Chapter 9
Chapter
Don’t let her see.
God, please don’t let her see.
Ipace the small garden clearing, the knight’s cloak shielding me from the persistent rain trickling off the barren branches of the towering trees.
The practical thing would be to embrace the truth the knight gave me. To seamlessly slip into the fearful role that’s been written for me. To become the beast they think I am. But why opt for sensibility when there are far more creative ways to see a story end?
If I must be the keeper of all that is evil in a world already lost to its thorns, then let me be the last to see its flowers bloom.
Heart thrumming in my ears, I dart after the dark knight’s shadow, away from the castle’s firelight and toward the sharp cries of danger. Only the closer I get, the quieter they become.
I will my legs faster, arms straining under the weight of my sodden hem in their hold. I ignore the burn, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. In—Humph!
“Ouch.” I exhale, looking back at the oddly shaped root my foot snagged on as I surrender myself to the earth.
The cold wet ground, littered with wayward vines and sharpened stones, tears at my body, warning me to stop. You are weak. You are afraid. You can’t even save yourself.
I hear the taunts in my head as real as the dirt on my lips, a familiar tune. The song of Sunday. But one thing is different. One thing has changed. I no longer dance to its beat.
I don’t have to be strong. I just need to stand.
I rise to my feet. Fear was with me when I arrived and it will be there in the end. I breathe, rewriting my song—for a heart that beats for others is a heart untouched by death. I move, dancing to the rhythm of change.
Slower than before, more sure of my step, I ease past the tall twisted hedges, their blue leaves alight beneath the moonbeams shining through a cloud-littered sky. I stop only when the thorny peaks taper to an end.
My ears perk, listening for the sound of soft cries, but I’m met with only silence. I continue on, unsure of who, or what, waits on the other side of the ragged wall. I’m not even sure if whoever screamed is still alive.
A shiver races down my spine as my imagination plays with the unknown. I have no idea what I’m walking into. The terrors of this realm know no bounds. That, and this is perhaps the only part of the castle I am not familiar with.
The servants’ quarters, a crumbling row of dwellings that were, much like the whole kingdom, fashioned from the stones of those Father conquered, have always been forbidden to me. Though for what reason, I’m not privy.
I used to tell myself it was because Castle Ruin was not built entirely from stone. That somewhere, inlaid in its walls, are the bones of ghosts who haunt our halls. A true mosaic of triumph and tragedy.
But unlike most art, Castle Ruin has lost its novelty to time.
Not that it ever truly had it. Its beauty was never its own.
The blooms that once grew in our garden were stolen, plucked from the enchanted forest itself.
Some were tall and spindly, with dozens of little budding blooms. Others were bright mirrors of the sun.
All were wild at heart, stunning to behold.
Not like these crimson red roses, whose unnatural beauty comes with a catch.
A sickly sweet smell that, once inhaled, completely incapacitates you.
And if someone should smell more than one at a single time, well…
It’s a mistake they won’t be around to make again. At least, that’s how the story goes.
That’s how all the stories go. No more tales of laughter. No more fables untainted by the haunting of death.
These days? Only the shadow of what once was remains. The shadows, and—
My eyes widen in horror as I step out of the garden’s center into a gruesome scene. Acid churns in my stomach as I try to piece together where all the crimson red has come from. It isn’t until I see the tattered shreds of a dusty blue robe dripping with blood that I realize…
“No.”
Denial is the first to breach my lips, followed by a harrowing sob so loud, it startles the three shadowy figures circling the old man’s body.
I can see their mouths moving. The looks on their distorted faces appear as if they may be arguing, but I can’t make out their words.
Their voices sound far away, like they’re under water.
Or maybe it’s me who’s drowning? Lost in the pool of blood that’s reaching for my feet, beginning with the hem of my gown.
Even the air I breathe is tainted, laced with the poignant scent of murder, where metal meets tang.
I lose it completely when the figures, whom I’ve pieced together are knights of Ruin, step away from the body, leaving it in full view.
Sliced flesh, cut into bright pink ribbons, hang off of the pontiff’s chest. And his eyes… oh his eyes. They’re opened wide, forever frozen in terror as they stare up toward a starless sky.
Oh, Gally. My eyes burn. Oh no. No, no, no.
“Princess?” a male voice calls, but I pay it no heed.
I am lost to the spiral of my pontiff’s downfall. Was he out here because of me? If I had simply ignored his delusions, would he still be dead?
I stumble back, unable to carry the heavy feeling settling in my chest. The weight of knowing my questions for him will go forever unanswered makes me dizzy.
I wait for the bright blue thorns to cut into my back, hoping the pain will be greater than the overwhelming sorrow mounting beneath my ribs. But as I slip into the darkness for the second time today, it isn’t the branches welcoming my fall. It’s a powerful pair of arms.