The Alexandrite Key

Chapter One

The malodor of iron lingered through the narrow tunnels as blood stained the dirt. She shuffled against the crowd that had gathered around the scene. Guards dragged a body from another confrontation. Unbeknownst to her, they had become more frequent during these summer months.

Her amber eyes caught a glimpse of the symbol on his loosely strapped sleeve. She recognized it immediately: the symbol of the resistance. Swirls of red and black formed the body of a dragon.

The guards halted as the commander hovered over the young man. He grabbed the chestnut hair, pulled the man's head upward, then dropped his hold with disgust. With a sneer, he ripped the band from the man's arm and tossed it toward the guard restraining him.

They spoke in a tongue Aluria couldn't comprehend, but she knew who he was. The black cape clasped by a golden eagle brooch across his breastplate wasn't the only thing that distinguished him. It was the natural authority his presence demanded from everyone around him.

She could recognize the years of servitude and military hardship etched into him. Her gaze lingered on the detailed armor stretched over the muscle beneath. He wasn't particularly bad-looking, but the evil that seemed to follow him made her stomach twist.

She lowered her head as a group of captives murmured in her native tongue.

"Murderer. The King's lapdog. The Devil."

She glanced just enough to see her people whispering amongst themselves—middle-aged men hardened by a different kind of servitude, by years of captivity. In some ways, life in Ironhold was more lax than in the other encampments, but all were still the same.

Slowly, they dispersed as guards ushered them back to their posts.

She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her white tunic. Sweat drenched every crevice of her body, easily washable unlike the red staining her nails and now her clothes. She flicked the dried blood from beneath her nail bed, knowing she would once again waste precious time scrubbing it away later.

She groaned as she lifted the box of equipment, preparing it for the hands of another unfortunate Artemian citizen. As the guards passed toward the burial grounds, a small sense of relief washed over her. Lately, she had become something of a favorite among the guards. She prayed it would never require more than cleanup duty.

Humid gusts swept against her as she staggered into the storage tent. She hurriedly brushed the hair from her face and stored towels and linen in their designated places.

For a slave mining camp, Ironhold was peculiar in its obsession with sanitation and strict schedules. Young men were trained for war recruitment, while some children became puppets for the guards who supervised the camp.

She glanced toward the arriving convoy while placing fresh towels onto the rack. Guards barked commands as they shoved citizens back into line. Wide eyes. Bloodstains. Children stumbling toward the tent.

Her nose crinkled as tears welled in her eyes. The sight never became easier to bear.

Ever since arriving in Ironhold, she had learned every aspect of life could become a commodity. A privilege. Some things never returned once lost.

She crouched low, hiding herself from wandering eyes, and slipped through the wooden back door. Voices of approaching guards echoed nearby.

Keeping herself small was her utmost priority. Attracting attention—or lingering too long anywhere—opened doors to situations she never wished to witness herself. Staying hidden was the only hope she had of escaping Ironhold.

She walked through the dirt beneath the blazing sun, airing out her tunic as her gaze landed upon the familiar sign hanging low above the tent entrance.

Blacksmith.

The banner waved as the tent flaps burst open. She quickly hid beside a stack of nearby crates, pressing herself tightly against the worn leather covering.

The commander exited without sparing a glance toward his surroundings.

Only after he disappeared did she slip through the flaps and return to her workstation.

A blacksmith—that was what she was. A trade passed down from her father, and his father before him. She knew her father loved her, but she also knew he would have preferred a son to carry on his legacy.

She lifted the sword from its mold.

She didn't care what the commander needed her for, nor did she entertain the thoughts clawing at the back of her mind. Beneath her feet, the earth trembled as distant explosions thundered deep underground.

A ray of sunlight streamed through the makeshift window screen, gleaming across the steel as she began her work.

Hours passed before she finally allowed the hammer to rest, the blade now ready to be wielded.

She turned toward the small window overlooking the mountains and jungle terrain stretching beyond the camp lines. The moon hung bright and blue above the horizon, washing the night sky in a pale glow.

A sudden chill crawled down her spine.

Thinking little of it, she loosened her workbelt just as the tent flaps suddenly opened.

The commander stood there in full regalia, cold sapphire eyes fixed directly on hers.