Chapter II Knight
II Knight
What surprises me first is that he looks nothing like the caricature drawings I saw over the years.
They were horrifying, depicting a beastly face with too many teeth, bulging eyes, multiple scars and warts, sitting on top of a spindly, hunching body.
He looked like a monster from the darkest depths of a night terror.
That is what I brace for as I look up, so I flinch back in shock when I see something completely different.
His skin is gray, just the way I saw depicted, but it’s clear save for a small scar on the side of his chin. His hair is long and white, tied back at his nape. His mouth is proportional, and dare I even say handsome, with bluish gray lips that spread in a smile when our gazes connect.
That’s when I recoil. He bares his teeth in a mocking grin, and I realize the caricatures got that partly right, after all. These are sharp, horrible fangs, fangs that belong to a predator.
No wonder he speaks differently.
The shape of his face is elongated, and there’s a pointy quality to it—a triangular chin, prominent cheekbones, and ears that end in sharp tips.
His eyes don’t bulge. They are symmetrical, wide open, and brimming with sentience. I am confused for a moment, confused and lost. No animal has ever looked at me like that—with sharp, assessing attention.
“Don’t let them fool you. Yes, they can speak. You might even get the impression they think. But the Agnidari are the basest life forms, baser even than beasts of burden.”
His eyes are light gray and lit from within, the irises shimmering like mercury around black, vertical pupils. In a different light, they would be silver.
The moment snaps like a ribbon too tightly strung. My father’s voice breaks through my shock and confusion.
“No, I do not yield!” he roars. “Let go of my prize!”
The Agnidari has his back to the king—a death-worthy offence in this castle—and doesn’t look away from my face. That sharp wit sparkles in his eyes as they narrow. His eyebrows, white like his hair, draw into a thoughtful frown. He ignores my father and speaks to me.
“Now, are you a prized daughter or a whore?”
“Which one will get me a swift, painless death?” I ask breathlessly, too confused, too afraid to think properly. “Because that’s what I am.”
“Eager to die, are you?” he asks with an air of deliberation, his r hard and rolling, the lilt at the end of the question placed on the wrong syllable.
I nod breathlessly.
“She’s my whore!” my father cries, his voice breaking.
I gasp, shocked by his words, the slimy queasiness in my stomach roiling up and up until I wish to cower away, until I want to vanish. The Tyrant’s frown deepens as he studies me.
“She’s my whore! I fuck her every night! My prized whore!”
I flinch with every word. I can’t help it.
He is my father, and to hear those words from his lips, words so vile and treacherous, makes me want to vomit.
He’s done things in the past, things that messed with my head, but never did he utter such atrocities before.
I don’t understand why he did so right now.
It’s a lie.
“Silence him,” the Tyrant says, his voice quieter than my father’s desperate screams, yet somehow carrying over them.
There’s a scuffle that I can’t see, because my eyes squeeze shut, shame and pain filling my chest until it feels like I’ll burst.
But my father is quiet at last. I whine in distress when something warm and gentle touches my cheek. The Tyrant’s finger.
“No,” he decides at length, the throne room silent as everyone waits for his next order. “No, that’s not what you are. You are the king’s prized daughter, aren’t you, pet? A princess.”
There is something restrained in his voice, something hungry and careful. Tension fills the room, and I don’t understand why. Does it matter who I am? He’s going to kill me anyway.
I look up, searching for an explanation in those alien eyes.
“And this,” he continues, gently fingering my diadem, “is the crown of a princess. Why do you wish for death?”
I blink up at him, stupid, weak-kneed, a little mesmerized. He’s just so different from what I was taught, and it keeps me off-kilter. It’s easier to tell him the truth. My thoughts are scattered, all my resources engaged in putting away the tumultuous emotions my father’s words have caused.
“I’d rather die than be raped.”
“Hm.”
He turns away, giving no reply to my half-whispered confession.
We stand side by side, my eyes shut again so I don’t have to look at my father.
The Tyrant’s hand slides down my forearm as he leans toward me, the hold still tight, and curls around my palm.
He pulls my hand higher as he straightens.
I suppose he’s so tall, it makes sense, but I don’t understand why he holds my hand like this.
As I tug back half-heartedly, trying to get away, he makes a soft, tongue-clicking sound.
“Settle, pet.”
I freeze, a shiver going down my back. He doesn’t sound cruel, or belittling, or anything else I might expect from a person planning to kill me. In fact… It seems almost as if he’s trying to calm me. Like an animal.
“I’m not a horse,” I blurt out.
There’s that bark again, this time softer. A private laugh.
“I know.” His voice rises, no longer directed at me. “Where will I find a priest who will officiate a royal wedding?”
My eyes fly open. A priest? Royal wedding?
“What?” I ask, dumbfounded, as someone starts speaking, another voice cutting in. I don’t understand the words.
But the Tyrant ignores me. With a quick gesture, he calls over another Agnidari, this one sporting dark blue hair, also tied back. He’s even taller than the Tyrant but leaner, his hands long and graceful, elbows and joints prominent. He’s wearing a brown leather vest splattered with blood.
“Guard her,” the Tyrant says, stuffing my palm into the newcomer’s hand.
He walks away. My head spins with how grotesquely inappropriate all of it is. I was convinced every royal family was swiftly slaughtered upon a successful conquest. At least, that’s what happened in the three of the Eleven Kingdoms that were invaded before us.
I stare a moment at my imprisoned palm, taking in long, light gray fingers tipped with sharp, black claws. Another horror, almost as bad as the teeth.
The warrior who holds my hand watches me curiously. His eyes are almost pitch black, but not quite. When I return his gaze, I notice his irises are a very dark shade of blue, barely discernible against the black of his vertical pupils.
We stare at each other as murmurs and frantic whispers break out in the throne room. I have a feeling the ministers and courtiers gathered here are dismayed by whatever’s happening, but before I hear anything of substance, a barked order cuts off the whispers.
“Silence! The next human to speak will lose their head.”
In my defense, I’ve never been naturally obedient. I am confused, terrified, and lost. My education has failed me. I was taught wrong about the Agnidari and their conquests, and I don’t know what to expect anymore. It’s a terrifying feeling.
“Excuse me,” I ask my guard politely, ignoring the threat of decapitation. “Why does he need a priest?”
His eyes widen in surprise before he snuffs out a low, dark huff that could be another version of a laugh. I’m not sure.
“Either you really want to die or you’re daft. Are you daft, princess?” he asks, dark blue eyebrows rising high until his gray forehead wrinkles.
“I’ve been called that, yes,” I say honestly. “I might be. See, I don’t know how to judge my own intellect since I’m biased, and now it turns out the people I trusted told me lies.”
“A conundrum,” he says, mouth lifting in a small smile that reveals hints of his sharp teeth. It’s still terrifying, but I’m too overwhelmed to panic anymore.
“So?” I press on. “The priest?”
“For a royal wedding,” he says, watching me expectantly as if the answer is obvious.
“But why?”
He snorts and turns away, his hand tightening around mine. I choke on my breath when his thumb runs over my knuckles, as if to comfort me. It’s awkward, this handhold. My palm is raised so he doesn’t have to hunch.
I study his profile as he stands next to me, head raised high, eyes firmly ahead.
His jaw is less sharply cut than the Tyrant’s, and his cheeks are a bit fuller.
I notice with surprise that he has freckles, tiny dark blue specks against the light gray of his skin.
There are laughing lines around his mouth, and no scars, but a glinting, metal stud pierces his eyebrow.
“The Agnidari all look the same. Like cows of the same race, aren’t they? You can’t tell two cows apart if you don’t brand them. And you can’t tell those barbarians apart, either.”
But that’s false, isn’t it? They are very different. Even if their hair and eyes were the same color, which they aren’t, their faces still differ in easily observable ways.
I take a shaky breath and look around, hoping not to see too much blood.
The ministers and courtiers who stand bravely with my father are corralled into one corner of the throne room, about twenty out of the sixty who live in the castle.
The rest must have hidden. From what I heard, the Agnidari will spend days plundering the castle and slaughtering or raping every human who’s left.
There are around fifty of them here, some guarding the humans, others flanking the doors.
I can tell at a glance they are easily discernible from one another.
Some are shorter, others taller, some sport red hair, or gray, or light blue, cut short, gathered back, or braided.
Their features are different, wide mouths, small mouths, crooked or straight noses, full or gaunt faces.
Scars. Freckles. Jewelry piercing their skin.