Shadowbound

The Prisoner

I’d seen dozens of beheadings in my thirty-three years, but I’d never considered practicing for my own. The wooden execution block beneath my tensed neck was more comfortable than I’d expected. How many heads were severed on this surface for it to have formed such a welcoming curve?

I closed my eyes, exhaled slowly, and imagined the sounds and smells of my execution day.

The crowd trading whispered rumors that my husband’s death wasn’t a mystery at all.

The swell of collective energy as I ascended the platform in the castle square.

The anticipation of blood and the opportunity to gossip brewing a restlessness among the citizens of Illica who would come to witness my death.

“It’s obvious she poisoned him. She could have never loved him.”

“I heard he beat her when he found out she couldn’t produce a son.”

“Of course she deserves this. She’s a sorceress whore.”

A brash knock at my cell door pulled me from my ominous imaginings.

My hands met the cold, stone floor and I pushed myself away from the execution block. The long, thick braid I’d twisted together fell over my shoulder as I stood. The knock came again, more impatient this time.

I wiped my hands on my plain dress, smoothing and dirtying the fabric in one motion. In four paces, I crossed the room and moved past the three items of furniture in the mostly bare space—the executioner’s block, a chamber pot, and the hay-stuffed bed.

“Yes?” I called gently to the solid slab of wood that hadn’t opened since the day I was delivered to my new accommodation. That was weeks ago, when the summer leaves were set ablaze, welcoming the impending autumn. Now, what trees I could see beyond Illica’s walls were brown and barren.

“You have a visitor, Lady Ashford,” a soldier’s voice answered through the iron peephole, and I flinched at my late husband’s name.

He wasn’t here, and I wasn’t his. I wasn’t Lady Ashford anymore.

The guard likely didn’t mean anything by it.

He seemed na?ve enough not to know better.

And while we were far from friends, he was the same young man who stood guard and checked on me four times each day.

I’d heard stories of soldiers who would take advantage of a position like his with lingering stares or late-night visits, and I was thankful he’d never been tempted to test the limits of his role.

But perhaps I had my reputation to thank for that.

Upon determining I was both alive and non-threatening, he disappeared from the opening.

The iron slammed shut with a violent clang before being thrust open again. Icy blue eyes peered at me through the peephole.

“Are you well?” Curt and to the point, my older sister, Cova, had finally deigned to visit.

“I am.” I pushed my stiff shoulders back as I lied to her.

Her soft scoff nestled between the echoes of clanging armor from the hall. Her eyes shifted, and her demeanor softened slightly before she whispered, “Your death will coincide with the full moon.”

Time stopped, wrapping its arms around this moment to hold me hostage in its truth. Besides my unintrusive guard, the celestial timekeeper was my only other means of comfort and company.

I’d whispered my secrets, my fears, and everything I’d wished I’d done differently to the moon.

What if I’d been a more attentive wife? What if I’d never taken to gardening and concocting my own medicines? What if I’d said no to all of those women who came to me seeking aid—wanting to tap into my magic?

And the moon listened. Swelling slowly, night after night, as if absorbing the weight of my confessions. My breath hitched as I realized it was nearly full the night before.

Cova hadn’t shared this information out of spite. Quite the opposite. She was offering me a small kindness. Part of the torture of prison was psychological. Any day, any moment, could be the end. But now, my end was as real and solid as my enclosure.

“That’s that then.” Worry bloomed in my chest, and I fought the urge to chew my lip with its ceaseless buzzing.

“Rey.” My sister’s wintery glare narrowed.

“Cova,” I countered, much more being said between our eyes than our words.

She was worried about me. But not in the empathetic way I wish she possessed. No, my situation could inconvenience her family’s livelihood, and that comes before my beating heart.

“What will you choose?” she asked, proving my theory correct in four short words.

There was only one alternative: opting out of my promised end and instead, relinquishing myself to the bloodthirsty vampire colony to the North of Illica’s borders. The Hive.

Most tributes weren’t given a choice. To appease our vicious nocturnal neighbors, the Crown instituted a mandatory hierarchy of punishment.

The worst offenders: murderers, rapists, and leaders of thieves were sent without question.

Those who committed lesser offenses might be sent for a short stay in the keep unless offerings had been light that month.

Then, an unlucky deviant might find themselves exported to the Hive.

Some of the poorer families would even volunteer in exchange for a large sum of gold if they were desperate enough.

But because I had been noble-born and—only because of the fortune of my birth family—I would be given a choice.

The axe or the Hive.

It would mean I could take charge of the public narrative and move myself away from the slanderous, untrue titles. A kernel of heat stirred between my ribs. A mix of rage and helplessness expanded until it filled my entire chest. The fluttering rush overwhelmed me.

The axe or the Hive.

A swift blow followed by peaceful darkness. Or the unknown of the Hive.

Of course, there were stories told by those protected as representatives of both communities—the Travelers—giving some insight into the wicked, unholy happenings there.

If the tales were true, choosing the Hive meant I’d become a slave or a meal. Usually both. But always, eventually, a meal.

“I plan to go to the axe.” My stomach rolled hearing my fate out loud and solidifying the permanence of my end.

Cova pursed her lips with a tensed brow. Her brief but sharp huff and slight tilt of her head made her disappointment clear. An exchange I have come to know well. She looked like our mother.

Soon enough, she would be free of me and left only with the burden of the family she’d created. Older than me by two years and three times a mother. Well, twice by her own body. Once by adoption.

The thought prompted me to ask, “How are the children?”

She hesitated, crinkling her pointed nose. “They’re healthy and bright but struggling to understand your situation.”

I was estranged from Cova’s family for a myriad of reasons, but one was more prominent than the rest.

“And, Lydia?” Her name sat thick on my tongue, like I didn’t have the privilege of asking after the daughter I’d surrendered.

Conflict coated Cova’s gaze and her lips tightened.

Lydia’s fast-paced birth had been traumatic for us both. According to the midwives who delivered Lydia earthside, it was unlikely I could ever carry another.

I was given one week with her in a private cottage.

One week to hold and feed my baby as my body recovered.

One week before we traveled back to our family home where Lydia would live under the identity of the unwanted offspring from a distant, unwed cousin.

Because my father could never ‘marry me off if anyone knew what a disgrace I was’.

With six siblings, Cova’s husband longed to continue the tradition of bearing a large family. He was ecstatic they could adopt Lydia as their own.

Lydia came from my body, but it was Cova who fed, clothed, taught, and protected her from this world.

“Please, Cova.” The words tripped over the cracks in my dry throat.

“She looks like you.” In a moment of surprising softness, Cova’s voice wavered, “All hair and defiance.”

Heated tears welled as I swallowed the knot in my throat. It had been many years since I’d seen the children—Hollis had made sure of that—although I’d written and sent gifts often.

“Please, send my love.” I sniffled.

“I will.” A guard sauntered by, their armor clanking rhythmically as they passed. Cova waited for distance before she whispered so quietly I could barely make out the words, “Rey. Did you do it? Did you kill Hollis?”

Every muscle in my body recoiled, just as they had while agents of the Crown turned over my apothecary, haphazardly collecting my glass bottles and cataloging evidence against me.

I’d nearly fainted when they picked up a bottle of hemlock.

The foreign container didn’t have or need a label.

And even though I pleaded with them to listen, that it wasn’t mine, the pungent, unmistakable smell coming from the deadly vial was damning enough.

Their properties too widely known for the death they would deal to anyone who had a large enough dose. The sentence was immediate.

“Arrest her.”

“Give her death.”

“Guilty, no question.”

I quickly learned the more I said, the less they listened. So I didn’t fight.

The Crown had their villain and my fate was sealed by the mysterious bottle that had found its way into my apothecary.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth groaned. Was there no one in this realm who thought I might be innocent?

Did I do it? No. Did I miss him? No.

My marriage to Hollis Ashford wasn’t unique. It was one of convenience. A means to wealth. To reputational ascension. It hadn’t been the great love I’d hoped for, and while that disappointed me, I hadn’t felt murderous toward my late husband.

If she had to ask, there was a piece of her that believed the swirl of gossip around Hollis’ death and my alleged involvement.

Also, being newly armed with the knowledge that my own death was imminent meant these moments shouldn’t be frittered away with unnecessary small talk or useless pleading to believe in my innocence.

My heart hardened to match my stone enclosure. “Is there anything else?”

Cova’s words were pointed arrows seeking weak spots in my mental armor. “You know your options. Consider them.” As if my reluctance to refute the accusations—be it royal decree or the ruthless rumor mill—made everything she’d heard true, and it disgusted her.

I blinked slowly, looking to the ground then back up at my sister. “I’d prefer if you didn’t attend.”

Her head shook softly, as if missing the scheduled beheading of her sister was an abhorrent suggestion.

Relinquishing myself to the Hive wouldn’t erase all of my accused wrongdoings, but it would be seen as a contribution rather than selfishly going to the axe.

Abstaining from attending would result in an equally applied title of cowardice for my sister.

She would be there. In the name of societal duties and familial reputation. “The children and I will be in attendance. To set a good example. To begin to repair…”

Her words turned to liquid in my ears while my heart plummeted into my feet. A ferocious chill washed over me, and cold beads of sweat broke out on my brow and neck.

I knew she was angry with me. She never missed a chance to remind me of all the ways I’d brought enough shame on this family.

It was a wonder there was anything left to our name after I’d tarnished hundreds of years of strategic marriage and breeding.

But bringing her children—my child—to witness my gruesome end… that was unforgivable.

I pleaded with a clumsy tongue, “Cova. No. Spare them. Spare me.”

“If you don’t want us to witness your death, you can opt for another fate.

The choice is yours.” With those final words from my sister, the slot in the door shut, leaving me alone in the darkening room.

Soon, the nearly full moon would pass through my window, and in less than a day, regardless of the end I chose, an end would come.

And the world would be rid of Reyva Bergmont.

Sorceress whore.

Slave.

Meal.