The Archshade

Forty-Seven

In the silence of the dungeons, the sound of footsteps and clanking armor wakes me like a roaring monsoon. I bolt upright. The movement jerks my broken arm, but I barely notice as my attention stays fixed on the flickering torchlight approaching from the mouth of the corridor. I squint into the darkness, then spring into action as I make out the outline of at least half a dozen guards. Every healing muscle and bone in my body protests as I scramble over the cold stone floor, wrapping my salve and candle in my tattered blanket, then pushing it beneath a pile of straw. Just as the marching footsteps reach my cell, I curl up on the straw heap and feign sleep. Orange torchlight falls on my face. I watch the dancing shadows from behind my eyelids.

Something clangs against the bars of my cell.

"Get up, you filth!" A voice hisses.

I open my eyes slowly, blinking in the sudden brightness of half a dozen torches. The guards stand fully armored and fully armed as if only moments away from charging into battle. Their faces are etched with permanent, fiery scowls. As they look down at me, every ounce of pity is absent from their eyes.

The guard closest to my cell speaks. "Get on your knees before His Royal Majesty." From behind the guards, another man emerges.

Instead of the ceremonial robes or exotic furs traditional of Aaruvian royalty, he wears hardened leather armor. His sturdy riding boots support his intimidating frame while the sword and knives belted around his waist punctuate his authority. Even as the glint of torchlight on the grisly blades tightens my stomach, I refuse to move my eyes from his face.

I see a strong chin, carved cheekbones, and defined muscles along his neck and collar bone. His hair falls to barely above the nape of his neck—a mane of charcoal black waves. With his mouth set in a firm line, he stands with his arms clasped in a stately posture.

"Prince Darcron."

My voice comes out as a croak, hoarse and dry from days of sobbing and perhaps weeks of disuse. It sounds strange to my own ears and yet... stronger, somehow. I push myself to a sitting position, clutching my broken arm close to my chest and using the back wall for support. I know what I look like in his eyes. I can feel the bruises, the crusted scabs, the filth clinging to my skin. When I summon my voice again, my words are respectful but edged with a bite.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I don't have the strength to bow."

My heart clenches as the prince lowers his chin; a motion so regal that I'm awestruck despite myself. Torchlight flickers behind him and casts his powerful figure in shadow as he steps forward, wrapping his hands around the iron bars of my cell. His steps are light and silent, not a single trace of a limp.

"I wished to look on the face of my brother's killer so that I may know why."

At first, his emerald gaze seethes with fearsome charm, but upon even the slightest inspection, it all falls away. That pale green like jade glass—the only brightness of color in the shadows. Despite all that has changed, despite everything that has been done, I'm trapped in his stare, unable to look away. That familiar intensity is held in his stare as he appraises me. I dare to look closer, and his jade eyes flash with anguish. His countenance crumbles for me, revealing what I know he can show no one else. Pain... torment... loss... And then it's gone, forced back behind Darcron's face.

"Well," I wet my parched lips. "You've seen me. I hope the sight of a prince slayer is to your satisfaction."

Daynar leans closer to the bars, and a fierce longing escapes the disguise of his countenance. "Tell me why."