A loud racket wrecked the silence, disrupting her slumber.
Isla tossed and turned, folding the pillow over her ears. But the senseless knocking intensified, the steady beat increasing in tempo. What nightmare did she succumb to?
She peeked through heavy lids, the streams of light from half-shut shutters scalding. Kicking the covers off, she rolled, outstretching her hands to cushion her descent. Her knees bore the impact, slamming into the floor.
Stumbling to her feet, Isla shuffled towards the door. She grasped the cool brass door handle and positioned herself behind the obstruction. Releasing the chain, she inched the entryway open, peering out.
"Finally, Isla. What took you so long?" Layla chirped. A light blue sundress molded her frame, swaying at her ankles. The appearance paired alongside a silver pendant she thumbed.
She cocked her head before sealing the door. She returned the chain, locking the divide. Crossing her arms, she stared at the welcoming barrier. Why did her nightmare come alive?
"Isla, what the hell!" Layla restarted her banging. "Open the door," she yelled.
Isla slapped her face, rubbing her swollen eyes and dried tear marks. Her hand slid upwards, combing her hair. Fingers caught the knots and she pulled the strands, untangling them. Her head throbbed at the continuous pounding, the pressure building at her forehead's peak.
Swinging the door open revealed a splendid pout. "Can't you just go away?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Layla pushed forward, bypassing Isla and claimed her bed.
"This isn't meant to be fun."
"You know, Isla. If you become Queen, we'll be around all the time. Do you plan to continue shutting the door in our face, or running from a conversation?"
Leaning against the doorframe, Isla glared. "You make it easy. Prison? Exile? Execution? Choose your pick."
Her mouth dropped open. "You know that will never happen. You'll be like our father. You'll hate yourself!"
"A small price to pay for an eternity of peace, wouldn't you say?"
Layla groaned. "Gosh, Isla. You make everything so dramatic."
"And you fail to see your own impact. Now, isn't that fun?"
Layla collapsed backward and kicked her legs. "You are a pain," she whined.
"Glad we see each other the same way. What do you want?"
She perked up, showcasing a peerless smile. "Let's go out."
Isla sighed. "Why?"
"Don't you remember yesterday, at all?"
Clenching her fists, Isla scowled. "Are you serious?"
"Wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," she stammered, "I meant our conversation, remember? I talked about introducing you to those mercenaries. Their boss should be around today. And then we can buy new clothes for you and get lunch. It'll be fun!"
"Believable," Isla mocked.
"We'll see about that. Now, will you come willingly or do I drag you?"
Isla paused her derisive retort. If she continued this banter, would Layla leave? She knew the answer. Inhaling to full capacity, she released the air alongside her tension. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
Layla jumped to her feet, her dress flaring out. "Thank you for giving, this once. I promise being with me won't be so terrible."
She followed her sister down the stairs. The musty odor coating the living area transposed to fresh mint as she stepped outside. Light streams swept from a pocket of clouds, the glimmer bleaching the gray-toned sky.
Isla rolled her tongue over her chalk-covered teeth. A yawn stretched her mouth, watering her eyes. Her bones creaked and whined like heavy shackles. Still, she accompanied her sister's brisk pace, stretching her limbs and cracking her knuckles.
Her sister's words drew her attention. "Linda wouldn't come. She is far too stubborn, just like you—both stubborn chicks." She turned to Isla, her eyes dancing with amusement.
She shrugged off the invisible jab made to her personality. "At least I don't warp the truth."
Layla brought a hand up to brush a stray lock behind her ear. "You know she does it on purpose. It's her defensive mechanism—how she protects herself. By saying lies out loud, she hopes to validate those lies. That way she can escape the truth. In her own way, she cares for you. She wants to be hated, or the guilt for leaving you will drag her under."
"And I'm supposed to accept her twisted sort of love? No thanks."
Layla quieted and her shoulders slumped. "The truth is difficult to talk about. I don't blame her," she murmured.
"What truth? What aren't you telling me?"
"Our mother gave us a choice before she passed." Her voice hitched and she inhaled a deep breath. "Either we could raise you, or another would. We didn't know who they were, or when they'd appear, but we decided on our own. Even though we made the choice, there was an attached disclaimer. We'd never be happy."
"She knew he'd come."
"I guess so."
"Still doesn't explain why. Who cares if she predicted his hunger for my death. Why does he try to kill me?"
"I don't have proof. He's likely a different man from what I remember. But my guess was her death did something to him. Before he met our mother, grandmother said he acted the same as now. Maybe mother suppressed his darkness. Perhaps he believes you possess her same strength and he fears this change?"
"That old woman said he was corrupted. Is this corruption the cause?" Isla questioned.
Layla slapped a hand to her mouth, but laughter escaped. "I'm sorry," she confessed and wiped her eyes, "but your obvious dislike for our grandmother is amusing."
Isla's gaze drifted from Layla. The woman had no place in her life.
"I'm not really sure. It's like he was unable to control himself. Perhaps this darkness, or rather corruption was intermittent. I could be wrong, but that would explain that man. A God named Skye dragged us away. He dropped us off in Arcadia, telling us to stay away from you."
Skye stole her sisters away. What was his purpose, why protect her sisters? Did their father order this act? Or was Skye their mother's prediction? Questions swirled in her mind, seeking an outlet—an answer. His actions were mysterious and contradicting. This revelation only added to the conundrum that defined Skye.
"He said nothing else?"
"I don't remember anything more. Why, do you know him?"
"He's nothing more than a pest."
Her shoulders drooped and her stomach dropped. Time designated Skye a hypocrite. A savior? An executioner? A torturer? Which role defined him? Did he dance to her father's tune, simply enacting his verdict, or did his thoughts exist within his actions? Could she believe her father's manipulation weakened?
She shook her head. Hesitation when faced against Skye would be dangerous. He was an enemy, nothing more.
Still, Skye had separated them from her. Did this lessen the blame? Maybe, but she would never reveal this change. No, she never could.
They strolled into Fin Ardin's merchant and guild wing. The large expanse of land next to the library had a variety of shops. Travelers and merchants from all across Arcadia could traverse the area and buy their wares. Rydin had told her during the first day they arrived.
Her gaze scanned the packed streets. From geared adventurers to robbed scholars, all pushed and shoved to their destinations. Storefronts diverted the crowd's flow as customers browsed food, weapons, and clothing options. Further along, the signboards of specialty shops and services appeared.
"Isla, over there!" She pointed to a dark corner shop.
Elbows impaled her sides and back. Heavy built men crushed her feet. Even a hand groped her rear end. She grasped her sword's hilt, clenching the metal. If only the crowd were thin. Gritting her teeth, she pushed on with Layla leading.
Reaching the corner shop, Isla sniffed her cloak. The stench of sweat clung to the wool. She cringed, wriggling her nose.
Ignoring the nauseating smell, she scoured the shop front. From windows to molding, a midnight painted lodge capable of nighttime camouflage. An unlit lantern hung from a rusted chain, the wind swaying the aspiring beacon. No sign or symbol marked the entrance.
"They're legal. But the business isn't normal. They only take referrals. Better money that way."
She nodded, waiting for Layla to enter. Layla's back straightened and her chin tilted upwards. After a pause, she moved and flung the door open.
Switching her focus, she adjusted to the dimness of the building. The interior mimicked the welcoming exterior with not a blotch of color. The door shut and a quiet atmosphere overtook them. The bustling street noise disappeared, replaced by hushed murmurs. Their appearance struck toothy grins and hard-worn grimaces from the seated patrons. Yet, none approached from their roundtable hideaways.
Layla continued, heading towards the high-topped counter bar lining the back.
An emaciated young man leaned against the bar's shelving, watching their approach. His black greasy hair descended to his shoulders. His sleeveless shirt showed tattoos spiraling up his arms. The colors morphed into a black and red spotted snake, the head emerging on his knuckles.
"Where's Varnis?" Layla commanded, her tone strict and arrogant.
The man frowned. "In the back," his nasal voice slurred.
Without insight, the black painted door blended into the background. A mere gold-covered doorknob provoked the room's design, guiding their path.
Layla knocked twice then turned the handle, the hinges squeaking. She carried her pristine posture inside.
Behind a desk stacked full of papers was Varnis. Hunched over a pile, he glanced upwards. A thin scar marked the left side of his face, running from eye to jawline. His chestnut cropped hair paired with clear hazel eyes, boring straight at them. He wore a scowl, replicating the gossip-hungry patrons.
He leaned backward, propping his feet on his desk. His gaze locked on Layla. "Well, well, if it isn't the little Princess. What can I do for you?"
Layla crossed her arms, hiding her clenched fists from his angle. "Doesn't that nickname get old, Varnis?"
"Never."
"I want to hire you and your men."
"Again," he groaned. His eyes registered Isla's existence, snapping to her. "Let me guess, another trial goer."
"Yes, my sister Isla. She'll be taking the test."
Varnis chuckled, sweeping a hand through his hair. "You expect us to help another God? In your dreams, Princess. If it wasn't for the Queen, we wouldn't have helped you the first two times."
Layla snorted. "You've already done it twice, why does it matter now?"
"You know why, why bother asking."
"I'm surprised your values change so easily. Shall I get my grandmother involved? Would that force your hand?" She propped her hands on her hips.
"Fine," he growled, "but it'll cost you."
"How much?"
He stroked his chin before holding up an open palm. "Five times more than last time."
"What! You're out of your mind," she growled.
"Take it or leave it, Princess. This is business. You know no one else will help you. My team needs an extra push to accept, especially after last time."
Layla winced, her gaze flickering towards Isla. "Fine. We have a deal. Half now and half later."
Varnis veered forward, a wide grin marred his face. "Very good. Give me two days to gather supplies and ready the men."
She sauntered to him, slamming a leather bag onto his desk, the coins inside jingling. "Two days. You better be ready." Flicking her hair, she pivoted and strode out the door.
Isla glanced at Varnis. He returned to work, ignoring her presence. Clasping her cloak, she pulled the wool closer, fending off a vagrant chill. What exactly happened last time? She smothered the thought, instead, she pursued Layla's retreating form out of the building.