but also hesitant. I lift my eyes to see an old man of no younger than forty, but the image of his greying hair shifts in the light of my swaying vision. Footsteps, footsteps, and I lower my head once again. The floor is rough and grey, and blurry. Blurry.

The man drags a stool across the blurry tile and sits. Now he's in front of me, I see him from the knees down. He drums his fingers across the left one. "From what I heard, you spilled all." His eyes rake across my bare, bloodied skin, and he adds, "Eventually."

I don't want to look, but I lift my eyes out of sheer curiosity. When our gazes lock, I see his irises in a shade of brown—dark brown. It's the kind of colour that's warm and familiar, that feels like home no matter which angle the light catches them. And it angers me. Because the duality picks me apart. Because all I want to feel is anger, but it isn't enough.

The man sighs. "I'm just here to sit. They needed someone to sit and watch you, all that."

I nod. Sweat trickles down my cheek, hanging along the edge of my jaw. I know he isn't enthralled to be here either, so I resign the two of us to an agreement of silence. His every word is a stinging reminder of what I've done. But what I've done and what it looks like, they're two different stories, both equally selfish and stupid. I would've taken any beating. I was ready to. Next door in the neighbouring cell, it was soundless besides the lashing of the whip, and I knew that she was ready too. Somehow, that hurt twice as much.

I made sure she could hear me when I told them what I knew. I made sure she heard every last word. And I know she'll never speak to me again, but somehow, that hurts less. And I can live with that.

I did what I could to save myself, and I can live with that. I can live with that.

Picking the heart: It's selfish, it's conceited, it's human.

[Due to the graphic nature of the entry submitted, we are unable to post it. Sorry for any inconveniences this may cause.]

Weak torchlight flickered in a lonely cell. Shadows played across the floor under the flame's watchful eye, leaping and chasing around each other, frolicking happily. Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped to a steady, heart-crushing beat. The torch, too, spluttered and spat, dancing to a tune only it could hear. Chains sang a mournful song as they swayed in the stale dungeon air, their fingers clutching to a limp figure.

In that cell, far below the Adrigole castle, separate from the main network of dungeon corridors, Constance woke with a gasp.

She lurched forward, contained effortlessly by the chains clasped around her ankles and wrists. She snarled, bending her neck to glare at the links tethering her to the wall. A feral shine had entered her silver eyes, overtaking the usual calculating glow, and her pupils had shrunk to slits. In her current state, she couldn't recognize the metal of the chains that held her close, a special mixture typically used for dangerous captives.

Her heart pounded thunderously in her ears and Constance let out a bloodcurdling scream. Anxiety pierced through her chest, settling in and refusing to leave. She strained against the chains that snapped and groaned under the weight of her body and fury, rattling like mad against the wall and each other. Her breathing slowly became quick and panicked, an uneven, staccato beat that rose to join the chorus of metallic noise. She threw herself forward again, desperation needling into her heart and forcing her shining, tear filled eyes wider and poking at her lungs until pain had blossomed in her chest and her body quivered. The links of the chain groaned and several popped open, but the melted ends never separated far enough to slide out. Constance howled and leaped, bracing her feet high up on the wall and turned, pushing with her legs and pulling with her arms. The muscles in her arms bulged and her calloused hands slipped against the smooth chains, grasping further up ever time she slid too far down with a heavy grunt. The claws of metal that bit securely into the wall creaked and the stone cracked, but still no give.

One final, animalistic scream of frustration ripped from her abused vocal chords and Constance slumped against the wall, sweating and shivering in the cold dungeon air her thin clothes let almost entirely through, her chest heaving and hands raw. Constance became all too aware of her sticky body and matted hair. Her stomach growled and grumbled, reminding Constance she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten.

She felt as though a milky film had settled over some part of her brain, making her movements sluggish and her thoughts soften. She sighed and allowed her head to thunk against the solid and ever present wall behind her, ignoring the slight pain. She needed to rest and forget about everything until her mind was functioning properly again.

Unfortunetly, somebody had other plans for her.

The heavy steel door that had escaped her attention until now swung open, slamming against the stone wall. Dozens of guards piled into the cell. Constance stood, a defensive move, but the guards saw it as aggression. One stepped forward with a flash of silver, and Constance's body hit the floor with a sickening thud. The guards pounced. However, Constance, who hadn't quite gotten over her wildcat behavior, was on fire with rage. She kicked and bit and scratched and clawed at any body the moved around her and the cell erupted into furious sound.

Someone had gotten a rope around her middle, trapping her arms at her side, and panic flared. Her eyes, narrowed with concentration, suddenly widened with the new development. Her legs, spurred by the increased beating of the fluttering bird in her ribcage, flailed harder and there was no strategic reason to her movements like before.

The world seemed to blur together before Constance's wild, rolling eyes.

She was reminded of watercolors, with little spots of solid color dotting the canvas. She saw dirty, crumbling earth walls as the guards dragged her through the dungeon corridors and up slopes, her body jerking like a fish out of water the entire way. She heard shouts for reinforcements and felt a twinge of satisfaction through her panic when her leg struck something fleshy and it yelped and jerked away from her. Someone wouldn't stop shrieking. Constance winced at the rough stone underneath her and the sharp tang of blood mixing with stale air assaulted her nose. Her side burned and Constance swore she felt something liquidy and warm slip down her back. She wanted to scream, but she decided whoever already was screaming was doing a good job of it for both of them.

"Shut up," an angry, strained voice demanded, smacking Constance across the back of her head.

The shock of being struck caused her to still and the screaming stopped (funny since she wasn't the one screaming), giving the guard just enough time to slip a strip of cloth over her mouth. She glared at her attacker, surprised to find she could see him clearly. He apparently knew how to punch sense into someone.

Constance pouted like a scolded child and let her body flop, successfully forcing her weight to increase on the rope. The guards grumbled, yanking on the rope, but Constance refused to lift a finger. If they wanted her to move, they'd have to move her themselves. Despite the situation, Constance had to grin behind her gag. She let them drag her all the way up to the second floor of the dungeons, not a single drop of assistance from her. Let it never be said that Constance wasn't proud of that moment.

The group of a dozen burly, well fed guards and one grimy, hungry prisoner paused at a door in the center of the corridor. One of the slimmer guards fumbled with a ring of keys he plucked from his belt, his fingers clumsily fishing through them. The ringing keys were the only sounds in the corridor. He plugged a key into the lock, apologetically glancing back to his commander, and pushed open the door. The group filed in with blank faces, comically tugging Constance behind them like the parents of a disobedient child.

It was in the new room Constance started to regret ceasing to attempt escape. Straight out of a horror play she had begged her father to allow her to watch in some foreign land they had visited when she was twelve years. She planted her feet and stared, ignoring the dirty looks and rude phrases the guards threw at her. Blood, she was sure of it, gushed from her side, staining the grey fabric of her tunic darker and redder and her body felt heavy and weak. Sweat dripped from every square inch of exposed skin to the ground, echoing louder then seemed physically possible. It was the only think she could hear aside from the crazed beating of her heart. Pain seared throughout her joints and an unsettling feeling of danger sizzled in her mind and caused her fingers to twitch.

But none of it mattered. Not when inside the room hung her patrol teammates by their hands, the only thing keeping them off the bloodstained floor, their bodies tattered and torn beyond recognition. Lark, Josias, Ansel, Aurora. They stared uncomprehendingly at her with cloudy, dead eyes. She gave a whimper.

Constance took a halting step back, away from whatever she was seeing. She ignored the warming voices of the guards and bolted. She ran over the threshold and straight into a fresh wave of guards.

They grabbed her and hauled her back in, shoving her against the only wall that didn't contain a body and cinching the cold metal of cuffs tightly around her wrists. The chains connecting her to the walk gave just enough leeway to kneel. How merciful. Constance clenched her fingers into fists and she pulled at the tethers. But her strength was at its limit and the chains gave only a small clatter in response to her struggles.

A woman stepped elegantly in front her, a snake draped across her shoulders. She kneeled with the grace of a predator, lowering herself voluntarily to Constance's level. Her sharp eyes pierced through Constance's own with their clarity. She opened her mouth after a moment and began to speak.

They wanted information, she said. Constance sighed, dropping her head. What kingdom didn't want information on the other? She wondered if any of her companions had croaked.

Apparently, they had not given anything of much importance, according to the woman. She hoped Constance would be a little more cooperative. Constance snorted. Who didn't want her to cooperate? That was the real question.

"Constance," the woman said, a strange, almost soothing note seeping into her voice. It surprised Constance and she lifted her head, meeting the woman's gaze with her questioning one. "No more harm will come to you if you answer this one, simple question."

The woman paused, stroking her serpent's head as she examined Constance. "If you answer it honestly, I'll have the royal cook prepare a special feast just for you."

Oh, well that was just cruel. Constance's stomach grumbled at the same time her pride reared indignantly. Had she offered the same reward to the others, or did Constance just look like food was top priority?

Hell, Constance thought. I'd rather be allowed to go home. I can eat there, too, y'know. She cursed underneath her breath, but nodded acknowledgment of the deal.

"Where in the castle is Prince Johnathan's private study?"

Constance snorted, her eyebrows knitted together in amused confusion. "If I knew that, it wouldn't be much of a private study, now would it?" Her voice sounded weak to her own ears.

The woman's eyes narrowed, but Constance could've cared less. Her attention had been captured by the boisterous laughter from the back of the room.

"Ha ha!" a male cackled. "You tell her, you rabid, snake-eyed lunatic, you! Ha ha ha!"

"Cassius," the woman snapped. He quieted, but his body continued to shake with periodic giggles.

Constance hadn't realized she was smiling until she felt a hefty kick in her side. It scattered her lungs so much she had to double over, choking on air.

"What're you laughing at, you overgrown buckweasel?"

There's more Adrigolians in here? Constance moaned in her head, coughing wetly. The chains rattled as her body quivered.

"Well, that was a little uncalled for, Calder," the laughing one the others called Cassius said. Constance just barely heard him over the ringing in her ears. "She was just grinnin' a bit. That was one family sized kick, though."

"How about this one," the woman spoke, silencing the males' bickering. "Where are the Prince's sleeping quarters?"

Constance said nothing, a broken grin on her lips. A knee came crashing into her chin. Stars flew across her vision and her teeth clacked loudly against each other. Her jaw throbbed and a fuzz that dulled her functions settled in her brain. She groaned, the chains ringing in her ears.

She cracked open a single silver eye. The woman had stood up and looked down at her with contempt. She twisted her fingers in some pattern.

Hours later, Constance came to know the leather of a lashing cord very well. It slashed across the thin skin over her collarbones. And she screamed. The cord snapped again and it bit into her abdomen, breaking the skin and blood seeped from the wound. Again and again the whip whistled, eating away at her nerves. Constance shied away from it, but that allowed only the very tip to catch her, stinging like a bee and digging in deeper then before.

Tears ran from her eyes just as freely as the blood ran from her wounds and she sobbed, the stress and frustration of the day catching up to her. Purple bruises had risen where the thicker edges of the cord caught her, where the skin hadn't broke. Welts decorated her face and dozens of cuts littered her body, many of which she knew would scar.

The woman had exited the room some time ago. Left the dirty business to the men, Constance thought darkly, even as she cried out again, her wrist joints popping from the weight she forced on them when her legs collapsed. The cord caught one of her old scars on her face and blood streamed down her face, blinding her left eye.

That's fine. I wouldn't watch torture either.

STILL ON HOLD WITH THE GOD OF PROPHECY AND THE MUSIC IS STARTING TO GET ANNOYING [LATE]

As the taste of blood and steel purged the air, the dungeon's walls shuddered with the loud, guttural howls of the incarcerated.

Ansel laid an imprisoned man, slumped over on the cold, jagged stone that dug into his bare skin. He's been stripped of his armor and pride, naked save for his thin, dirty-white underclothes. Iron manacles bound his wrists, chains secured to the pole of solid steel that stood tall and wide near the corner of the cell.

There was a pounding inside his head, a pain that thrashed against his skull at a rhythmic pace. He winced, fingers brushing over the purplish bruise on his cheek as last night's occurrences came tumbling back to him. The squabble with the guards. Lark's death. The escape that had been cut short by a group of knights who could land their hits far better than the first two they'd encountered. Ansel grimaced as he recalled the bow that had been slammed into his face, knocking him out cold. His hand dropped from his injured face, grazing the rough stone of the wall as he examined the rest of the chamber.

To the far left, where iron bars met the stone wall in a corner too far out of Ansel's reach, laid a wooden table that was littered with small spatters of scarlet . The wooden tabletop was almost entirely bare, with the exception of a knife, a lighter, and two iron rods. On the floor beside the table laid a couple more rusted chains and another pair of shackles—perhaps, this was a double cell that had been given to Ansel alone, but he knew it wasn't an act of generosity.

Though the room wasn't particularly advanced technologically, it was a torture chamber nonetheless, and Ansel couldn't help but wonder what the Adrigolians had in store for him. Would their torture be physical or mental? Did they truly have mages among them as the rumors had claimed? Perhaps, it was his turn to pay the price for the countless invaluable objects he'd stolen over the years. If his luck had run short, their gruesome magic would soon be delving into his bones.

But that was soon, and soon was not now.

He rolled his shoulders back, relieving them of their rigidness as he straightened his back and looked up. There was a confidence of sorts hat lingered on his lips, traced his jaw, and lined the contours of his face. It was bright in his eyes and stiff in his arms, but it was enough to communicate his thoughts: when the Adrigolian scum came, they could throw whatever blade or magic they had at him, but they would not break him.

Not so soon, at least. Not when they didn't know about Cecile yet.

The sharp, throaty scream of man pierced the air, and Ansel jerked his head as his breath caught in his throat; the agony that was laced in the sound was a violent strike to his heart. His knee caught the rough surface of the stone at the sudden movement, and he gritted his teeth as a stinging flared through the tender skin. The scream came again, louder and wilder, and then again, like the howl of a rabid animal who'd already been marked by Death's kiss. It tore through the air, spreading across Ansel's skin like salt on an open wound; it burned with a heat so intense that Ansel was forced to withdrew his hands to cover his despairing ears.

Then, there was silence.

Slowly, Ansel lifted his head, hands dropping from his face. He waited, counting the seconds in his mind. A minute passed, then two.

Then came a jingle, little bits of metal clinking against each other in cute, little tune. The footsteps that accompanied it were loud, the pause between each sound of leather against stone long and drawn out as if the one who walked was doing so deliberately slow. Ansel held his breath, head tilted down and gaze cast on the stone floor in front of the thick, iron bars that prevented his escape.

The sound of footsteps abated, and Ansel peered at the large, leather boots that had come to a rest in front of his cell. He kept his head down as the jingle diminished, focusing on the breath that ravaged his dry, thirsty throat and spilled into his lungs. An aching of sorts spread across his chest, lungs burning from the anxious breath. Then, he heard the lock click, and he released the breath all at once, large and quick in all of its glory.

A screech sounded as the iron door swung open, and the floor beneath Ansel grew colder, built of stone and brick and laden with dust. The air engulfed him in a hug, but it was unkind and as cold as the snow that fell during Migolith's winters.

"Ansel," a voice said, soft and deep but there was the slightest bit of an edge to the tone. "A pretty name for a pretty boy."

Still, Ansel didn't meet the man's gaze.

The man stepped forward, hand reaching for Ansel's chin. At the touch of an Adrigolian man, his skin burned, but Ansel didn't wince. The man's fingers tugged violently at him, forcing his head upwards until their eyes met in a wild, burning gaze of fire and ice.

It was the man who wore Adrigolian colors that broke the silence first. "Do you know who I am?" His body was littered with imperfections, black and red scars embedded within his skin. His brown hair was a mess of waves, and the striking, blue eyes that peered through it was a blade through Ansel's eye sockets.

But there was a familiarity that clung to these glacial eyes so similar to his own. It was a memory of Migolith hair and an unbroken, immortal silence that set his lungs free and unleashed the fury that was held tight in his fists.

Ansel lashed out, fists banging against his shackles as his chains pulled tight, the clinging and clashing of metal against stone ringing out loud and powerful as it echoed through the chamber. A mess of blood and fire struck rough, scarred skin, dirty nails digging deep into the beautifully imperfect face of a man whose sins wouldn't go unpunished.

A scream of red, searing rage tore through Ansel's throat, bared white teeth stained with the scarlet of blood.

Calder stumbled back, but the grin that graced his lips so maliciously was unforgettable. He was on his feet within seconds, a scornful gaze on Ansel's stormy state. "I thought so. It's hard to forget the death we see on the battlefield, isn't it?" Calder tilted his head, fingering an unlit match. "But this is war we've chosen, and it's impossible to gain vengeance for all the blood we'll spill."

Ansel's gaze remained fierce, and Calder didn't hesitate to take a step closer. "All the blood we'll spill in the name of the King, for Adrigole, for a world ridded of Elusia. And then," Calder paused, and after his fingers rushed to strike the match against the matchbox until the light of a tiny flame lit up his face, he continued, "when we've granted you mercy after you begged at our feet for your life and the lives of your family, you will serve His Majesty. You'll be forever condemned to be a slave to the King and to this kingdom that so easily defeated yours."

There was no mercy in Calder's voice; Ansel would show no mercy when he liberated himself from these chains.

Calder's hands dove towards Ansel, too quickly for him to catch sight of what was held within them. He turned his head, but it was too late, because the seething, blazing pain of heat and iron shredded his forearm. It erupted at the surface of his skin and then dove deep until it was embedded in his veins and flowing through his bloodstream to the rest of his body.

It was a dark agony that tore through him, birthed from a black seed and a touch of fire, and as it seared his throat, his lips parted and a scream fell tumbling out in a sound so excruciating that Calder stumbled backwards. The stone walls rumbled with the sound, and the metal bars embedded the grueling howls into their iron core; they'd stay there for centuries more, just like those before them.

Then, Ansel's eyes finally focused on the source of the pain on his forearm: a dark, fiery branding. A symbol that held so much more than the black, red and pain that it was forged of. It held the magic of the Adrigolian people, the valor of the knights sworn to defend them, and the ruthless determination of the king who ruled them.

But to Ansel, it held only the cruelties of the kingdom that would bring Hell to all that he knew.