Harlow has a secret that will get her executed should the cruel king who destroyed her home and captured her find out.
The cruel prince knows of Harlow's secret, but he's loyal to his kingdom's laws and obeys his father by fulfilling every command...
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The ghost of silence wrapped its twisted fingers around the throats of the living.
Disbelief danced in the dying voices of authority. Speechless from the words of utter defiance and power that had tumbled out of a slave's mouth. The room became heavy with a deep, dark chill. Only, not the kind of chill that blanketed the land like winter's first snow.
Not the kind of chill that was baltic like a night aglow with the moon of winter's eve.
But the kind of chill which layered the room in icy tension.
Hardened eyes of stone yet reflective like glass challenged those who stood before her. Those who reigned over her and crushed the spirits of the conquered.
Her people were behind her, shackled from head to toe in chains that outweighed their skeletal frames. They were almost wraith-like in appearance. Pale, hunched over, and broken. Their bones pressed tightly against their skin, their eyes downcast and empty like a corpse, frozen from death, staring into the void.
It appeared as if they had just crawled out of the grave upon the sound of a trumpet beckoning them to rise.
Their clothes were torn and ragged and their feet were bare and bruised. Upon their faces were many harsh lines, and each one told stories of their struggles. Each one was earned, just like the early gray hair that sprouted from their oily, dirty scalps.
The smell they wore permeated the air. Body odor and the stench of their fluids lingered in the atmosphere and those in the room wrinkled their noses in disgust.
Shaky were their legs and withered were their souls. Their spirits had long since retreated into the darkest parts of their heart, which was wrapped in thorns and bound by chains like the ones that bound their wrists.
The slave girl's body was in no better condition than the others. Her mind, however, was a master at weathering storms.
"I will not repeat myself, and I grant you one more chance. Denounce your name, slave. Denounce your identity and pledge yourself to your new kingdom." The king commanded, rising from his throne.
Paranoia had stricken the king like a deadly disease, and he was letting it overtake his senses. Slowly, as the years went by, his distrust had increased tenfold, which in turn affected his thoughts.
He had become paranoid, constantly accusing everyone of tyranny, and worried greatly about threats to his throne. Perhaps, he knew he couldn't rule forever, that eventually, the people would be spurred to rise against a brutal king.
He wanted to keep his rightful spot on the throne. Selfishness and addiction to power caused him to mutate into a paranoid, unpredictable, malevolent king. He was blinded by his lust for blood, his lust for control. He feasted on the riches of the world and took advantage of his people.
