The King Trials 2: Beyond.

~The Faces of Perfidy~

I wake first, before sun and time. The first thing I feel is my barren throat, suffocatingly dry. Ungluing my eyelids, I notice a hazy object on the round, rustic bedside table. Strange because I do not remember putting anything there the night before.

I heave myself upright, clearing my vision with each eye-flutter.

And now, I see.

A smile kisses my lips. My daggers.

Filled with childlike insecurity, a pinching blush rises in my cheeks, warmed with the self-aware realisation that Kelan had returned them, but it must have been whilst I slumbered. But I suppose I have been asleep for a very long time, long before the King Trials. Ignorant to ancient perils and oblivious to the one's unravelling, including the dormant one within my veins.

I have been asleep for too long. And I need to wake up.

So I rise. I begin to pack my belongings, preparing for our impending departure. I slide into my clothing—much looser than before—fastening my leather corsage over a fitted chemise, then lacing up my boots before strapping on my thigh holsters. I saunter over to the table, picking up both daggers, inspecting them both. One my father's and the other is the first dagger I ever held after I completed my training. But father always said that a true master never stops learning, which is why I carry it still.

I take up my long coat and shrug it on, leaving it fully open, the ends brushing against my boots.

I lick my lips, desperate for moisture. I need water.

I swivel around, moving to the saddlebag that houses all my...valued items. The crown piece from the Sagetai's Sanctuary, the one scroll—though I do not see the one I had handwritten—and there it is. The canteen bottle with a tarnished coat. I take it and shuffle out of the tent, pushing passed the heavy flap.

The bespeckled sky burgeons with a sweet amethyst, eddying with midnight blue and whorls of washed-out pink, morning stars blinking awake, shining like twinkling petals. The tranquil surroundings clean away any residues of dread, banishing lingering anguish, at least for a moment, a moment of gratitude. My gaze coasts over the still encampment. I think about going to Primus Kelan's tent, to thank him for returning my daggers. Any excuse to see him really but I decide against it. Instead, I venture into the forest, embarking on a peaceful walk to the creek, hoods of black shadow hang in the groves.

I plunge into the over-arching vault of leaf and limb. Aged trees with creaking branches stretched from a crinkly floor to the berries that lay ripening under the lush dome, feeble light caress the lichen-encrusted bark.

I inhale a breath, drawing in the pulpy smell of the forest, former pain hushed to a murmur. Wandering through a foliage-draped asylum. The resounding silence makes me feel like I'm the only one. Huge roots spread-eagle the ground, organic smell arises in waves of floral fragrances.

When I reach the waters, uncapping the canteen. I lower—a branch snaps—I cease all movement. Every sense on high alert. A twig crunches, once then two more times, crackling sounds echo from multiple places, rustling leaves of hoary boughs disturbed by something from above.

I elongate slowly, revolving as I turn my gaze to the sky.

Shuffling noises beckon from deep in the interior, deadened by the cunningly woven web of leaves. It could be scuttling mares or feline creatures slinking through the undergrowth. But it feels like it something else, many, perilous alternatives.

Time and dreadful experiences have sharpened my senses and taught me to beware of the unexpected—I whisk around. I catch my heart before it can flee from its cage, hand pressed on my chest.