Rats are the pinnacles of evolution.

They can burrow underground and some even fly.

They're adaptable to the harshest environments—frozen hellscapes, burning hellscapes, regular hellscapes, they've even survived nuclear war.

Rats eat anything, and multiply faster than a computer algorithm.

By all rights humans should be in awe of their abilities.

But they hang out in sewers and spread disease.

Which makes them very hard to love.

Have you ever had a flying dream?

The ecstasy of soaring over the world, your problems so far away, they're mere specks?

Utter freedom!

Well, my flying dream was nothing like that.

Instead, I was being kidnapped by a belligerent dragon who would not listen to a word I said. Granted, I was doing a lot of complaining and poking at his glittering scales, but did that mean he had to be a jerk? From my limited knowledge of dragons, they usually take you to their lairs, which are cold and dark, and drafty. Once there, they sit around on their piles of gold trinkets waiting for someone to rescue you. Usually a prince with a long sword.

Then the dragon got slain.

Why dragons continued in this self-destructive cycle seemed kind of dumb. Dragons needed therapy if you asked me.

But the dream got even worse because as I commanded the dragon to whoa, nelly itself, a blast of blue light hit me in the face, and I tumbled off the scaly back, screaming something about safety standards and the lack of seatbelts. As with most falling dreams, I woke up before I hit the ground.

The dream faded and the moments before the queen zapped me came rushing back.

Petronella had thought I called her Nelly, which I hadn't! But did she allow me to explain? Of course not. She just went all zap-happy.

So unfair!

Evil queens were the worst!

But not as bad as the stench surrounding me. Ick! It was like someone tossed me inside an abandoned garbage can full of dead things.

Where the heck was I?

I had a feeling I wasn't in Kansas ... er ... Coffin Ridge anymore. My face throbbed, but slowly I peeled back my eyelids.

The room was dimly lit, so it was hard to tell exactly where I was, but the floor under my back was freezing, the chill seeping through the fleece of my horse costume all the way through to my flesh to my bones.

For my next move, I needed to gather information, but I had a problem. I couldn't move. No matter how many orders I issued to various limbs, none of them responded.

At least my eyeballs moved, so I could look around a bit. An analysis of the conditions within the cell was in order, to determine potential escape routes if my limbs were ever ready to cooperate.

My cell was about ten feet by ten feet, stone on three sides, with a wooden ceiling and one wall of iron bars, spaced four inches apart. I was not getting out that way. The cell was empty. No furniture, no toilet, and no five-tier cakes smothered in chocolate icing with convenient nail files hidden inside.

An arched hallway outside of my cell was lit with huge iron bowls of fire hanging by heavy chains from a vaulted ceiling, the orange light flickering and casting shadows on the stone walls. The cells across from mine seemed empty, although it was hard to see much in the gloom.

The cracks between the stones on the walls were lined with black mold and thick spiderwebs that stretched from one side of the room to the other.

Despite my preconceptions about dungeons, it turned out they weren't all that awesome.

I had always thought that they'd be full of mystery and secrets to decode. And cool armor. Possibly with a side of eerie background music. And the smell would be of freshly turned earth and anguish.

But these were only fantasies of the uninformed.

Before I inspected my surroundings any further, I got distracted by a terrible scratching sound, like thousands of tiny claws scurrying across stones.

It had to be ...

... rats!

Swarming from the walls.

This was when I remembered Petronella's threat: "If you call me Nelly, I will send you to the dungeon, where feral rats will feast on your bones."

Fear coiled deep in my belly, or maybe the coiling was from hunger. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. The point is, I was in a dungeon with a legion of hungry rats.

I tried to scream, but my throat was so raw, it came out more like the sound of a punctured tire—a low hiss.

I'm sure you're there, dear reader, urging me to stand up and fend off the rodents, find my dads, make the queen's life a living hell, and get out of this place, but this is where I remind you I could not move, except for my eyeballs, and I didn't think I'd be able to blink the rats to death.

The rats scurried over me, sliding up and down and across my legs as if I was an amusement park ride; a bag of bones inside a tasty meat wrapper.

They squeaked and tittered and chomped like an eerie symphony of impending death. I peered down as best I could without moving my head as more rats came to join the fun, feasting on my favorite sneakers. The newcomer rats squeezed out the original crew, jockeying for position, and I lay helpless. There seemed to be quite a few of them gnawing on the rubber soles of my favorite tennis shoes. I guess rats preferred shoes to human flesh, at least I hoped because I assumed being eaten alive by rats would be quite painful.

I tried again to speak but to no avail.

Why were there always rats?

The worst creatures ever!

Way worse than snakes, thank you very much Indiana Jones!

Panic set in as I imagined tiny teeth chomping away at my flesh.

I couldn't die now! I had parents to rescue. What if Petronella was mistreating them? Not to mention, I had a mangy cat that I left behind.

Stop panicking, Rowen! Why would Petronella go through all the trouble of capturing me if she wanted me to die in her dungeon?

God, I hated rats!

Have I mentioned this before?

Focus, Rowen! Focus!

Gather information.

Plan.

Enact plan.

Obviously, this couldn't get any worse.

(Side note: Did anyone ever tell you 'never say this couldn't get any worse?' If so, listen to them. Because there's always a worse.)

"Ouch!"

A rat had bitten clear through the rubber of my left shoe into my big toe.

I sat up so fast my head spun. On the bright side, I could move! On the less bright side, the rats had piled on, excited by the blood most likely, and I was swiping them away left and right, my stomach curdling with acid, my heart pounding.

"Get off me!" I screamed, even though it made my throat burn like someone had lit a match and dropped it in.

"Hey, no reason to yell, lady," said the biggest rat, a scruffy fat brown one with one ear gnawed away. Probably the head rat or the king or alpha or whatever. I wasn't an expert on rat hierarchy. "We thought you were dead and therefore, fair game."

"I am not game!" I huffed.

"Is she dead, though?" asked another rat. A smaller gray 'henchrat.' "Can we keep eating?"

"I am not dead! Can the dead talk?"

The rats all stopped scurrying at once and looked at me like I was insane. "Of course!" said the leader. "This place is full of talking ghosts."

"She is pale," said the gray. "Looks dead as a ghost."

"Blurgh!" spat a white rat, sitting on its haunches. "Ectoplasm tastes horrible. Also, Mom always said, never eat ghosts 'cause they're just empty calories."

"May Mom rest in peace," the leader said.

"She was delicious," said the gray rat solemnly. The other rats nodded their little heads.

Gross!

And hold on!

I was talking to rats?

Maybe I was asleep, and this was all a bad dream.

That had to be it.

Because castles, even magical ones, did not have talking rats!

Right?

I mean talking ghosts, maybe.

What had I gotten myself into?

"I think she's nearly dead," said the gray. "Close enough. I mean, she's still on the floor."

I lurched to my feet, a bit unsteadily after having been in one position for who knows how long to disprove any theories about my deadness. "See? Not dead." The rats hung their heads. A few cried big fat rat teardrops. "Sorry to disappoint you," I said, just trying to show a little empathy. Because I assumed having rat enemies would be a negative. I planned to get out of this crazy place sooner rather than later, but in case it took a couple of days, I didn't want to become the main course at the rats' next banquet.

"Hey, that's okay," said the leader. "Guys, I heard the kitchen just tossed out a cauldron of newt eyes. Who's with me?"

"Hurrah," came the rat chorus, and almost instantly, the horde began a mass exodus, disappearing from the cell through various inexplicably small cracks in the grout.

This is when I realized the rats could be a helpful source of information. "Wait, guys! How do I get out of here? I'm hungry too. Although, I don't really eat newt eyes. Maybe you could direct me to the kitchens?"

One rat remained. A skinny, wrinkled tan one who looked a thousand years old. "Don't worry darlin'," she said. "They never keep you here long."

Relief washed over me. "That's good."

"Noose men should be here soon unless it's Thursday. They take Thursdays off for golf."

"What!" I said, heart pounding, but she had already slipped through a crack.

Now you understand why rats are among my least favorite creatures.

I really had to escape. No way was I waiting for any noose men! I couldn't leave the same way as the rats, obviously, as I was slightly (okay, greatly) too large, and there didn't seem to be any Alice in Wonderland 'drink me' potions that might shrink me. There's never any useful magic around when you need it, am I right?

Magic! Perhaps that was the answer. Destruction was one of my core skills, after all.

All I had to do was get angry and blow everything up.

I squeezed my hands into fists, remembered my fury at Petronella after she blackmailed me, called up the image of Tyra kissing Miles, imagined the joy of vengeance, clenched my teeth, thought about the feeling of bees buzzing against my skin, and ....

... nothing happened.

It felt like someone had thrown a soggy, wet blanket over my powers.

Grrrrr!

I absolutely, positively would not take the damsel in distress route! No way!

Never.

Ever!

My stomach was calling out to me loudly, complaining. FEED ME! But like I said, no cake. I calmly gripped the bars of my cell and yelled: "Help!" but in a non-damsel in distress tone. More of a demand than a plea.

Okay, I was being a helpless damsel.

But what choice did I have? I was hungry! My cries echoed back, mocking me. What kind of evil queen has an empty dungeon? If you ask me, this isn't living up to the moniker. All the cells should be occupied. And if no one has done anything worthy of punishment, send them anyway just to keep up appearances. Petronella was slacking off on the job.

I was about to collapse on the cold floor and throw myself a massive pity party when somewhere outside the cell; I heard a terrible moaning and scraping and wailing.

(Hopefully by something already dead and therefore harmless. I mean, it's not like ghosts could disembowel you or anything. If you think about it, it's kind of crazy for anyone to be afraid of beings made of nothing more than vapor whose skill set includes moaning, bell-ringing, or lighting an occasional candle during a séance.)

Then came the sound of boots scraping unevenly against the stone floor and the clattering of metal on metal. Cranking my neck as far as it would go, I peered down the dimly lit hall and saw two shadowy figures. At last, someone had come to release me! I clapped my hands with excitement, thinking about how I'd make Petronella's life a misery for imprisoning me. The tantrum would be loud and long.

"Hello?" I said.

"Take that!" came a cheerful voice. A boy.

"You scoundrel! You shall feel my blade slicing your innards," replied another voice, Scottish, deep, and equally merry.

"I'm ready to be rescued!" I yelled at the shadowy figures, kind of shocked they hadn't rushed over to help me.

The scraping and clanking stopped.

"Huh?" said the boy.

"Our newest prisoner," the Scottish voice replied.

The shadowy figures wandered into sight, pausing in front of my cell.

The boy looked about my age and had only one arm, yet he was more beautiful than anyone had any right to be with dark skin, a wide smile, tons of corkscrew curls, and dimples too. As if his face wasn't already handsome enough without them. He wore a short yellow robe over beige tights with tall shiny boots and had a scabbard attached to a leather belt cinched at his narrow waist, emphasizing his wide shoulders. Also, attached to his waist? A keyring!

Freedom shall be mine!

Hovering behind the boy was a shimmery bearded ghost dressed in a gauzy kilt and ruffled shirt, with a quite real metal sword dangling from his ethereal hand. Ghosts could carry physical weapons?

Maybe they were to be feared after all!

This was my first ghost encounter ever, and I should've been shocked weapon or no weapon. Questioning my own eyes. Worried about my sanity.

But let's face it, once you've had a conversation with a bunch of cannibalistic rats, there's not much that can surprise you.

The boy shoved his sword into the scabbard at his belt and looked at me. He smiled and some strange things happened to my "innards."

He bowed to the ghost. "I will finish you off later, Malcolm. Well, not so much finish you off but ..."

"Must you rub it in?" Malcolm said. "Now that's just cruel, bringing up the fact that I'm already dead."

"You could've avoided being dead by listening to me and doing what you were told. I, on the other hand, will obey her Highness, so I don't end up like you. Not that I have another hand. Now, you, prisoner!" the boy said, his dark eyes glimmering with mischief.

"Don't call me that," I commanded. "I am the queen. Almost!"

"And I'm the king," he teased. "I've never seen a queen before dressed in a back end of a horse suit."

"I'll prove it," I said, squeezing my eyes closed, clenching my fists, searching inside my body for the magic, imagining the keyring dangling from his belt floating into my cell. Nothing happened.

"Are you trying to summon magic in the dungeon?" he said, smirking. "Won't work. The whole dungeon's warded. Some queen!"

"When I am queen, I will send you to the dungeon myself," I promised. This boy was almost as bad as the rats! And to think I thought he was cute!

"You thought I was cute?" he said.

My face burned despite the cold. Had I said that out loud? "I think you're as cute as a naked mole rat!" I growled.

He grinned wide, white teeth gleaming. God, I already hated his smile. It was so ... so ... smiley! Ugh. "Naked mole rat?"

Oh, crap. I realized my mistake. Why couldn't I say he was as ugly as something fully clothed? Time to change the subject. "Look, are you going to get me out of here or not?" I said, hands on hips.

"Not," he said. "That's how Malcolm ended up ... you know ..." he came closer to the bars, "dead," he whispered. He was so close; I could almost reach the keyring.

"I heard that," Malcolm called.

"Sorry, Malc," the boy said. "Malcolm's real sensitive."

"Am not," Malcolm said.

"And his hearing is too good!" the boy said. "By the way, name's Blade." What kind of a wacky name is Blade? He pushed his arm through to shake my hand.

Big mistake!

Thanks again for reading my story, guys! It's the first glimpse of life at Castle Brittlebane. Lots more fun to come! Also, I really really love writing rat conversations. Maybe there's something wrong with me!

Don't forget all the voting and whatnot! Love you guys!!!

Dedicating this chapter to LenaGilmour who was the person who helped me decide to post this story on Wattpad. She is brilliant and helped me solve a plot problem I'd been struggling with. I can't tell you yet what it was, but I will after the twist has been revealed. Thank you, Lena!