by K. L. Thorne
“It’s a shame he’s earmarked for the king. He’d have fetched a pretty penny on the slave market.” Rokat eyed him.
“I doubt that. I’m the definition of disobedient,” Haros retorted, fixing the portly man with a glare. “Besides, I may be handy with a sword, but I’m pretty fucking useless with a broom.”
“Insolent prick.” Rokat laughed heartily. “I’ll be sure to look out for you swinging at the gallows.”
“I don’t want any trouble, you hear me?” Vik opened the cell door, his palm glowing with majicka. “Don’t make me put that arrow back where I found it.”
Haros let the man usher him from the cell.
The jailer hooked a portion of the chain through the manacles. He tugged at it, checking it was secure, before roughly turning Haros around. Haros heard Vik step away and release a low whistle.
“My, that’s an interesting tattoo. I hadn’t noticed that before.” The jailer smoothed his rough palm over Haros’s bare back. Haros shuddered and pulled away.
As a younger demon, Haros had had his back tattooed with an intricate design that ran from the nape of his neck right down to the top of his buttocks. It had special, ceremonial meaning. Haros wondered if Vik would recognise the symbols for what they were.
“Warrior initiation marks, if I’m not mistaken?” the jailer probed.
“That’s right,” Haros replied tightly.
“That certainly explains your impressive resilience.” Vik chuckled. “I fear you may have been underplaying just how handy you are with a sword versus a broom.”
“You should be thankful I’m the one in manacles,” Haros growled.
“We’re in agreement there, Harris. Which battle school did you train with?”
When Haros didn’t reply, the jailer snorted.
“Not so chatty all of a sudden? Fine.”
Haros was shoved forwards, and he found himself paired with another demon who barely stood taller than his shoulder. The man was young, too young to be in such a place, and was so under-developed he was almost feminine in his physique. His face was heavily bloodied and one eye had closed completely beneath a painful-looking bruise. He didn’t meet Haros’s eye, just stared ahead vacantly.
“Chag, get the paperwork,” Vik instructed. “Don’t forget Harris’s sheet.”
The skinny faerie passed, giving Haros a wide berth, to gather together one of the many piles of parchment from the desk. He picked up the separate sheet and, with a sinister smile, waved it around before filing it at the very bottom of the pile.
“How far is the dungeon?” Haros asked as Vik passed him to take the rear of the group. He glanced at his bare feet and noticed all the other prisoners were also barefoot and dressed in shabby rags. Surely, they wouldn’t be taking them any distance?
“Not far at all. Up a flight of stairs or two.”
Rokat and Chag lead the group forward. Slaves funnelled obediently behind them through a third door that Haros had been unable to see from his cell. The corridor was dark and dank, much like the rest of the dungeon.
Other than the odd terrified whimper and the shuffling of many bare feet, they moved in silence. Haros caught the eye of a young, frightened demon girl. He smiled at her in the hope of easing some of her apprehension. She just hurriedly looked away; eyes still wide with fear.
The group carefully ascended the stone steps, a difficult feat when they were all so closely packed.
The stone staircase spiralled, seemingly unending. There were no windows to the outside world, just the occasional candle to light their way.
“Halt, who goes there?” a voice shouted.
Haros craned above the heads of the group. A faerie soldier stood guard at yet another door.
“Jailers from East, West and South dungeons, sir. We’re delivering today’s assignment of prisoners and slaves,” Haros heard Chag respond.
“You’re late,” the soldier snapped. “And it’s unorthodox to deliver a whole consignment at once.”
“Honestly, they’re on at us constantly to work through our backlog and then complain when we actually deliver,” Vik muttered under his breath behind Haros.
“Apologies, sir, we just—”
“No matter,” the soldier interrupted. “Proceed. The head jailer is waiting.”
The group of prisoners steadily began scuffling forward.
“I’m afraid this is where we part ways, Harris.” Vik reached up to pat his shoulder. “I would wish you the best of luck, but I don’t think it will make a jot of difference.”
“Well, thanks,” Haros grumbled.
Ahead, Rokat and Chag stood aside the open door.
“I look forward to your execution. Rokat, Vik and I will be in the front row,” Chag hissed spitefully.
Haros simply grinned at him and snapped his fangs, delighting as the thin man jolted away.
Without looking back, he joined a long queue. The other prisoners filed both in front and behind him. Haros leant subtly out around the crowds to try and get a look ahead. A large, intricately carved wooden desk was stationed at the back of the room. Candles were strategically placed around the room, lighting the dark, windowless space.
Another faerie sat in a chair behind the desk, his mouth set in a grim, serious line. The head jailer, no doubt. The man glanced back and forth between the documents laid out on his desk and the prisoners in front of him. His grey eyes flickered over the top of simple gold-framed glasses.
The queue steadily hobbled forwards and Haros watched curiously as prisoners were unchained from the group, one at a time. After a brief discussion with the head jailer, they were ushered away through varying doors by heavily muscled guards.
The young demon girl he had smiled at was at the desk.
“Rosalynn – imprisoned for theft.” The jailer licked his lips as he flicked through the parchments in his hands.
“Y-yes, sir,” she muttered.
“She has a unique birthmark identifier at the small of her back.” The faerie glanced up at the guard beside him.
The large man strode forward and roughly pulled the young girl’s shabby dress up, uncaring when he exposed her beneath. She squirmed in a futile attempt to hide her nakedness from the room.
“Correct,” the guard replied, dropping the girl’s garments back into place. He kept a tight hold on her arm.
“Excellent. She’s to go to the north wing.” The jailer dipped his quill into a pot of ink. His face remained emotionless when the girl howled with dismay.
“No, sir! Please! I’ll do anything! P-please, I promise. If you send me to the slave pens—”
“My dear Rosalynn, no one wants a thieving slave.” The faerie didn’t look up from his document as he continued to scribble notes down. “North wing.”
The girl let out a terrified sob as she was dragged away by the large guard. The jailer signed the bottom of the parchment with his elaborate signature before adding it to the neat stack of papers to his right.
“Next,” he shouted, and Haros shuffled ever closer in the queue. He watched in horror as other prisoners were stood in front of the faerie. The man identified each of them with a specific trait. In cases where there was no way to identify the individual, a painful-looking brand had been applied. Haros had never been so grateful to have the tattoo on his back.
Before long, he and his emotionless friend were at the front of the line. The jailer licked his finger as he flicked through pages of parchment. He glanced up at Haros over his glasses with interest in his eyes.
“Next.” He motioned him forward with a crook of a long finger and Haros strode forward. After a few moments of flicking through the papers, the faerie frowned and glanced up at him again.
“I don’t appear to have paperwork for this one.” He nodded at a guard across the room who hastily began hunting through the pile. “What is your name, demon?”
“Harris,” he answered, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Ah, here.” A guard presented the p
aperwork with a relieved sigh. “It was stuck to the back of another.”
Haros watched on curiously, but held his tongue. He knew for a fact that the paperwork relating to him was at the bottom of that pile because he had seen Chag place it there. The jailer’s guard had pulled this document from the middle.
“Excellent, let’s have a look.” The faerie scanned his eyes across the paper. “Harris – imprisoned for treading on the cloak of a King’s Guard captain.”
Haros couldn’t believe someone could be imprisoned for something so utterly ridiculous, yet he remained silent.
“Says here there’s a tattoo identifier. It doesn’t say where on the body, helpfully.” The faerie glanced over the paper once more, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
As a guard strode towards him, Haros hurriedly span to show his back. He held his breath, barely believing his luck. He prayed the guard, as a faerie, would fail to recognise the markings as Vik had.
“Correct. His back is covered.” The guard nodded.
“You look to be a strong demon,” the jailer mused, dipping his quill into the ink. “You’ll make someone a good slave. To the pens with this one.”
Haros allowed the guard to manhandle him to the mouth of a different corridor, glancing back over his shoulder.
The small demon he had been chained to was dragged forwards before the jailer.
“Hm, you’re not Elise,” he muttered, shuffling through the papers with a scowl. “I haven’t got time for this! How many times have I told those damn jailers I need these documents filed correctly? Send this one to the back. We’ll see whose name we’re left with at the end.”
Haros swallowed, guilt settling in the pit of his stomach. That innocent demon was about to be accused of treason and aiding in the escape of the princess.
The guard holding Haros strode them forward
Of all the times he’d had near-death experiences, he never thought he would owe his life to an administrative error.
Chapter Two
“Rise and shine, Princess.”
Sivelle groaned, burying her head into her soft down pillow in protest as the thick drapes were opened and bright daylight speared into her room.
“Just five more minutes, Mivian,” she complained. Despite her reluctance, her handmaiden ripped the warm quilt from her.
“It was five more minutes an hour ago, Your Highness.” The girl laughed. “You really do need to get up if I stand any chance of getting you dressed and ready to meet with your father.”
Sivelle grumbled beneath her breath. Though the handmaiden was actually two years her junior, the princess obeyed her command. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress.
“Goodness, look at the state of your hair,” Mivian chided.
Sivelle squinted through one eye against the bright morning light. Thick snow was falling once again. She sighed irritably.
Mivian hauled the princess to her feet and marched her into the adjoining bath chamber Sivelle shuffled ahead instinctively, dazed.
“I’ve already prepared your bath.” The handmaiden grasped the hem of Sivelle’s nightgown and tugged it up over her head, carefully avoiding jerking her wings. The princess swayed a little before regaining her balance.
Sivelle obediently stepped over the edge of the elaborate copper tub and into the hot, soapy water. She sighed contentedly as she slid her body into its warmth.
“There’s no time for dawdling. In, wash and back out. Your father will have my head if you’re late again.”
Sivelle didn’t respond. She simply closed her eyes and pinched her nose, slipping her head beneath the water. Her long blonde hair swirled around her and she ran her hand through it to get the thick mass of curls wetted for washing. When she could hold her breath no longer, she surfaced. Sivelle swiped the water from her eyes and felt Mivian hurriedly running a handful of scented soap over her head.
“You’ve slept far too late, Princess. I’m not going to be able to do anything too grand with your hair today. Honestly, it’s like you’ve lost all interest since your sisters…” The handmaiden trailed off.
Sivelle sat in silence and stared vacantly into the bubbles around her. She couldn’t deny it. Since Lori had fled and Faye had followed after her, Sivelle was having a hard time summoning up the energy to do anything other than sleep.
Lori’s leaving had been unplanned, though not a surprise. Sivelle had been deeply saddened, but it had been Faye’s decision to follow their sister that had been the most difficult to deal with.
She had made a grand show of not being interested in following in her younger sisters’ footsteps, pretending that she was happy to remain in Awrelwood. She had known there was no chance that both herself and Faye could have escaped undetected.
Despite her grief, Sivelle had dutifully helped Faye pack a bag and sent her on her way. Her sister would never have left if Sivelle had told her about the secret getaway bag she had packed for herself. The one that still remained hidden beneath her bed.
Sivelle was filled with regret and sorrow. She hadn’t realised just how lonely it was going to be without them.
She had convinced herself she would be fine. She thought she would have her ballet lessons to keep her busy and her birthday ball to prepare for. She had even foolishly led herself to believe maybe when her father discovered his two precious daughters had fled him, he would see the error of his ways and treat her with less severity.
The exact opposite had been true. Sivelle had been on lockdown ever since, confined to her room unless accompanied by one of her father’s guards.
Sivelle felt as if she was constantly under her father’s gaze now, far more than she had ever been before. She and her father had always gotten along well in the past. She had been surprised when he had lashed out at her, punishing her for the escape of her sisters.
She would have been the first to admit she had led an impossibly sheltered life, but she hadn’t realised just how little she had without her sisters.
“You must miss them terribly.” Mivian’s voice softened and she gently massaged the soap suds through the princess’s hair.
Sivelle just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Rinse.”
The princess sucked in a breath and held her nose once more as she dipped beneath the water. She roughly tugged a hand through her hair to rinsing free the soap before coming back up for air.
“Here.” Mivian held out a bar of soap that was speckled with lumps of dried flowers and a soft sponge. Sivelle took the items from her and began working the soap into a lather. She handed it back to the girl before dutifully scrubbing the rest of her body.
Once clean, Sivelle hopped from the bath into the warm, fluffy towel Mivian had held out waiting for her. She followed the handmaiden back into the bedroom where she sat obediently on a stool in front of a large dressing table.
Mivian opened a few drawers and gathered together the beauty items she needed. Sivelle stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, despite having more sleep in the last few days than she could ever recall. Her powder blue eyes were stark against her pale skin, even with the dusky pink flush on her cheekbones from the heat of the bath.
Mivian smoothed a divine smelling paste between her hands and began running it through the mass of matted curls.
“Have you had any more thoughts about your birthday ball, Princess?” she asked with a smile, clearly trying to change the subject to something cheerier.
“I have another gown fitting this week, plus a meeting with the coordinator to go over some of the decoration ideas. I believe that’s what father wants to see me about today,” Sivelle answered, wincing as Mivian attempted to comb through the thick tangles.
“How is the gown coming along?” Mivian asked, frowning with concentration.
“Wonderfully, though I still haven’t decided which design I will pick.” The princess sighed. “I’ve narrowed it down to five.”
“Well that’s an impr
ovement on the twelve you originally had.” Mivian chuckled.
“It’s impossible to choose just one. They’re all so beautiful.”
“Indeed. Your mother’s seamstress really is talented beyond belief.” The girl paused. “And what about your father’s ball – have you thought any more about that?”
Sivelle’s stomach churned at the mere mention of the evening of celebration her father was planning in her honour – her chastity auction, as Lori had delightfully termed it.
“I’m determined not to get too worked up over it,” Sivelle answered tightly. “It’s weeks away yet. I will focus on my birthday celebrations first.”
“I don’t suppose he has told you much about it,” Mivian mused, smiling to herself as she managed to comb through a section of Sivelle’s long mane successfully. Knot and tangle free, the wet length ran to the small of the princess’s back.
“He’s told me almost nothing, which worries me.” The princess pressed her lips together. “All I know is that invites have been posted to every eligible bachelor in the city.”
“What exactly defines ‘eligible’?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sivelle replied. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned about it. I’m a princess – this is just business as usual, I suppose. I couldn’t exactly marry any fool that happens to wander in, could I?”
“Let’s face it, there’s a severely short supply of men – fools or otherwise – that you’re likely to meet without your father’s assistance.” Mivian snorted and Sivelle felt a smile creep into her cheeks – the first since waving goodbye to Faye.
“Precisely. I just hope they’re not all portly old men!”
The two faeries giggled between themselves and Mivian combed out the last of Sivelle’s curls.
“There, much better.” The handmaiden placed her hands on her hips triumphantly. “You’re tamed for another day, Princess.”
Whilst Mivian busied herself with making the bed and letting the bath drain out, Sivelle stood and unabashedly dropped her towel. She reached for a soft powder puff and patted it against her clammy skin, ridding herself of any remaining moisture.