Chapter Twelve #3
When Vallica was finished, she didn’t say a word.
She dropped the whip on the floor and walked out of the room.
A few moments later, two soldiers came and unchained Dahlia’s arms. With nothing holding her up, she collapsed to the floor.
The soldiers carried her back to her cell in the dungeon and laid her on the ground.
She couldn’t move. The one time she tried to sit up, the pain was too great to withstand.
For the rest of the day, she laid there.
Someone opened a flap on the bottom of the door and slid a small tin cup of water and piece of stale bread into the cell.
She forced herself to reach out and grab it.
Then, after eating one bite and drinking the cup dry, she willed herself to sleep.
~*~
For two days, no one came to fetch Dahlia.
She laid on the ground the entire time, only moving to drink the small cup of water she got each evening.
Other than that, she barely opened her eyes.
In her dreams, she was somewhere else, with no pain or fear.
It was her motivation to sleep so she could dream and escape her current hell.
On the third day, a large soldier came and tossed a clean linen dress to her feet. Dahlia peeled off the rest of the scraps left of her clothing and slid the dress on. Her arms and back were sore. Thankfully, scabs had begun to form over her cuts, making it easier to bear the fabric touching.
Once she was dressed, the soldier escorted Dahlia out of her cell, up the stairs, and to the main floor of the castle. Instead of going back up to her old chambers, however, the soldier led her down the hallway in the east corridor, past the kitchens and pantries.
She was confused by where they could possibly be going because the hallway they were in would only lead them to outside, near the bakehouse. If she had the strength, she could try to fight the soldier to escape. Freedom was only as far as the end of the hall.
But before she could even contemplate escaping, a door further down the hallway opened.
Vallica stepped out, flanked by three soldiers.
It was too late. The angry look on Vallica’s face was terrifying, but she wasn’t looking at Dahlia.
Vallica was glaring at Dahlia’s escort, whose face she couldn’t see for his helmet.
“I should have known,” Vallica said. “Mereck was right. You can no longer be trusted.”
A soldier reached out and grabbed the helmet, lifting it from her escort’s head. When the helmet was removed, Dahlia’s heart skipped a beat. It was Simon, Vallica’s lover, and Silas’ right hand.
“My love, I—” Simon began.
“Don’t call me that! I am your queen. You will treat me like your queen and nothing more.”
Simon didn’t speak again. Dahlia was stunned. Of anyone in the realm that she would have expected to try to help her escape, Simon would never have been on that list.
“Take her back to the dungeon,” Vallica said to the soldier on her left. Then she turned to Dahlia. “I will deal with you tomorrow. Enjoy your last night as a princess,” she hissed.
The soldier took Dahlia by the arm and pulled her away.
When they got back to her cell, the soldier opened the door and shoved her in.
She fell to her knees, still stunned by what had happened.
Simon had tried to save her. And had they not been caught, she might be free at this very moment.
But somehow her step-mother had found out.
And now Dahlia may never know Simon’s fate—though she was sure it wouldn’t be a good one.
It was dark when she woke to the sound of the flap on her cell door opening and closing.
Dahlia pushed herself up to sit and reached out to grab the water cup, drinking the entire thing in one gulp.
Her end may be coming with the dawn, but she wouldn’t die in this cell.
She would face her execution with her head raised, assuming she had the strength to lift it.
She was about to lay back down when she heard a noise outside of her cell, followed by a thud against the heavy door. Then she heard a key being placed in the lock. Suddenly the door flew open.
Rowan was standing in the doorway. One of Vallica’s soldiers was in a heap on the ground in front of him. Dahlia blinked to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Not only was he real, but he wasn’t alone. His newfound brother, Reeve, was standing behind him, holding a lantern up.
“You’re late,” Rowan said to her.
“I’ve been occupied,” she returned flatly.
“I can see that. Looks like you need better training.”
Dahlia scowled at him but deep down she was delighted to see him, even forgetting about all the guilt she had been carrying around for the past few months. She still couldn’t believe they were there. Had they come just a day later…
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we should go.”
Dahlia stepped out of the cell, then stopped. “Wait! Give me the key.”
Rowan held it up and she snatched it from him.
“What are you doing?” he said quickly. “We need to go. Now!”
“I don’t have time to explain, but this man needs to come with us. Trust me.”
“Hurry!”
She slipped the key into the lock on the door and opened it.
~*~
At the edge of the forest, Dagan was pacing.
He hated to wait, but he couldn’t pass through.
Whoever Sire’s new wizard was, he knew his protection spells well.
This wasn’t the same type of spell Larkin had used to protect Sire.
This shield, often referred to as a disseptum spell, prevented all magical beings from crossing.
Dagan’s hand was singed from where he’d tried.
He should have known better than to touch it. This was the second time he had been burned by a disseptum spell. The first time, when he was ten-years-old, he’d been tricked by an imp. The devilish creature had run into a cave that was, for some reason, being protected by a wizard.
At the time, Dagan hadn’t known what the golden veil around the cave entrance meant, but he soon found out when he tried to follow the imp. Those burns took weeks to heal. Thankfully, this time he had a black tea and arnica flower salve in his tower that would help heal the burn.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see them coming toward him. He immediately noticed there was a fourth figure, but it was too dark to see who it was. It was just like Rowan, though, to rescue another prisoner in addition to the one they were sent to retrieve.
When the group reached Dagan and he got a good look at the fourth person, he couldn’t understand why they would rescue him. The man looked old and brittle. Like he would keel over at any moment. What was the purpose of rescuing someone who was about to die?
It wasn’t until he lifted his lantern and saw the man’s face that he started to feel a chill run over him. Familiar hazel eyes were looking back at him.
“Hello, Dagan.”