The smell of oats and caramel enveloped Chrys' nostrils. The sweet and savoury combination of intense sugar and healthy grains would have once enticed her to investigate the kitchens and discuss at length the delicacies with the kitchen staff. All in the hope of receiving one or two of the leftovers.
Today was different, there was no desire, no ache in her stomach, just the overwhelming and painful tug of her heart which appeared to control all of her senses.
She had hardly eaten for the last few moons, and even one of the messenger boys who had taken a shine to her had commented on her shrunken cheeks.
Her dimples, once a visual source of joy appeared devoid of life and her eyes were dark and alone. The toll of being the Nightengale was becoming dangerous for her mental state and Chrys didn't know how much longer she could continue to scheme and plot before her mind started to tear itself into tiny fragments.
Breaking away from her inner dark thoughts, she spotted a kitchen hand staring at her intently. As her eyes glued onto his, he immediately looked down toward the dough he was kneading, eager to press his strong tense wrists into the soft cool mixture.
Chrys didn't recognise him. She had been in this kitchen several times before and she knew everyone by name, their families, and even some of their known allergies, yet this young man was an enigma to her.
He looked up again, causing Chrys to uncontrollably frown, her hardened stare causing the cool blues of the nervous man to return their gaze to the whitened dough.
"Is there a problem young man?"
Chrys wondered where the voice came from, but as her body pushed it's way passed the kitchen boys, she realised that the words had escaped her lips.
"I'm speaking to you, yes you!"
Pointing toward the man who looked fearful as the Nightengale briskly walked up to him, Chrys couldn't believe that she was confronting a man whom she had never met before.
"Why do you keep staring at me?' Chrys demanded.
The man looked around at the others in the room, hoping that someone would come to his rescue, but instead, everyone stared at the girl, half his size but twice his stature staring up at him appearing ready to tear him to pieces with one false word.
"Who are you, why do you keep staring at me? What is your issue?"
The man felt pushed back as Chrys continued to enter his personal space, forcing him against the table despite his eagerness to flee from the conflict.
"I... I... I..." he stuttered, intimidated by the darkened hazel eyes that looked up at him with fury.
"Out with it, man, speak!" Chrys demanded, causing all within the room to reel back from her raised voice.
"Well... uhh... I..."
"You stare at me with those beady blue eyes, yet you are incapable of speech, what is wrong with you man?"
"Miss Sagard, that's my son, he's helping me out for the Queen's arrival."
Chrys immediately reeled back, ashamed at her outburst as she spotted one of the kitchen staff, Harved, move forward, determined to defend his son.
Harved was a man whose biggest vice was that he would occasionally steal a biscuit or two when no one was looking. He was a man who treated Chrys with complete respect and dignity and often gave her the same biscuits that he liked to acquire for himself. A man that had no allegiances, except to his family and closest friends.
Shame forced itself upon Chrys, especially as all eyes were now focused on her. How could she do such an unrecognisable thing?
"Oh god..." Chrys stuttered, her normally graceful voice appearing broken and strained, "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, truly, I'm so sorry."
As her apologies continued, she made for the exit at the earliest opportunity. Her cheeks were red and flushed as Chrys didn't recognise the woman who made that insane outburst at a man who had obviously taken a shine to her.
No apology felt enough as she walked briskly away from the kitchens. Chrys had drastically escalated a non-existent situation for no reason and as she tried to establish why she had reacted in such a manner, thoughts of her aching stomach which had encouraged her to venture to the kitchen had quickly dispersed.
She was being watched, Chrys was certain of it.
Ever since her warning to Sir Searmundr, the walls appeared to have eyes. Looks seem to linger on her much longer than usual and faces that were unfamiliar to her seem to becoming more frequent.
She was the Nightengale, it was her role to know everything about everyone, yet she recently found herself often at a disadvantage when identifying people.
At the end of the corridor, a couple of servants walked underneath the arch, heading in her direction. Two young men, not much older than she was, were laughing as each of them carried fabric toward some unknown destination within the castle. They noticed the apprehensive young woman trying to avoid their gaze, which encouraged them to stare at her more intently.
Chrys could feel her heart leaping from her chest. As she edged closer to them, she could feel her hands becoming clammy and her breathing became more erratic.
What if they were under Sir Searmundr's charge? There was no one around to protect her, and the corridor appeared to go into the distance forever. With each step forward and the squelching echo of their leather shoes, Chrys felt like the corridor was continuing to extend faster than her steps could take her.
Watching as one delved his hand into his pocket, rummaging around deep inside it, Chrys could feel her time on this earth shorten. Thoughts that she would be left on the cold hard surface, her throat slit, cut wide open while she gurgled in a pool of her own blood, infested her mind like rats on a carcass.
As quickly as the fear of death raged around in her head, it disappeared in an instant. What did she have to fear?
Rubbing her arm, remembering the cuts that reminded her of the deaths that she was responsible for, a part of her felt like she deserved to be with them. The numbness washed over her like a wave of darkness and all Chrys wanted to do to embrace it for herself.
With the two men only steps away from her, their eyes fixated on what felt like her walking corpse, Chrys embraced the inevitable, to join the lost souls that would be waiting to torment her for eternity. However, as the man reached out of his pocket, all that remained in his hand was another piece of silver fabric.
The two men strode on, looking at the young woman confused. She hadn't even noticed that she was huddled on the floor, embracing the cold stone wall awaiting her death, and as she looked up towards them, they laughed uncontrollably at her somewhat bizarre behaviour.
Chrys didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or concerned. Her initial thoughts as she slowly picked herself off the floor were of the stupidity of her actions, but it quickly came to alarm as her thoughts drifted to how close she could have been to being murdered in a hallway by an agent of Sir Searmundr.
Looking down the corridor, listening to the estranged echo of the two servants as they continued to laugh in the distance, Chrys' thoughts turned to the man that she now considered her nemesis.
She was foolish, reacting to him the way she did, allowing her emotion to take over her words and threaten a man who was not only a noble but also a Lionguard, one of the most feared soldiers in Isovine.
Chrys began the walk to the end of the corridor again, but as she saw the golden metallic glint shine briefly in her direction, it felt like the walls were beginning to close in on her once again.
Two Lionguards stood at the end of the corridor, likely within proximity of the Emperor himself. As his boisterous aggressive voice carried its way to her ears, once again Chrys felt her heart palpitating trying to leap from her chest.
"Oh god," she exhaled as her eyes fixated on the Emperor's bodyguards.
As if her voice carried far too much as well, the Lionguards instantly turned their attention to her, gazing at the young woman almost struggling to stand upright in the long corridor
Chrys froze. Her thoughts seemed to leave her as the two hulking figures in their robust and intimidating armour stared in her direction. Her mind fogged up in a misty haze, her actions seemed bereft of focus. It wasn't until she looked up at their heads, which were dwarfed by the lions on their bulked-up shoulders, that she remembered that they were still simply men.
'What are you doing?' Chrys thought to herself, almost shaking herself back into reality. 'Lionguard's have no interest in the whims of a lowly servant girl like me. Get your act together.'
As if they had heard her thoughts, the knights returned to their guard duty, examining various other people who had gained their interest with the Emperor in close proximity.
Chrys had to press forward to avoid any suspicions of her actions.
She took an anxious step forward, feeling like the ground was attempting to give way underneath her. As she took a second step, the ground felt unsteady once more, but then with each advancement, they became more assured, before she eventually worked her way to the end of the corridor, standing between the two knights.
Dwarfed by the pure power that stood on either side of her, they looked down in her direction like two demons ready to devour their prey.
With a deep breath, Chrys stepped through, determined not to look in their direction, and as she eventually gathered the courage to appear confident in stepping into the room, she exhaled, releasing a long breath that she had not realised was stored in her diaphragm for an age.
Entering the room where the Emperor stood, complaining at the colour of drapes that had been placed within it, Chrys could feel the eyes of the Lionguard boring into her back. With each step forward, she felt anxious to the point of feeling sick.
Giving a quick smile to a tailor that she had met a couple of times before, she attempted to confidently walk through the room. The floor felt like jelly and it appeared that her legs would give out at any moment. Each breath that she took seemed to take an age to exhale, but she was determined to glide through as sensibly as she could even if one of Sir Searmundr's men sensed weakness in her.
The last step felt like it would never come, and as she placed her foot, one in front of the other, it seemed like there was some sort of invisible wall at the exit. The glare of the Lionguards felt like it was burning through her back. With a quick glance behind her, she could see their confused faces staring directly at her.
It felt like her leg was stuck in treacle, and as the nervousness appeared to glisten on her face, one of the Lionguards took steps forward toward her.
Why were her legs not moving? Why now, as the threat edged its way forward? Why was the simplest of tasks now impossible to achieve?
The knight moved forward, closing the gap rapidly on the helpless maidservant.
Chrys sighed, watching as death was literally footsteps away from her, and as the intimidating knight towered over her, she embraced the fact that it was her last moment on earth. Hopefully, the pain would not be too unbearable.
"Are you not one of Lady Nimue's handmaidens?"
The knight's voice was somewhat calmer than Chrys had anticipated, his voice appeared more feminine than his stature would suggest.
"Yes milord, Chrysanthenum Sagard at your service milord." Chrys said, or at least she thought she had until he looked at her confused in silence. Realising her thoughts had not progressed to actual speech, she smiled, hoping to distract him from her embarrassment and apprehension.
"Is everything ok, my lady?"
The knight spoke with such calmness that it appeared to put Chrys at ease and it wasn't long before she could feel her breathing settle and the ground was no longer unsteady.
For the first time since looking at him, she could now see him. His kind blue eyes, his blonde floppy hair, his slightly sunken, but somewhat handsome cheeks, it was Sir Raollin Armant, the newest member of the Lionguard. As his smile caught Chrys off-guard, she realised that her anxiety was foolish and unwarranted.
"Apologies, milord, thoughts of my duties plague my day. I am simply distracted by my mistresses' errands."
Sir Raollin smiled wider, his white gleaming teeth proving to be more of a calming influence on Chrys than anything else. "That I am sure, the Lady Nimue does have exceptionally high standards, especially for one in her position."
There was a hint of malice as the young Lionguard spoke about Nimue, but Chrys was not foolish enough to react to the comment.
"Your voice," Sir Raollin continued, "it is rather unique."
"Thank you, milord," Chrys replied, lowering her head in respect.
"I could listen to you speak all day."
'Is he flirting with me?' Chrys thought to herself. It was at that moment that she preferred that he would take her away to execute her.
"Uhhh, thank you milord, I must continue with my tasks." Chrys replied, now even more eager to step away from the different type of anxiety that was now building up inside of her.
The man was incredibly handsome, and on another day, Chrys would have enjoyed his attention, but as she watched the golden armour that glistened mightily, engulfing him, it reminded her of her enemy, and the thought instantly sickened her.
The knight took a long look at her, almost admiring her from head to toe, before bowing slightly in respect. "Indeed you must. The lady Nimue has her standards that must be kept. I will be seeing you my lady."
Chrys gave a small smile before stepping away from Sir Raollin, the room and her anxiety. The situation had left her unhinged, and it was imperative that she restore her sanity at the earliest opportunity.
Everywhere she looked, she saw enemies, yet realistically, they were simply innocent bystanders, completely unaware of the battle of subterfuge that she was heavily involved in.
What was Chrys concerned about? She had extensively researched Sir Searmundr even before they had become acquainted in the service of the concubine, Nimue, and there was nothing to suggest that he would ever be involved in a game of deception and lies, he was simply too brash and aggressive.
Since making a name for himself by assisting in the defeat of a Manticore in the Sea of Sorrows several winters ago, he had been nothing but a bull in a china shop, with only the title of Lionguard protecting him against the reprisals of his brutal and sadistic nature.
He was cruel, overbearing and determined to ensure his superiority over anyone that he considered inferior. To believe that he would arrange Chrys' execution was extremely far-fetched and naive.
With her footing far more assured, Chrys headed down the hallway and toward the castle gardens where she would be able to enjoy the fresh air, even for a moment. Her behaviour had been erratic and nonsensical and perhaps this was an opportunity to embrace the smell of the gardens and enjoy the cool fresh winter air while she brought herself back from the brink of insanity.
More rational thoughts of Sir Searmundr flooded her mind, and the release of the unnecessary pressure that had built up in her mind was helping her focus on the things of beauty once more. The sun glared effortlessly over the horizon allowing the reflective puddles of the past rainfall to mirror the greying sky. The sound of the gardeners, working tirelessly to ensure that the garden was at its best for the Queen's arrival and the smell of the cut grass, as the rains had washed it fresh.
Soon it would be time to return the personification of hell, the witch that was Nimue; it was imperative that Chrys enjoyed this moment.
"If you scream, I will gut you where you stand!"
A startled Chrys jumped on the spot and immediately tensed as she felt the blade of a knife pierce her dress and press itself painfully against her spine. Every ounce of her mind wanted to scream, yet her body froze, and her mouth remained still. She wanted to ask what was going on, but she remained petrified, aware that her fears had embraced her far tighter than she could have ever imagined.
She could feel the calm considered breathing of the man behind her. His relaxed voice remained unfazed by what he was doing and its somewhat feminine features reminded Chrys instantly of dialogue that she had recently engaged in.
"Well, Nightengale," Sir Raollin Armant, the Lionguard spoke, "You will come with me now, otherwise I shall make your death far more unpleasant than you could ever imagine."