Alicia kicks and screams, she cries and curses, tears streaming in the mud on her face, showing the colourful bruises beneath.

The man—Jeramiah—grabs her around the throat and squeezes, her eyes bulging as blood rushes to her head and she claws at his hands.

"You fucked up," he sneers. His lips continue moving, but Alicia doesn't hear him, her heartbeat like a drum in her ear as he presses her head into the mud. Air is a distant memory as her fingers tremble, numbness spreading through them as her fight ceases.

Where are they? Alicia remembers begging her ma as the woman settled a hand between her shoulder-blades, one of the few comforting touches she would ever offer Alicia throughout her life. Ma, I don't see them.

She remembers too clearly when she had spotted her brothers and pa, remembers the cry that had left her as she'd launched herself towards them, right into her pa's broad chest where he squeezed her so tight she thought he might never let go. She hoped he would never let go.

His breath was in her hair, the rattling of a sob in his chest, and then the stone platform wasn't beneath her feet because he had lifted her right up to swing her around, like she was just a little girl with scraped knees and a wooden toy gun tucked into her sagging pants. Not a woman of twenty with her ma's expensive coat around her shoulders and pins in her hair that could have fed them for a month when they were younger. Not a woman who had fought her own war while they were away.

She remembers looking at her brothers—looking at them all—and finally seeing them for the men they had become. They'd always been bigger boys, bodies accustomed to the weight of stacks of hay and the churn of crops on the fields Kathryn owned. But she noticed on that train platform with shouts of happiness and the cries of grieving surrounding them that her boys looked almost small. Wiry features gaunt and shadowed in the dull light.

She remembers looking upon their once smiling faces and finally seeing the scars of war written upon them, and a part of her wished she could share with them what had become of her so they didn't look so alone, so hollow in their grief. But her actions were only for the Reaper. She couldn't live with herself if she had to face her brothers' judgement too.

Thinking of this now, remembering the happiness she felt about being reunited with her family, being whole again, is just another knife in her gut. Her pa is dead. He's dead because of her actions and her ma's betrayal. Her brothers will never forgive her.

They're not waiting for her to return home as she waited for them.

The urge rises in her to cry in relief as death inches towards her and offers her a gentle hand. She wants to accept. After everything, she wants so desperately to enfold herself into the Reaper's darkness and forget the burning in her chest that isn't from lack of air.

Hands reach around Jeramiah, seeming to come from the shadows around him. His eyes widen as an arm encircles his throat, dragging him off Alicia with a startled choke.

Alicia cries as she breathes, sobbing relentlessly as the weight of his body is pulled away from her.

But the relief doesn't come as it should. There's no relief to be found for someone like her.

"Get the woman," someone demands, but Alicia is scrambling back with rasping breaths, flames clawing at her throat, bones weary as she watches with wide eyes.

Jeramiah is shoved against a tree, throwing a fist that is swiftly dodged by the man. There's a knife in his grip and Alicia gags on her breath as the man slices through Jeramiah's thigh, blood quick to soak through his pants.

"That was the main artery in your leg," the man says roughly, Jeramiah's screams muffled behind his clenched teeth. "If you tell me what I want to know, then I might be able to save you. Where is Warren?"

"Fuck you," Jeramiah spits, face draining of colour as blood pours from his wound.

"Wrong answer," is the man's harsh reply, and he shoves the blade into Jeramiah's gut, twisting the steel until Jeramiah cries, hands useless as he tries to grip the man's wrist.

Alicia covers her mouth with her hands to stop herself from making another noise as the man wrenches the knife out, blood blooming on Jeramiah's stained tunic. The man's face is blank, emotionless as he steps away, watching Jeramiah slide to the ground with parted lips, blood oozing down his chin, hands limply gripping the innards that spill from his stomach like the length of a butcher's sausages. The man simply leans down to wipe his blade clean on Jeramiah's clothes as he dies a slow death, breath wheezing from his lungs until his chest ceases movement.

Alicia watches it all, feeling only a sick satisfaction churning in her stomach.

There's a woman in front of her, kneeling and offering her hand. Alicia continues moving back, everything within her screaming to run, to never look back, to run until she collapses and feels nothing at all.

"We need to go, there could be others."

Alicia shakes her head. She doesn't know these people. The only one she knew out here was her aunt and now she's dead and Alicia is alone.

"On your feet," the man says as he approaches them, voice rough, like weathered rock.

But she can't, not as the crushing weight of everything she's lost begins to smother her. Her pa, he died in her arms trying to protect her. Kathryn... She was just trying to keep Alicia alive, stop her from being tortured.

"Let me deal with it, Oliver," the woman snaps. "You're alright, you're safe now."

Oh gods, they're dead and she's still here, forced to continue trudging on.

"She's in shock. We need to get her to the Commons before the Greys and exiles reach us."

"You lead the way." Arms wrap around her, and she sobs again. But this time she's lifted, cradled in arms that don't beat or scratch or threaten.

Finally, she opens her eyes, blinking at the dark forest around her, seeing the woman walking ahead of them, gun in her grip. Then Alicia looks up, the focused gaze of the man on the forests around them. His skin is pale, in contrast to Alicia's bronzed colour. His lips are a defined pout, though a cut mars his lower lip, dried blood on his chin.

He glances down at her, his gaze chilling, the eyes of death and anguish, the eyes of a man who has seen unspeakable horrors. His sterling gaze could freeze bone marrow.

The familiarity in them steals what little breath she's managed to get.

This man of silvery eyes has done more than greet the Reaper, he has sat and dined with his darkness. Just like her.

"Is the girl alright, Oliver?" the woman ahead of them speaks as the man who holds her studies her face, trying to see into Alicia's own darkness.

"Nothing some whiskey won't fix," he replies in that grating tone, eyes moving away from her.

Alicia closes her eyes and hopes when she wakes she's in the arms of the Reaper.

Coming back to her body, Alicia feels nothing but the aches that she knows she deserves. She wakes and stares at a ceiling she doesn't recognise, blankets wrapped around her that she doesn't know the feeling of.

The numbness is a blessing and she's sure it keeps the torrential wave of emotions within her at bay. Such a numbness is the only thing that saved her when she was fighting her war in the slums.

"Welcome back."

Alicia turns her head at the voice to see a man dressed in a finely tailored suit. He leans against the frame of the door, candlelight flickering in the hollows of his cheeks. Her gaze catches on the bottle of amber liquid and crystal glass held in his hand.

The sight of it makes her lick her dry lips, desperate for some sort of relief from the things struggling to stay buried within her.

"Where am I?" Her throat aches as she tries to speak, like handfuls of sand have been shoved past her lips.

The man moves forward, placing the glass on the bedside table and pouring a generous amount of whiskey.

She sits up slowly, hazel gaze wandering over the bandages that layer her body beneath the sheer shift. Wounds old and new.

Her icy fingers trail over her throat, wincing as the fingerprint bruises throb with hurt.

"You're in the Commons," he replies, and Alicia finally looks up at him. Really looks at him.

He's too finely dressed to be just another exile in this land of monsters. His waistcoat and pants are made of fine wool, tailored to his muscular shape. Even his white shirt is without creases, lacking stains. His face is cleanly shaved, the undercut of his hair precise. There's a holster strapped to him, the gun under his arm at his waist shining. The eyes are what betray him, cold and watchful; aware that there's always something below the surface of what he sees.

But that's not all she notices. His sterling eyes have haunted her dreams for the last six years.

"Am I dead?" she dares to ask, her gut twisting.

Oliver doesn't answer as he moves back to his shadows in the corner of the room. He simply reaches into his pocket for a slim metal container that he pops open. He runs a tongue over his lips before sliding the cigarette between them, letting it rest in the corner of his mouth. His face lights with the sharp glow of the match, silver eyes betraying nothing of what he thinks about seeing her again as he takes his first drag.

She swallows thickly, eyes wandering over the worn floorboards and dark oak of the home she's in. It looks nothing like what she thought the Reaper's den would appear to be.

"Alicia, right?" he murmurs, smoke swirling around his face.

"And you're Oliver, but you should be dead."

"We're exiles, sweetheart. We should all be dead."

Alicia blinks at him as the brief thought enters her mind that he's not real, that he's simply an apparition sent by the Reaper to plague her.

She's been haunted by worse things.

Reaching for the glass of amber liquid, her fingers are unsteady as they grip the crystal. She studies the liquid for the longest time, breathing in the spicy musk of it. The scent alone brings memories to the surface, memories she's pushed so deeply within herself that she can almost convince herself they never happened, that the girl she sometimes sees in her dreams isn't her at all.

Bottles once littered the dirt floor of their house, her feet always careful around the shattered glass, her father's raging nonsense a thing that could be heard for miles. The whiskey was strong on his breath, a suffocating stench that often brought tears to little Alicia's eyes.

She grips the glass, willing it to shatter in her grip to be rid of the memory, but they'll never go away, not truly, no matter how fast she runs from her past, no matter how much she disguises it with beautiful silks and glittering jewels. Her past always haunted her even when she was on the arm of a prince.

"How are you alive?" She doesn't want to know, not really. She left behind her search for answers when she exiled herself, when her answers got her pa killed. But the need to know shines brighter than her numbed pain.

"I'm immune."

"Immune to what?" she whispers, still staring into that amber liquid, unable to look at him and see the truth standing before her.

"The Reaper's Curse doesn't effect me. Many exiles are immune, it's common."

Her heart burns, bile rises, and she nearly retches.

People are immune. People have survived the Reaper's Curse.

Why isn't there a cure? Why did the queen die?

Alicia laughs hollowly, lips aching with the effort of the dry smile. Laughing seems the better option to crying, even as Oliver stares at her like she's gone out of her mind.

Perhaps she has. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe that emerald-eyed man really did kill her.

She swallows the whiskey, feeling it burn its way to her stomach, a scolding path that chases memories and nightmares. Her lips sting as she licks them, but still, she finds herself eyeing that bottle, wondering if the lure of blissful unawareness is something that runs in the blood of Zalanas.

"What got you exiled?" Oliver asks, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

Once again, Alicia laughs. What got her exiled? Should she tell him that it was either exile or torture and execution at the hands of the grand duke? Should she tell him that she chose this? How could anyone choose this?

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time," is all she manages to reply with as she reaches for the bottle on the bedside table to refill her glass. "But then again, weren't we all?" Her gaze flicks to his sterling eyes, flinty in the shadows and candlelight.

He remembers. She sees it in the way he lifts his chin and purses his defined lips. He remembers those tunnels and what they discovered together in the tomb.

A door slams somewhere within the house, causing Alicia to jump. Oliver shifts out of the doorway and leans against the wall.

"Oliver?" a woman calls.

"In here."

Footsteps approach and as they do, Alicia drags a blanket over her shoulders, hiding her state of undress.

The first thing Alicia notices about the woman who enters the room is her unruly, brown curls that tumble over her shoulders. The next thing Alicia notices is the resemblance she holds to those portraits that hung on the walls in the palace.

"You're awake," she says, glancing at Oliver beside her. "I hope you didn't interrogate her too much."

"Haven't even started yet," he replies, taking a drag of his cigarette as he watches Alicia.

"I'm Sam," the woman says, approaching the bed, carrying a bundle of clothes.

The tumbler of whiskey in Alicia's hands slips from her grip and shatters on the floor, scattering shards of glass and liquid along the floorboards. Both of them stare at the mess but Alicia is too distracted by staring at the woman before her to even pay it any mind.

"Princess Samantha," Alicia whispers, choking on the name.

The reason Alicia began searching for answers in the palace stands before her, her eyes narrowed, her full lips pressing together like she's tasted something sour. "Yeah," she mutters. "I haven't been a princess in a while. If ever."

Alicia just stares at her as she places the clothes on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Kathryn was a good woman."

Alicia swallows hard, emotion swelling in her chest, her eyes beginning to sting. "You know?" she manages around the lump in her throat.

"Yes," Oliver answers, crossing his legs at the ankles. "You have Kathryn's sword. The woman wouldn't part with such a thing unless she..."

Alicia's gaze drops to the glittering glass at her feet, hoping these people don't see the wetness in her eyes. "She died trying to save me," Alicia mutters, squeezing her arms around herself though she knows it won't help melt this ice in her heart.

"It wasn't your fault," Sam replies, but her words hold no weight. No one can convince Alicia that what happened to her aunt wasn't her fault. Just like her father's death. It all weighs upon her shoulders, another soul vying for her attention, demanding recompense because she was a weak fool.

"I watched her get her throat cut in front of me when she tried to save me." Alicia's words are bitter, the hatred she has for herself twisting her lips, nails digging into her upper arms, trying to ease the sharp pang in her chest.

"How?" the man asks.

"Oliver," Sam hisses, gaze cutting into him, but his eyes watch Alicia and she's too numb and broken to care much for formalities. That time has passed, as Kathryn kept reminding her.

"Other exiles."

Oliver pushes away from the wall, sterling gaze lighting. "Is there anything else you can tell me? Describe how many of them there were? What some of them looked like?"

"I—" Alicia's words die on her tongue as she remembers the emerald gaze of Jeramiah, his fingers bruising her throat.

"Oliver," Sam says, more firmly this time. "I'm very aware what Warren means to you, but I need you to focus."

A muscle in Oliver's jaw flutters before he leans back against the wall, stubbing out his cigarette beneath his heel, blowing the last of the smoke from his nose. The simple movements, the swirl of smoke and the hiss of the cigarette bring Alicia back to the moment, blinking away thoughts of death.

"Whatever you say, Sam."

The girl gives a slight shake of her head before turning back to Alicia. "I'm sorry for what happened. Truly, I am." 

Alicia shifts slightly, nodding her head, despising the pity in the girl's eyes. She doesn't want pity, all she wants is to know now what? People are immune, she's an exile, she's reached the Commons and all she has left is her heartache and the petty pieces of her life.

Now what?

"There's just one thing," Samantha continues, wringing her hands as a frown forms between her brows. "Kathryn eluded to us that she may know where some supplies are. Supplies that we really need. Has she told you about them?"

Alicia shakes her head, bile burning in the back of her throat to be reminded of the supplies that got Kathryn killed.

She doesn't want to have anything to do with them.

"No," she says, rubbing her raw and bruised throat.

"Please," Samantha insists, stepping forward. "Anything at all would help us."

"Sam," Oliver murmurs.

"We're battling the Ruga flu, people are dying and we're desperate."

Blinking up at her, Alicia sees such desperation in her black eyes. Alicia remembers a distant life when such things as the Ruga flu were the worst of her problems. A deadly virus that swept through the slums when she was a child, now just a memory of a dark time. A mere stain upon the sheets in comparison to the Curse's blood-soaked bedroom.

"I can't help you," Alicia says.

Samantha's nostrils flare and clear anger sparks on her features. "Then you're of no use to me." She spins around on her heel and leaves the room, marching straight out of the house.

Oliver blows out a breath. "I'll let you get some rest," he says and he too leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Alicia's shoulders slump once she's alone and the weight of everything she's just learned begins to crush her.

The princess is alive. People can be immune to the Reaper's Curse. Oliver is alive. But even after learning all of this, there's not a damned thing she can do. She can't get back within those walls, she can't work towards a cure. But even if she could, she wouldn't want to, not after what she left behind.

Alicia deserves the exile she chose.