Over the River (The Cursed Duet #1)

Prologue

B utterflies are objectively beautiful. Their wings are full of intricate designs, swirling around and holding vibrant colors protectively within their borders, keeping them from spilling over.

Nearly weightless, you pray one chooses you to land on, to take a rest from straining their wings on your shoulder.

But if you look closer, past the distraction of beauty, they are clumsy.

Each flap of their wings takes immense effort.

Their bodies move up then down at least a half an inch, like if they faltered in the rhythm they created they would crash to the ground and break their beautiful capes.

Imagine the stress that would take on a heart.

Knowing one mistake, one misstep and you die.

What if they don’t enjoy living like that?

Maybe the pressure and energy it takes to move from one place to another is why they die so quickly.

A few weeks being all their little hearts can take before it’s too much weight to bear.

A flawed design if you ask me, but then again, we’re kindred spirits if it’s true.

Laying frozen on the plush grass, I tried to summon a merciful death. The blue sky taunted me, fluffy clouds floated effortlessly above. What might it be like to fly with the angels in the sky than walk alongside the evil here on Earth?

“Take me away, please,” I whispered to whatever cruel God sits in his castle in the sky.

The God who watches his followers, the ones who visit his home every Sunday morning and pray for the sick, the children, and the prospect of a better life; then pretends not to hear us pleading.

He created woman and man and then allowed man to be led by his favorite fallen angel.

The one who sings to distract you from the demented ways of his army.

The Palace keeps us hungry, subservient, poor and fearful. Lord Bosque gave his men free rein over Holleberg’s women, and you sure as fuck don’t fight back if you want your heart to keep beating.

I’m not sure I want that anymore, though.

A beating heart, that is. Father is dead, mother may as well be.

Rations come far and few between these days, and the three hungry mouths that are now my responsibility to feed are withering away to nothing.

Like the butterflies, if I don’t keep survival as priority number one, I’ll die.

So, maybe fighting back against the wicked world is how I perish, but at least then I can say I fought.