•••
Euphemia's eyes glow up at the sight of the fresh bread, eyes wide and watery. Her shaky hand picks up the still-warm loaf and breaks it apart, a puff of steam rolling into the air. A shimmering fire encapsulates her eyes, a warm red that anyone can mistake for the warmth of the sun.
"Thank you, Elvie!" Her arms wrap round my shoulders, caging me. "Oh, sorry."
I smile nonetheless. "Don't let—"
"—Mother know, I know."
The wind graces her hair and blows it back, kissing her cheeks in such a gentle manner that one would think she was as fragile as ice and nature itself wouldn't dare destroy it.
"What are you two mischiefs up to?" My Father asks with a hand on his hip. Rose tints his cheeks too, the warm weather and running around not helping his condition. "Come on, Effie, it's your birthday, play with your family!"
Euphemia stands up, whisking off to the rest of my siblings in a skip. I watch from afar, how the blades of grass tickle their legs and the way the sun beams down on them like a spotlight. They chase after each other, screaming giggles tumbling out of them.
I get up from the picnic blanket and head for the manor across the lake. Our home.
"Where do you think you're going, young lady?!" My Father shouts with a ball in his hands and throws it to me. "Stay for once, it's your sister's birthday."
"Mother needs me." I chuck the ball back but he doesn't catch it, only watches it drop to the floor and roll to his feet. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, placing them back on his head.
"I spoke to her already, she's let you off," he says. Doubt trickles through my mind. She is not an easy woman to influence.
I stay quiet for a moment. Hope is a tragic thing, but residuals of it drip into my skin, nevertheless. "Really?"
He nods fervently. I look towards the brick manor and find my Mother staring at us through her office window. Ice drips in my veins at the sight. Her red leather wings stretch out behind her. My shoulder blades tingle in pain as a reminder of what she did, an act that I could never forgive even in death. My phantom wings twitch at the thought. There's nothing else she can take from me that she hasn't already stole and ripped apart.
I look back towards my family. Euphemia, Eugene and Emrys stare back also, a perplexed sadness written across their faces, all smiles vanished.
The sight upset me. So I stayed. And the moments proceeding that event will forever haunt me. And what a heavy sin I bear for it.
My name enters my ears, forcing my eyes to open in curiosity. The car is stationary and rests outside a familiar Kingdom. Two rows of uniformed staff line the path leading up to the menacing headquarters that is the Akraton Kingdom.
The castle is beautifully lifeless in the same way that a Royal soul is. So woven with flawless gothic architecture and tinted windows that I question if we have transported back in time to Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker.
I get out of the car and gravel screeches beneath my feet. A hoard of guards surround me and I am unsure whether to laugh or cry.
The King, who had his back turned, swivels around and reveals a mini family from behind him. A tall man, taller than the present King, stands proudly amongst them, a man I know to be the former King of this Kingdom, Alistor Akraton. A temporary King for when his nephew, the direct descent of the bloodline, came of age.
The previous King looks towards me and immediately I force my gaze downwards.
"Ah, you have already taught her the ways of Royal households. Good man." The previous King pats his nephew's shoulder. King Akraton's face contorts in puzzlement, looking back at me curiously.
The years of forcing my head to the floor whenever my Grandmother came to visit wiggled its way into my brain. Making eye contact with a former King is frowned upon unless you are of family or close relation. My Grandmother never appreciated anyone's gaze, not even her own family, unless they showed her they were respectable or powerful enough.
Akraton's King steps forward and introduces me. "This is my Uncle, the former respected King of Akraton. You may refer to him as Your Grace alongside his husband."
The second tallest man has a strained expression, one I definitely expected. The King continues, "These are my cousins, Silas, Kasper and Willow. You'll refer to them as My Lord or Lady, respectively."
These rules force me back into my Mother's throne room, how she conjured the entire Board of Klawe Kingdom in five minutes to teach me each of their titles and responsibilities. My siblings looked onward, a placid look masking their true feelings. Boredom.
I'm not addressing any of them, period, especially to the likes of their title. That whisper of disobedience sends Asmodeus smiling. I bow slightly in acquaintance, eyes downwards still.
"There are rules that visitors of the like have to follow, granted of our statuses." As he spoke of the rules I learned back to front and recited in my sleep, my eyes wondered over to the family again.
They are a menacing bunch. Even the daughter holds a dangerous silence that threatens my safety. She is small, donning a navy mini suit. The older cousins are complete opposites in appearance. Silas has shoulder-length, midnight-blue hair whilst Kasper has a buzzcut dyed the colour of snow, both donning a matching suit to Willow's.
The husband is a different story. He is on par with both appearance and power, despite not inheriting the Royal genetics. The power simmers beneath his skin - a warning. The former King is all smiles whilst his counterpart is his loyal lap dog, ready to pounce.
It makes me smile. I replace each member with one of my own, Euphemia, Eugene and Emrys standing in all navy attire, straight faces plastered on their features.
"Do you understand your position here as a prisoner awaiting execution?" I nod absentmindedly. "Good. If you have any further questions, there will be guards and maids around twenty-four/seven."
The Royals allow me to depart first into the estate, a crowd of guards encircling me as we walk up to the entrance.
They don't bother in hiding the multitude of questions regarding my capture and vice versa. The King laughs but it is strained. He answers their questions nonetheless. Three full-bred baby dragons fly out from the opened doors of the manor and beeline for King Akraton. They swirl around his body maniacally, nipping at his body in various places.
He smiles, genuinely. A sight I feel undeserving of. The whole family laughs at his demise, even the maids and guards. I do not allow myself to join in despite the comings of laughter bubbling in my chest. Since the day I was born, I was stripped of my family. I was born to lead my Mother's Kingdom, fated by destiny as my ultimate role in life, my Mother treating it as if nothing else could replace this inevitable goal of hers, not even divine intervention could stop her. No one could therefore I was neglected of seeing my family and their achievements, their flaws, their happiness. I'm glad to see people haven't gone through the same torture.
Entering the manor, I was not surprised by its pure extravagance that rivalled a God's abode, I'm sure. Similar decorations of stone angels and historical relics and century old paintings of previous Kings of Akraton Kingdom line every hallway we pass. At the end of it, we reach a side staircase hidden from the public, unless you know where to look, and descend into a seemingly endless void of black.
The guards knew which turns to take and where to avoid bashing their head. The air was damp and icy. My new clothes, a long sleeved formal shirt and ankle-cut trousers, did nothing in combating the malicious coldness of the dungeon.
Every now and then, I'd hear a rattling of chains or a mumble like someone was trying to comprehend the English language.
Eventually, we reach my cell. My eyebrows raise at the interior and its humanity. In the Underground, we were lucky if we got a stack of hay for a bed. This room tastes like freedom in a twisted way.
The guards push me inside and lock the cell gate, a dark smile crossing their faces. If only they knew the sins I carry on my back would they throw me into a pit of fire instead.
I settle onto the metal bed with a thin mattress. It is similar to the other holding place where they put me after my initial interrogation, except this room is void of a tv box.
A range of dusty books line the miniature desk, brown and withering from age. I pick one up out of curiosity and read the first passage. It is a diary, as a matter of fact. Neat scribbles explain the owner's atrocities in dark detail. It is comforting to read another's demise rather than wallow in my own as I have done for years, sickeningly comforting. I shut the book before I engross myself too much and pick up another. This one consists of a family that, no matter the hardships of life and death, they prevail. I put this book away, too.
With not much to do in my limited dexterity, I settle once again on the squeaky bed and shut my eyes, a blanket of serenity washing over me. My fate is now sealed. I no longer feel fear at every corner, never knowing what day is my last, and I still don't to an extent, but I am as happy as I can be in this moment. So I let my eyes slip closed and dream of an empty space, one that allows me to sleep, undisturbed.
Until I'm abruptly woken up by something sharp hitting my head. "Ow."
I look around me and find a face, half-coated in shadow, staring from another set of bars opposite me. They have horns that curl backwards into a spiral and thick, brown hair. Olive-green skin paints their body, a multitude of scars disrupting the colour with a lighter green shade.
"Hello?" I question, getting up from the bed and inching closer to the bars of my cell, curiosity overriding me. They smile, an exact number of three teeth hiding in their mouth. I can't help but grimace.
"Wanna guess how many years I've been here?" He asks, tapping his cheek with a long skinny finger.
I stare at the mysterious creature still and answer, "Too long."
He laughs, a high-pitched squeal that resembles a noisy pig. He taps his face continuously, his cheek, his forehead, his other cheek and his chin, similar to that of a witch performing a ritual.
"Fifty years." He giggles which turns into a loud cackle. "I see in your eyes, girl, your time here is different."
"You think?" I smirk. "And what exactly are you in here for, gramps?"
"Terrorism." I laugh but it trails off when he goes silent.
"Oh, you're dead serious? Good for you. Anyone can be anything nowadays, I guess." I return to my bed, realising this creature is not worth my time.
In those grey eyes of his I do not wish to call him a liar, though, for I recognise the look of a thousand memories and stories locked away in there, ready to be told to the next generation as a boogeyman tale. A thick light green deformity runs diagonally down his face. I wonder what he had gone through to get that nasty scratch. The pain, the torture, the trauma of it afterwards, it resonates deeply into my soul and travels into my shoulder blades. I massage the area subconsciously.
"A person in pain can always recognise another that has burned down a village to feel its warmth," the creature says. I look down at the cracked floor, the bumps on my upper back shifting uncomfortably from the unwanted memories drowning my mind.
"What's your name?" they ask, tilting their head to the side in curiosity.
I smile. "Have you ever heard of the Angel?"
"You speak as if I should know it," they say. "The only Angels I'm familiar with are the ones that guided my family to heaven."
"Or hell," I point out. He huffs, nodding solemnly, and scratches one of his horns.
"Or hell," they repeat. "So that's your name... Hm."
"Ironic, I know. What about you, old timer?" I look at them and they smile with their three remaining teeth, backing away into the shadows of the cell, leaving the question to wade in the air. My head falls back in to the stone wall and I run a hand through my face and hair, letting my eyes fall close once more.
I tut. "Weird bastard."