Chapter 6
The sight of my bedroom slowly forms around me, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion as I try to blink my vision into focus. I feel sick, hungover—though I know that can’t be true because I’m in the High Quarter.
I groan as I push myself off the bed, crying out when my muscles protest. My bones feel as if they’ve been filled with lead, and it takes considerable effort to stack myself up into a sitting position. I let my head fall into my hands, rubbing roughly at my temples to ease the incessant ache there.
Last I remember I had been in the Temple, speaking with Tamiel . . . Visions of my father at the dining room table come drifting back to me. My anger, his indifference. The sound of his fork and knife scraping against his plate, radiating through my body and intensifying the pain it found within.
I peek out from between my fingers and see a tray of food sitting beside my bed. And it all comes flooding back. Dina’s gone, my father sedated me—reformation is coming. And I cannot stop the storm of panic that overtakes me.
I push off my bed, throwing the covers back. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I cannot continue on like this. I pace the room, the wheels in my mind turning. I have no idea how long it’s been since Tamiel deposited me here, but the tray of food is still warm, which is promising.
With any luck, they'll expect me to remain unconscious for the next several hours.
Fortunately, my body has seemingly begun adapting to their sedatives, wearing off faster and faster as of late.
A small spark of hope blooms within me as I realize I may have the smallest of windows to enact the plan quickly weaving itself together in my mind.
I rush to the window, squeezing my eyes shut as my fingers curl around the pane and pull roughly upwards. I let loose a small squeal of relief as the window gives way, a sweet, warm breeze suddenly wafting in through the small crack from the manicured gardens below.
I waste no time as I grab a pair of boots and pull them on my feet.
Any other night, I would have taken my time, carefully preparing to venture out of the High Quarter by covering up any and all traces of my ranking.
But I don’t have that luxury tonight. I need to be gone before they realize I’ve awoken.
If I’m right, this may very well be my one opportunity to gain back my freedom—to prove I’m not his to control. And I cannot waste it.
I perch on the edge of the sill, looking down at the looming earth below. It’s too far a drop to do safely, but I have no other choice.
I give one good, long look back at my room, realizing this may very well be the last time I see it.
I don’t know what lies ahead for my role amidst my father’s house, amidst the High Quarter, if I will ever return after tonight.
But I know this moment feels pivotal. If I don’t make my stand, if I don’t push back, then this place will become my tomb.
And with that singular thought ringing through my mind, I push myself out of the second-story window and drop to the ground below.
I land with a grunt, the ground meeting me with a solid ferocity that has me crying out in pain.
I purse my lips together, trying to cover the sound as I roll to the side.
My joints scream in protest, rolling and popping with my momentum.
I know this fall did damage, and I can only hope it’s not enough to keep me from getting to the ungoverned district.
I slam into one of the garden walls and stay put, unsure if my drop was visible in the dark covering of night.
My father has guards stationed around the townhouse, patrolling the grounds every half hour or so.
I wait a moment. Two. Then uncurl from the ball I’ve found myself in and peek out with bated breath to see if any guards are looming over me.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I notice no immediate movement around me.
But as I unfurl, I nearly give myself away at the pain suddenly ripping through me.
I muffle the sound, burying my face into my knees as I bring them back to my chest. I shudder, forcing myself to go slower this time.
My shoulder screams and I clutch at the misshapen joint, pushing back tears as I recognize the ailment.
I take a deep breath through my nose, letting my eyes flutter closed as I lift the aching arm over my head and reach it behind my back to the opposite shoulder, a maneuver I’ve learned to master over my years. It protests at first, but I push through the pain, guiding it back into place.
At last, I feel the pop of the joint righting itself.
I bite down on my lip, a mixture of aching relief radiating through my body.
I drop my arm down to my side and swipe away a tear that has escaped.
Not even a moment later, I hear the chatter of two nearby guards.
I duck behind the rose bush to my right, hoping the foliage is enough to cover me despite the thorns tearing at my skin.
I clasp my hand over my mouth in an effort to mute my breathing, watching helplessly as they stroll by.
They chat casually about their shift as they walk, discussing their duties and whispering a few choice words about my father that would have me smirking any other night.
I balance on the balls of my feet, squatting within the thorns of the bush surrounding me and wait for them to pass.
They do so, completely unaware of my presence.
Even still, I wait several minutes after they leave to ensure they are completely out of sight when I finally make my escape.
What feels like a hells-filled lifetime later, I carefully push myself to my feet and take off in the direction of the ungoverned district.
My body cries out in protest, but I don’t have time to tend to any more ailments.
I need to be free, need to get away from this place, before it’s discovered that I am gone.
I can feel the trickle of blood down my arms and legs from the thorns of the rose bush, feel the bruises blooming along my body from the jump out of my window.
But it doesn’t matter. They are but small sacrifices to make in order to get away.
In order to find salvation from the life I’ve been subjected to.
So I push forward, forcing down the pain and panic swelling inside of me and focusing on nothing else besides the feel of freedom just before me in the moonlit open air.
It’s later than I want it to be when I finally enter the Market.
The fact that I’d gotten away at all had been a true miracle.
But even if I believe the gods exist, I’m sure they aren’t helping me sneak out of my father’s grasp and into the singularly most sinful district within Requiesse’s borders.
I’d found a restroom to clean up in upon my arrival, washing away the blood staining my arms from the small cuts and scrapes the rose bush left behind and running my fingers through my messy waves.
It had done little to help with my appearance, but I had to hope the occasional disheveled look wasn’t all that uncommon for the Market Ebon.
I take a deep breath, keeping my head down as I navigate through the crowd, which despite the late hour is still bustling with music and activity.
My mind is reeling, my hands shaking as I try to calm the nerves wrestling within me.
Despite the treatment I recieved—had that been earlier this day?
—I feel the dark power that taints my soul brimming beneath my skin, asking to be released.
I shove my trembling hands into my pockets and shoulder my way through a particularly congested stall within the Market.
There’s a bar several paces away, and there’s nothing I want more than to lose myself in the darkness within its walls.
To not be perceived as I allow myself the freedom to spiral from the day’s events.
A thick gold ring dangles from the nose of the male guarding the door, but what catches my eye more are the horns protruding from his head.
I cast my eyes downward and see that he has hooves rather than feet.
A bull shifter. He leans proudly against the doorway with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
An abomination, as my father would say. Such an act would get him immediately exiled within the city center, if not executed on the spot.
But as I pass through the entrance, I can’t help but smile to myself at the statement he’s making by unapologetically existing in his shifted form.
The statement they all make by not shying away from their power.
To stand up proudly against the Watchers and choose to live a life exiled from our society rather than forfeit their power.
It’s a strength I wish I could say I possessed.
The bar is packed. The smell of sweat and alcohol is overwhelming, but at least the bass drowns out my thoughts.
Over the top of the crowd I can see a band tucked into the far corner, heavy, distorted music raging through the bodies pressed together in the tightly packed space.
I spot an empty stool at the bar and immediately snag it.
I tuck my hair behind my ears as I look up and down the bar, checking that I don’t recognize the patrons beside me.
I know I won’t, but the fear still lingers.
“What can I get ya, darling?” The voice startles me as I turn forward and see the bartender leaning over to hear my order.
He’s broad, the ebony curls of his hair and chin scruff matching the tone of his skin.
He’s wearing nothing more than a simple white tank top and black slacks, with a bar towel thrown over his shoulder.
My eyes trace over the sprawling ink working its way up his left arm and dipping below the material of the tank top.
“Oh, um . . .” My eyes fly over the bottles of liquor lining the mirror-backed wall, but fail to land a target. “Whatever you like is fine.”