The Fanged Throne

Chapter 1

-17 years later-

The early sunrise poked through the small room, warming the dark corners with a golden glow. The grey stone walls were covered with pages of colourful paintings and drawings. Piles and piles of old worn books sat scattered across the floor in hazardous stacks, a few torn pages lay amongst the books.

A small wooden desk was pushed up against the far wall, it's one leg balancing precariously on a stack of books. A handful of tiny, pressed flowers lay strewn across the surface of the bare desk, their edges were wilted and dying. Towards the centre of the room sat an aged wooden bed that groaned and creaked with every toss and turn at night. Under the threadbare blanket lay a small figure, her light blonde hair flowed across the pillow like an icy waterfall. The loud banging on her door woke her from her pitiful slumber.

Elora groaned loudly at the intrusion, every morning they woke her up for breakfast the same way at the same time. With each knock, her day began like a well-rehearsed play. Each day followed the same pattern, one she knew off the back of her hand. Reluctantly she climbed out of her bed and pulled on a worn pair of ankle-grazing pants and a loose button-up shirt, which was currently missing two buttons. She would have to scrounge around for a new pair. Her soft leather slippers were laced up tightly before she announced to the guard outside the door that he could open the door.

Together they walked in silence through the empty corridor, down the staircase that opened into the large eating room filled with row after row of long wooden tables. There her meagre bowl of breakfast sat waiting and steaming on the table.

The rickety wooden table where she sat each day was empty save for the guard sitting across from her, keeping watch. Despite the pitiful food, Elora enjoyed breakfast time it was when she got to see everyone. During lunch and dinner, the inmates were separated into groups Elora was not put in any group, she kept to herself, not by choice.

As she spooned porridge into her mouth, she could feel the guard's hard eye, across from her resting on her face. She knew he was willing her to eat faster so they could get out of there, she supposed he felt uneasy sitting amongst criminals.

To spite him she purposely took small slow spoonfuls of her hardened porridge, cracking a small grin when she saw his jaw tighten. Over the previous years, the guards rotated but Virion was her favourite, with his large stomach and impatient manner he was so easy to rile up. It wasn't long before Virion was put in charge of her, much to his displeasure, she often heard him complaining to the other men about it. However, she thought he secretly preferred this job over his previous one, night watch. She was not sure why she was constantly watched over or why she was even here, but it has been that way since she was little and nothing had changed. It did not help that the other prisoners looked at her with disdain, even disgust, as well as some of the guards.

When she was a few years younger and old enough to notice the reaction her mere existence had on people, she had questioned Virion. At first, he was hesitant to answer but eventually, he told her it was because her parents were dangerous people and refused to say anymore. Elora did try asking the other guards, but they were as stubborn as Virion.

The closest she had gotten to an answer was from the old bookkeeper who looked after the prison's library. When she had asked him, his weathered forehead wrinkled as he looked at her. With troubled eyes, he told her of rumours about her parents and their involvement with magic. He stopped himself from telling her more, shaking his head as he walked away.

Elora was shaken from her thoughts when Virion slapped his hand loudly against the wooden tabletop, her spoon clattered against the bowl.

"Time to go to your room."