16. Timeline Change #2
Not only that, but the first plan had me dress up as one of King Ragan’s sex workers after taking one out and devising an elaborate plan for replacement. Many elemny wouldn’t question the motive because no one wants to get too close to King Ragan.
They die when they do.
The other plan is this one: seduce the guard at the west side entrance, drug him with melatonin, dress as a maid, slip into their entrance and wait until the king finishes with his sex workers.
Every interaction must be flawless, making it the riskiest as I need to lie convincingly.
One mistake and my head will be on a spike on the wall.
Two text messages blink as I arrive at the castle. Xavier messages that he’s feeling better and is watching TV until he awakens. I reply, letting him know I left Sara and Kylie to have some time to themselves, so it doesn’t seem like I’m ignoring him.
The second message comes from the water elemny guarding the west entrance, asking if I still want to visit him while he’s on duty.
Once Nancy had set up my account on the celebrity dating site, the poor man quickly slipped into my private messages. From there, it wasn’t hard for him to succumb to every fake nude picture I sent him.
When I focus on the Queen’s tower, the grassy vines and blooming flowers catch my eye. It appears even more beautiful up close and in daylight, despite a thin layer of smoke lingering in the air.
Then, my attention turns to the two guards at the castle gates leading into the estate—two fire elemny with guns strapped to their waists.
It’s illegal to own a gun in Eraminia. The only individuals permitted to carry guns are guards and the Knights of Eraminia.
They wield excessive power compared to elemny powers.
Thus, they pose more of a threat than a welcoming guest.
I join in with the fans and take photos at the front gate. They hope to glimpse the king.
Or they want to glimpse the Queen in her lofty tower.
Some even mention Prince Emmerton, hoping he might venture out to the sea of fans and grab one for a quick fuck.
Anyone else, and they’re better off waiting outside the Crimson Hotel for Prince Walkyer, though I’m seriously doubtful they’ll find Prince Reen—not that most elemny care for him.
Most students spoke about him with disdain because they were racist or didn’t like that many still referred to him as a prince, even knowing he was not a legitimate heir to the king.
Whatever. Why do I even care? I need to focus on killing the piece of shit who let those elemny set fire to my skin and tried to rape me.
Not wanting to pretend to be a fan anymore, I stroll down the castle’s side. My gaze lingers on the deteriorating head of my father. It twists my stomach into knots. Harsh memories of his training surface, but only briefly.
I’m not here to avenge my family. Not even here for my kingdom.
No.
I’m here to kill King Ragan for myself. This is my revenge—nothing more and nothing less. And I will make sure he dies knowing my name and what he has done to me.
There’s a cafe nearby. It smells of bitter coffee beans and sweetened cakes.
I ordered an iced coffee—double shot and two sugars. As she hands it over, I squeeze the cup too hard. The lid comes off, spilling milky brown liquid all over my dress.
“Oh, shoot! I’m so sorry!” the cashier says as she rips out towelettes. “I must not have closed the lid well enough.”
“It’s fine—but, uh…do you have a restroom I can use to clean myself up?”
She points to the right and tells me there are private toilets on the third from the left.
With a nervous smile and a wave of my hand, signalling it’s okay, I head into the female toilets and approach the third cubicle.
After locking the door, I place my purse on the toilet seat, step up, and peek over the empty stalls.
My fingertips brush against the top until my nail catches on a slight gap.
I rise onto my tiptoes, push the board up, and feel around until a plastic bag rustles in my grasp.
As I step down, I open the plastic bag. My smile broadens at the tactical gun with a silencer attached. I was hoping Nancy would also give me a knife because killing someone with a knife seems more personal, but this will have to do.
Stepping onto the toilet, I lift my dress to my waist, remove the strap from the plastic bag, and wrap it around my upper thigh. The gun slides into the holster, and I shuffle the dress down until it hits my knees. Finishing up, I place the plastic bag where I had found it and leave the cubicle.
Air blasts from the hand dryer, drying the dress stained with water and coffee until it’s dry. I then tie my hair in a ponytail and sneak a glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirror, my heart pounding loudly as I catch sight of my body. With a shake of my head, I leave before I linger on my appearance.