Lament of the Traitor King (Complete)

Chapter 1 - In Exile (Minor Edits Made)

ALL ADS FEATURED IN THIS WORK ARE NOT THE CHOICE OF THE CREATOR AND HAVE BEEN ADDED IN WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT, IN SPITE OF WHATEVER THE ADS MAY SAY.

Netta stared at the box on the worn welcome mat, her tired mind seeming to be trying to catch up to the realization of what she was seeing.

For a moment, she wondered if it was intended for her. After all, she lived with a roommate.

And who would have anything to leave for her?

Still, Netta bent awkwardly in her huge, thick snow coat, taking a glove off and picking the box up. She turned it this way and that in her hand, examining it, then paused, her hand hovering over the box's top.

Netta took in a breath, her gaze jittering over the flat, white surface. When she exhaled, she more felt her hand moving than was aware of it, tipping back the top.

Inside of the box sat a business card that was only a few measures smaller than the walls of the box that it rested in. Netta took hold of the card from out of its box, staring at the embossed, raised letters on its front.

Holding the cracked, worn thing in her hand for a moment, she quickly turned it into her closed fist, shoving it into her coat's pocket.

No.

She glanced down at the opened collar of her coat, saw the curling, worn lapels of her uniform's polo shirt as they poked out. She zipped the front of her coat up in preparation for the cold that would be waiting for her outside and affixed her scarf around her neck.

Down Netta went, the clodding weight of her snow boots sending rumbling with each blow of her feet on the stairs. Outside of the dilapidated building, Netta, who had thought that she was prepared for the blustering, freezing snow to wait for her, was nevertheless taken off guard by what she walked out on.

Netta flinched as she felt the wind as it managed to blast through the thick layers of her scarf. Holding her hand over her face, Netta looked around her, astonished by the unbridled power of the wind that morning.

How could it be early October?

That question was punctuated by the sight of the snow drifts, as high as her knees in some spots. Her gaze was more drawn, however, to the sparse groove of a trail that had been cut into the snow by those who had walked on the side walk.

With a moan, Netta leaped into the snow from the top step, wincing as she felt the cold wrapping around her legs. She trudged through the snow for some more time before she found her hand fishing in her pocket like an unintentional tic. Her fingers ran over the edges of the card like a partially healed scab, longing to yank, pull loose.

She gave into the urge, as she passed by a street light that gave a sickly yellow glow amidst the snow. Pulling it out, she examined its face one more before she turned it over, compelled for some reason to look on its back.

As soon as she saw the hurried cursive on its back, she shoved the card back into her pocket.

Irritated, Netta pulled her phone loose from her other pocket. She tried to distract herself, looking through an old couple of messages. She only had a few moments to do so, as the battery died.

Cursing, Netta was about to shove the phone back into her pocket, then she stared at the black, reflective surface of the screen. In the small square of the glass, she saw the vague shape of her face. As she passed another street sign, she could see for a moment, the haggard, tired expression on it.

With her head mostly obscured by the hood that covered, she had to imagine the wrinkles, the bags under her eyes and, of course, those light freckles that seemed to have been sprayed across the pale skin of her upper cheeks and nose. What was it that her Father had called them once?