A column of soldiers stream through the city gates below. I watch them from the window of my tower prison cell, through an opening barely wider than a crack. The local populace shies away from the thirty large men clad in black uniforms.
One man stands out above the rest. A crimson stripe embroidered across his jacket's shoulders announces his prestige. Other soldiers wait while he engages in dialogue with the city guard. He's their commander, and probably the highest-ranking Versillian officer in this city.
His gaze falls on me, and a shiver runs down my spine. I step back from the window, retreating deeper into my prison cell. There's no way he could have seen me at this distance, up in a high tower with a window no thicker than my arm. But it didn't feel like he was looking at the castle. It felt like he was looking at me.
No matter how I adjust my tattered maroon robes, they do little to hide the bruises that dot my arms and stomach. While the tower guards usually leave me alone, they become particularly rough when there's an exalted guest. They like to show off by demonstrating their dominion over 'the Mephian witch', as they call me.
Sunlight from the sole narrow window cuts my stone cell in half. The gap is too small to fit through but still wide enough that I can observe Antiock's buzzing streets. It's the one mercy they grant me, and without it, I'd have lost my sanity years ago. But today is different. Watching the dirt road below would only bring dread. I know where the convoy of soldiers will be headed – the castle, my prison.
My stomach twists as scenes of my near future play out in my mind. I scan the semicircle room, my subconscious panicking like a rat on a sinking ship, but my plight is just as hopeless. The stone walls offer nothing but my plots of the stars. My life's possessions total two water buckets, a pile of hay and a blanket that shields me from both the cold and the prickly straw. It's all useless. The only way in and out of this room is a thick wooden door, which is locked from the outside. Whether they come for me now or next week, there is no escape. There is nothing I can do.
The sounds of heavy boots stomping up the stairs invade my ears. They're here. The locks click open, and metal bars scrape against wood as they disengage. I face the door, my hands curled up into fists.
My last barrier is breached by two men in gray uniforms. One has a staff – to handle me without getting too close, and the other has a sword – in case I do get too close.
Both men step inside my cell. I grit my teeth, my glare burning. They're both a head taller than me, and after eating their scraps for years, I'm not particularly strong.
"Lay prone, witch," the one with the staff growls. I've overheard them call him Kerius before. He's a meaner one. Countless times I've demanded that they call me by my name – Jade, but they don't care.
I stay standing, ignoring their order. This isn't a visit to refresh my water buckets. They want to present me to their new guests in black uniforms.
Both men move in, and the point of the staff nears my body. I step back. They press forward together. I retreat again and again, until my back touches the curved wall. My legs are ready to leap away, but in reality there's nowhere to go.
The end of the staff stops just an inch from my chest, nearly touching me on each quick breath I take.
My eyes dart between their weapons. With the curved wall against my back, moving left or right would only force me closer to the sword. The iron blade has been ground so sharp that it could pass for silver.
Kerius pulls back the staff and swings. I lunge to the side, narrowly avoiding his strike but losing my balance. I stumble, and my backside hits the hard stone floor. It's not a fair fight. I'm unarmed, there are two of them, and the staff gives him so much reach.
As I'm scrambling to get up, the staff comes crashing down onto my back with as much force as Kerius can muster. My vision flashes black. The sudden shock and pain cause my limbs to buckle under me, and I fall flat on the ground. The initial sharp sting morphs into an aching throb through my spine. Before I can take a breath, the staff is jabbed just below my shoulder blade, and I scream.
Kerius lessens the pressure, perhaps fearing that he went too far. My body is shaking, and I can't still. I hate that they can witness this.
"You're a coward, Kerius," I growl. "Fight me with your hands."
He kicks my side, and I wince.
The one with the sword, Oscus, kneels down and takes a hold of my left arm. "You should know better than to antagonize him," he says. It's hard to make out his figure with my long, chestnut hair sprawled out over my face, but I don't miss the feeling of a linen sleeve creeping over my hand. He tucks my arm inside the sleeve and ties a knot at the elbow.
My body is tense enough to make a statue jealous. The rough feeling of his hands makes me want to tear my skin off.
The staff stays pressed against my back, keeping me pinned to the ground. I'm left helpless as Oscus ties a second sleeve around my right arm.
Once both of my hands are wrapped tight in linen sleeves, the pressure of the staff finally relaxes. My witch's connection only works when my hands touch a person's skin, and the soldiers know this. With these on, I'm just an ordinary five-foot girl to them – a non-threat.
I gingerly push my chest off the ground, careful not to aggravate the sore muscles in my back. New pain shoots through my bones, and I grimace.
"Hurry yourself up," Kerius growls.
"Perhaps next time you should refrain from striking her so hard," Oscus says.
"I am only ensuring our safety," Kerius says. "You cannot trust a mit, certainly not a mit witch."
I stand up as straight as my sore back will allow. My eyes glare daggers at him. I'd snap back if I wasn't so sore. I was stolen from my country many years ago, and the guards never let me forget that I'm not one of them. If these Versillians used that word in Mephia, they'd be run through with steel. But because I'm powerless, held at their mercy, they call me what they like.
The sleeves on my arms look like long mittens that run up to my elbows. The material is too thick around my fingers for me to pick the elbow knots, and I know from previous struggles that I can't reach the knots with my teeth either.
Kerius shoves me towards the door, using the staff to lead me ahead of him. I put one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the aching.
The two guards take me down three stories of stairs and out into the castle courtyard. Morning sunlight illuminates an inner garden of plants and flowers. The sight would be beautiful if it wasn't ruined by the number of soldiers spread around the courtyard and upper ramparts. The ones in the gray uniform have faces that I recognize. They're the guards of Antiock, this town. The soldiers in black are guests, but they still share the Versillian uniform style. Taking care to be subtle, I steal a glance at each of them, but their leader with the crimson stripe across his shoulders is nowhere to be seen.
Kerius pushes me into a passage of the castle which I haven't seen before. "Why'd you drag me out here?" I hiss.
The only answer I receive is a hard shove on the back, nearly causing me to trip. I shoot Kerius a sharp look over my shoulder.
They lead me into a small square room with a single chair in the middle. Their heavy hands press down on my shoulders until I'm seated. My arms are pulled straight, and each of my wrists are tied to a chair leg.
Oscus leans down to be at eye-level with me, his crooked blond hair and beard engulfing my vision. I avoid his gaze. "Behave today girl, for your own benefit," he says.
Without even giving me a hint as to why I'm here, they leave the room. Out of my sight, the door closes.
I immediately struggle against my bonds. They've looped the rope around each sleeve, with the tightest point at my wrists. I tug and pull from every angle, but it's not long before my back starts to protest from all the movement.
I still. The ropes are tight. The soldiers have had ten years to learn how to subdue me. Perhaps I should just accept that there'll never be a way out.
A single lantern is the only source of light. There are no windows, and as time passes, I begin to wish that there were. Building a room without windows would be a waste of oil during the day. They wouldn't do it without a reason. This place was meant to be sealed from the outside world, and that makes me like it even less.
My stomach wraps up in knots as my imagination runs out of control. When they want to make a show of their Mephian witch, I'm paraded out in the courtyard or the dining halls. But today they've brought me to a dark isolated room- No. I shake that thought out of my head. If they had the desire to kill me, they could have accomplished that years ago, and I'm still alive.
Two clanks sound from the door behind me. It was open for a moment. Someone else is in here. I twist my head around to try get a view, and I spot a tall figure from the corner of my eye. I'm alone in here with a man I don't know.
His heavy boots echo as he circles around my chair. He's content to take his time. There's no rush, no limit to how long he can torment me. The shadows obscure his form, but the lantern casts me in light, providing him with a perfect view. I'm vulnerable.
He stops, finally stepping into the light. It's the soldier with the crimson stripe across his shoulders. I'm engulfed in his shadow. Even standing, the top of my head would only just reach his shirt collar.
The room is dead silent. This is nothing like my normal parades in front of esteemed guests. I'm isolated, hidden from the rest of the castle, all for the benefit of this man I don't know. If he came here to kill me, the guards wouldn't know until it was too late.
"You are of Mephia," he says. My body stiffens. I don't like his deep voice speaking about me. It feels threatening, like I'm a criminal who he's been hunting for years, on whom he's about to deliver his just retribution.
His blue eyes bore into mine. He has short dark hair and a sharp jaw. He must be around twenty-four. I'm twenty, only a little younger than him, but our lives couldn't be any more different. His uniform broadcasts that he's a Versillian commander. Based on how the local soldiers rallied around him at the gate, he's probably the most important person in this town. My life, on the other hand, has left me tied to a chair before him. I'm a prisoner with no rights and nothing to my name, in a land that is not even my own.
His hands are hidden behind his back, and that only adds to my uneasiness. What if he's concealing a dagger or a stone?
"It reached my ear that you are a sorceress," he says.
I avert my gaze. They locked me up in here because I'm a witch, because of what I did. It was an accident, a mistake when I was a child, and it sealed my fate – to be stolen from my home country, to be imprisoned, to be mistreated, to be kept as an oddity for privileged men to gawk at – privileged men like the one standing over me now.
He circles me again, his pace slow. Each step he takes echoes through the small stone room. He's taking me in. There's a long sword attached to his hip. I keep my eyes forward, not letting him phase me.
His heavy hand lands on my shoulder, making me flinch. "Convict, what precisely is it that you possess?" I don't like him calling me that, and why doesn't he just ask the guards? He couldn't have missed the sleeves covering my arms from elbow to fingertips.
I keep my gaze on his chest, focusing on the buttons on his black shirt. Why should I tell him anything? If he came to kill me, nothing I could share about my crime would change that. I'm already covered in bruises, and I'd rather endure a few more than please this pompous ass.
His hand wraps around my chin, forcing me to face him. "So your tongue prefers to hide." The feeling of his rough fingers on my soft cheeks makes me shudder. I pull against my restraints to try and protect myself, but it's no use.
He unsheathes his sword. He's going to cut me. My body tenses. I shut my eyes, unable to turn away with his grip on my chin.
The bindings on my arms are cut loose. He grips my tattered robe, tightening the fabric around my chest.
The chair is kicked out from under me, and my weight falls on his grip. My feet scramble beneath me to stand straight.
He releases my robe, and I quickly step back to keep my balance.
"Perhaps now you shall speak?" he says.
I refuse to meet his gaze.
He presses forward, allowing me no space. I retreat again, but he doesn't give me an inch. Soon the wall is at my back. His hand slams against the stone beside my head, making me jump.
He's stronger than me, larger than me, and armed with a sword. My instinct is fear, and he's exploiting it. My body knows that he intends to harm me, and I'm scared, but all I can do is pretend that I'm not. My best chance at survival is to make him believe that pushing me around is a waste of his time.
Taking a deep breath, I meet his glare with my own. I open my mouth for the first time. "Perhaps now you'll leave and crawl back up the king's ass?"
His eyes run up and down my frame. Instead of a raised hand or angry curse, he remains still. My comment doesn't elicit the reaction that I was expecting. He's not predictable like the others. At least with Kerius and Oscus, I understood what they were thinking; I knew that provoking them would result in a strike from a staff, fist or boot. But with this man, I could be completely unaware of the danger lurking over me.
"I offer you a chance to earn your freedom, convict," he says.
This is a lie I've heard before. If I put on a show for the guards, demonstrate my witch's connection, then they'd set me free. I'm not the naive little girl I was ten years ago.
"I don't play games with soldiers anymore," I say.
"So you wish to end our discourse? Then I shall inform your guards that you are eager to return to your cell."
"Tell them," I say.
He raises an eyebrow at me. Soldiers don't tell me the truth; they tell me whatever they think will make me cooperate. Lying to a prisoner has no consequence, and there's nothing I can do to hold them accountable. I don't believe a word out of this man's mouth, and I know what's coming next - he'll drop the failed illusion that I have any choice in the matter and resort to violent threats.
He pauses. My muscles tense in anticipation.
He turns his back to me and heads for the door.
I remain still where I stand, puzzled.
The door creaks as he twists the handle. Is that it? He's just going to leave? No threats or attempts to rough me up? Did he actually arrange to meet with me only to leave empty handed if I, a prisoner, said no?
"Wait," I call.
He pauses at the threshold, looking over his shoulder at me. He's different from the soldiers I've seen before. He really was offering me a choice to reject his offer. Does that mean that his offer could actually be real?
"How do I know that you're telling the truth, that I actually could be free?"
He closes the door and approaches again. I shift uncomfortably. I'd have preferred if he stayed where he was. My neck cranes to hold his gaze. He stands too close, but I resist the urge to step back again.
"I do not care what crimes you are guilty of, nor do I care what becomes of you after you have assisted," he says.
So, I'm so unimportant to him that he won't concern himself with making sure I'm locked up after he's done with me. "What exactly do you need me for?"
"I am on a discrete venture to rescue my father." He pauses, looking back at the door for a moment. Now I understand why he had me brought to this windowless room. "I need a sorcerer- a sorceress who can overpower several trained men. Shall that be you, convict, or am I wasting my time?"
I press my lips together. I could never bring myself to use my witch's connection on another human being again. It would be better for me to die in the tower.
The man, whose name I still don't know, holds out his hand for me to shake. I'm taken aback. No one has ever offered to shake my hand. It's a gesture reserved for free, independent people, not a prisoner. I could be free. I'd be lying to him, knowing that I could never use my connection as he wants, but leaving with him would offer a chance to change my fate.
I take his hand. His grip is firm, uncomfortably tight. I'm grateful that the sleeve offers some padding.
"Who are you?" I ask. I'm still unsure about him and his mission. "How could you even be allowed to grant my freedom?"
"I am Trevus of House Cerillis."
My eyes widen. Cerillis – the royal house?
"My father is the king."
⚠️⚠️⚠️ Annoucement ⚠️⚠️⚠️
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