Crowned 7 - Facing the Music.

 

Elvira let go of the utensils and immediately ran up to Clary’s side for washing her hands.

Clary, numbed to a stand-still, let herself be pushed to the side while Elvira washed her hands.

“We must go,” Yuna declared, only for Clary to shake her head vehemently.

“I—I don’t think I can go…” Clary whispered, her gaze stuck on the vegetables in front.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to force yourself…” Elvira whispered while patting Clary’s back, “You don’t have to go.”

“B-but, Lira…” Clary sniffled, brows joined together and lips in an upside-down frown.

“Not everyone has to be brave, not at the cost of yourself,” Elvira smiled.

Yuna nodded as she hastened towards the door, “It’s alright Clary, we understand. Let’s go, Elvi.”

Elvira left one last reassuring pat on Clary’s back before jogging out of the kitchen. Clary stared at their backs before nodding to herself, “I’ll manage their chores here,” she said, flaring her nostrils. She wanted to go…she wanted to help Lira, but her body stiffened at the thought of being near to any of Helif’s parties.

The mere word shot her seven years back, when she was the newest collection in Helif’s basement. She remembered his leering gaze running over her body as he brandished her in front of a table full of grinning men and women.

A band of musicians played slow music behind her as she was forced to step on the table, clad in a short frilly dress and serve the nobility all night long. Glass after glass of burning liquids were poured down her throat until she was delirious enough to forget all sense. She did not know what happened to her as the lazy piano keys turned into chirping of the morning birds.

All she remembered was waking up on the table, unclothed and hurting all over.

Clary clenched her teeth as she went back to washing the vegetables, praying in her heart that Lira would not have to face the same fate as Yuna and her.

In the hallway, Elvira said, “I will go outside, you should alert the head butler.”

“The head butler? Even the laundry maid could care less when it comes to people like us,” Yuna scoffed.

Elvira could only grit her teeth in agreement.

“I’ll distract them, you search for Lira and run, yeah?” Elvira proposed.

Yuna sighed as she nodded. Ever since Elvira had arrived, five years ago, she had been taking the falls for Clary and Yuna. Every time the Count would want to corner Clary or Yuna, Elvira would jump in, get hit or be horribly degraded as distraction.

A while ago, Yuna had confronted Elvira about it, only to receive the reply, “I don’t mind, I have nothing to lose anyway.”

When she saw Elvira running out of the glass doors, leading to the Garden and Gazebo, without looking left or right to care for what’s coming – Yuna could only clench her teeth.

Elvira wasn’t brave, she realised, Elvira just did not consider herself as a person worth consideration.

Her hasty steps over the grass were a stark comparison to Yuna’s careful ones. She ran boldly, shoulders squared and head held high while Yuna crouched behind tall grass, shoulders curled and keen eyes stalking the shadows of the night.

 Elvira scowled as spotted Lira standing beside a grinning Count Amaria. He had his hand over the small of Lira’s back, fingers gently caressing her squirming waist. He was about to introduce Lira to the party in the Gazebo, when Elvira jumped in.

“Milord! You haven’t introduced me to your friends!” she grinned and lodged herself under Count Amaria’s arm, elbowing Lira out of her way, “Why are you wasting your time on new scum when you can have all of experienced me?” she giggled, fanning her face.

“Ugh, this girl!” Count Amaria scowled as he pushed her out of his arms, “Don’t you know your place?!”

“I do, master,” Elvira grinned and dropped to his feet. “Won’t you keep me for your friends, master?” she faked a mewl, fluttering her eyes at the grinning crowd. Thankfully, she had chosen to wear a high-collared, full sleeved servant outfit with her uniform stockings and shoes.

“No—get away, you’re hideous,” Count Amaria bellowed and tip-toed to look for Lira. “Where’s the pretty one gone?”

Unbeknownst to him, Yuna had carried Lira inside.

“Why look for the pretty one? She’ll cry and whine, be reluctant all night long,” Elvira jumped up to stand in the Count’s face. “I’m better,” she winked and walked up to a guest, “I can be very entertaining,” she whispered as she ran a hand over the guest’s chest, nearing his abdomen, she said, “You can test me.”

“I like this one!”

“Yeah, she seems fun!”

“Forcing isn’t enjoyable. She’s so willing, she’d do it all sober.”

Elvira winked at the guest who praised her.

Count Amaria sighed as he took a seat at the head of the table, “You folks do not understand,” he pressed his lips in a line, “She’s hideous all over.”

Elvira merely blinked flirtatiously.

“It’s okay, I like her face. She could do it all clothed, wouldn’t you, slave?”

Elvira fluttered her eyes and acted coy, “Why not? My bite grooves will only stimulate you.”

“Bite marks!” a guest exclaimed, leaning onto the table, he urged, “Show us.”

“They’re…” Elvira giggled, “They’re quite harsh.”

The crowd roared into laughter while Count Amaria rolled his eyes.

“Kinky lass.”

“How harsh?”

“Show me all of your marks, slave.”

Elvira obliged as she slowly rolled her sleeves. The slow piano and saxophone took over the silence as a dozen of depraved gazes waited for her to expose herself.

As soon as both her sleeves were above her elbows, Elvira raised her hands for all to see.

Instantly, the men began coughing, whispering and evading gazes.

“They’re not bad, just Kindler bites. You know them? Creatures of the dark! Their bite spreads their cause but somehow, I survived!” Elvira grinned.

The piano and the saxophone escalated into a giddy pace as people began shuffling backwards.

“Don’t back away, my saliva only hurts on a full moon,” she bluffed.

Instantly, everyone’s heads flipped to look at the two moons in the sky. One of them was a full moon and the other a crescent.

“G-um, just serve us drinks. Be—”

“Better yet, leave us be. We had something important to discuss tonight, did we not, Count Amaria?”

“Indeed, we did,” the Count sighed as he glared at the back of Elvira’s head, “The Northern Plains have been subjuga—why are you still here? Leave.”

“Yes, Milord!” Elvira exclaimed, a little too happily. She was about to run away when a cold voice halted her.

“Hold up, I can still entertain you all with her. Since she interrupted us, she has to pay a price.”

Elvira gulped, clenching her jaw, she turned back to face Count Amaria. His dark eyes caught a glint of the lanterns and gleamed deviously.

For as long as his soiree lasted, Elvira’s screams were the supporting vocals to their background music. Right outside the gazebo, Count Amaria had Elvira kneeled over the prickly grass while one of the guards lashed her back.

Guests drank, shouted, sang and were eventually taken away by their servants. Count Amaria too was taken inside, before his drunk mumbling could ruin public relations or reveal national secrets. All the while, Elvira laid on the damp grass, pricking and soothing her gashed back. The lasting notes of the music were heavy companionship along with the stars and the two moons.

The universe was so silent…or maybe it was screaming, like her, and nobody was paying attention.

The next day, the sun would rise and everything would stay the same. Her smiling face, the sparkling pond, the jumping fishes, the breezy garden, they would all stay the same.

“Some days…I’m grateful my scars exist.” Elvira informed the sky. A smile graced her face which eventually turned into a grin as she spotted her birth star twinkling. “Ah…Mirai, you cheeky traitor.”

“Elvi? Is that you?”

Elvira sat up and winced at the suddenness of her own actions. She groaned before replying, “Ye-ah, I’m here, Clary, it’s all clear.”

The girl jumped out of distant bushes, her blonde head glowing under moonlight. She ran up to Elvira’s side with a box of medicines in her hand.

“Was I that loud?” Elvira grimaced.

Clary rolled her eyes as she kneeled beside her friend, “I’m sure the entire empire heard it.”

Elvira seethed as Clary unzipped her dress and pulled the fabric off her body.

“Do you have any sense of self-preservation?” Clary scoffed sternly.

“My apologies, your highness, I shall do better next time,” Elvira joked.

“Wrong answer!” Clary exclaimed at the bloody sight of Elvira’s back, “There should be no next time!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

Clary applied ointment over Elvira’s scarred back, cringing and wincing every time Elvira did.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked, apologetically.

“Surprisingly, not so much,” Elvira grinned.

 

Because, a continent away, a blue-eyed boy writhed in pain.

“Is it hurting still?” the boy beside him asked.

The boy in bed shot up and scowled, his face shadowed by the darkness of the room, “It freaking feels like I was lashed!”

The You in Me: 6 - Trust.

 

CHAPTER 5

In her dream, the world was simpler. She was a teenager living at the periphery like all humans, trying to make ends meet, trying to find value in life. She was plain yet dreamed of fame every night she went to bed. Though, when the morning sun would dawn on her window the dream would dissipate and she would come to a realisation, “I am good for nothing.”

The sun was bright and its rays were scorching, burning holes through the tree leaves guarding her window pane. Cicadas were set to world domination with the sheer collective force of their chorusing. The rays were getting hotter by the second when she sat up in her bed and held her face in her hands, unable to face herself. Then, the might of a singular sunbeam melted the window glass only to penetrate inside and light her house on fire.

Flames engulfed her.

She was outside, suddenly, running and screaming for her parents.

“Ma! Papa! Where are you?”

Her vision was red and her senses hot, tall skyscrapers crumbled to dust before her. She climbed the debris, desperate in her efforts to dig into it and find something…or was it someone? In her subconscious, she knew the rest of the neighbourhood would be safe. Still, her hands clawed into the broken glass, sharp iron beams and chalky cement – where were her parents? They were nowhere to be found. She screamed and screamed her mother’s name as the flames took down her town and memories. They drew closer with every breath she took, lusting for the oxygen within her. The fire was there to burn her, but somehow, it wasn’t touching her.

“What is the cost of one kind deed?”

The sentence echoed in her head, over and over. Suddenly, there was a mirror in front of her and she couldn’t avoid facing herself this time. Seraphina Dysis. The skin was melting off her face and body, leaving a bony skeleton and piercing grey eyes bleeding in the consequence of kindness.

“If you continue like this, it’ll only bring your ruination.”

It was her mother’s voice this time, echoing through the fire. Suddenly, the flames were smoke and the smoke clustered in the sky as clouds and a new day dawned.

An electric current shot through her body and Seraphina was jolted awake.

“Ah, Dread Dysis,” the matron called, flipped through the many pages on her notepad, and scratched her name off. “You will find your items inside your drawer. The classes commence in ten so I’d recommend you make haste.” The old lady, tall and skeletal, white as bone itself, passed a smile to Seraphina and walked away to zap the student on the next bed.

The ravenette, still in the midst of deciphering dream from reality couldn’t help but gasp at the heavenly white aesthetic of the infirmary. “Am I dead?” she whispered to herself as she scrutinized her arms and legs for burn scars. She found none. She flipped her head to the bedside table and shoved her face in the mirror. It reflected a perfect glass skin, sharp scarlet eyes and shiny raven hair. Seraphina pinched her cheeks and ruffled her hair to confirm reality from illusion again.

“You’re not gone yet? You could miss your chance if someone steals your seat, Dread Dysis,” the bony matron commented, voice nasally and crisp.

Ah, yes, the Choosing Ceremony. She was going to hug Ahren…only to be tasered in the back?

Et tu, Ahren?

Seraphina shook her head in exasperation. Her trust, yet again, was too easily earned with simple acts of kindness. Maybe this was what her dream was alluding to.

She pulled the bedside drawer open and found a glossy black bag inside. Its handles were intricately carved as golden vines spreading into the bag’s fabric on the front. Her jaw dropped in awe as she carefully picked up the bag and placed it on the bed, handling it with only her index fingers and thumbs to avoid leaving any dirty fingerprints of her hands.

Seraphina searched high and low to find a zip or a buckle on the bag but to no avail. Instead, she just sat straight for a good minute and stared at its glossy finish, then realising that time was running out, she cradled the bag in her arms like a million-dollar child and jumped off the bed. She had seven minutes to navigate her way to the first class – whatever it may be, she wondered as she shoved her feet in her shoes, careful not to crush the heels.

There must be someone around, Seraphina thought, who could help her.

The ravenette circled the bed and pulled away the white curtains separating her from the person beside. The fluid motion of her hand led to reveal a face likely to help her with her demise instead. Soft dark hair ruffled out of their style and piercing golden eyes narrowed at her with obvious grudge, greeted her sight. Instantly, Seraphina pulled the curtain back in its place.

“You saw nothing,” she said and fled out of her curtain containment. She may not know where to go, but she did know not to interact with a true Astherian without magic constraints around him. No matter how appealing even as a dread.

Just as Seraphina was about to step out of the infirmary, a hand grabbed her by the shoulder and twisted her to face its owner. The said owner had the curtsey to lower his neck from the clouds to meet her eyes; pinned against the infirmary wall, caged in between Kaizer’s arms, the ravenette gulped.

“That would be impossible, I see everything. I have six eyes,” Kaizer deadpanned. On cue, the tiny iridescent crystals embedded above his brows blinked open and golden irises meandered in the small space they were provided with.

“That’s…” Seraphina sucked in a breath, “truly creepy,” she breathed out and bent under his arm to walk out of his armed-cage. Only for him to push his palm against her forehead and bring her back in, against the wall.

“I can see things before they happen,” he stated, pointing at his eyes, looking dead on the inside.

“Well then, can your eyes see how late we will be if we don’t get going right this instant?!” Seraphina exhaled, frowning at his dead-faced persistence.

“But I cannot see why I don’t want to kill you…” his words dragged to a whisper.

Seraphina raised her brows in exasperation, “Why thank you? For being a decent hero?!”

“It goes against my basic principles…” he leaned in, close enough for their noses to be inches apart.

“I t-think the professor c-can refresh that when he’s, uh, dishing out our punishment!” Seraphina pressed a hand against his chest and pushed him away.

Kaizer sucked in a sharp breath and took several steps away from her; his brows joined together in a frown, as if repulsed. Though, his words seemed to betray his actions as he whispered, “Our sounds nice.”

Blood rushed to Seraphina’s face as she kicked the infirmary door open and stormed into the hallway. “What the heck is his deal?! If he doesn’t want to kill me, he’ll jump me instead?! Can’t he just stay away?!” she fanned her face with both her hands, consequently her bag fell to the marbled floor. “Dammit!” she cursed and bent down to pick it up, instinctively, by its golden handle.

The bag clicked open upon her touch.

“Ah, you figured it out,” a dead gasp birthed itself above her ear, warm breath fanned her nape. Seraphina felt an overwhelming presence shadow over her, so close to her back that she could feel the warmth trapped in between their bodies.

“What is wrong with you?! Are you following me?” Seraphina snapped and jumped several steps away from Kaizer, lest she’d do something unreasonable as lean into the warmth. Oh, the horror!

“Being choked by a microphone wire does things to you,” he shrugged, nonchalant.

Though, before Seraphina could fathom a response, a string of violin notes resonated through the wooden walls, slowly but aggressively building up into a crescendo.

“That’d be the warning music,” Kaizer pointed his finger at the sky-high ceilings vibrating the music through the ancient castle.

“You folks surely have a thing for dramatics,” Seraphina rolled her eyes and pulled out a map from the bag. The sheer thickness of its folds indicated her probable failure, so, taking a hint, she tucked it back inside her bag and faced Kaizer.

His lower lip curved into the tiniest of smiles as he held out a hand for her to take. The music was building up faster, every note louder than the last. Hesitantly, Seraphina placed her hand over his, avoiding eye contact.

“I meant the bag; it’d have your teleportation device…but this is okay as well,” Kaizer winked. Flustered, Seraphina was about to snatch her hand away when his slender fingers held onto her hand, encasing it.

The last memory Seraphina held of someone holding her hand with such firmness was her with mother, when Seraphina was a toddler in human kindergarten and was being bullied for crying too much. She missed her home, her dolls, her story books and her puzzle pieces that she had to leave behind in order to attend school – a place feted with snobbish kids who never asked her to play with. The loneliness led to tears, the tears were an excuse for the mockeries and the bullies – a symbol of weakness which she wielding everyday until her mother would come to pick her up, at the end of the day. She’d hold her hand with firmness and reaffirmation; and she wouldn’t let go until they were home.

There was a warm attachment Seraphina associated with handholding and to share such a moment with an Astherian who should hate her mere existence was appalling.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

Seraphina did not know where, but she followed anyway. It’s almost as if she was compelled to. One step turned into golden leap and suddenly the hallways around them phased away and she found herself at the foot of what seemed like an empty battle ground. Surprised, Seraphina turned to look for Kaizer only to find him no one behind her.

So much for trusting a person again.

The You in Me: 1 - The choice in between being kind or looking away.

 

P R O L O U G E

“We’re all made of stardust, what makes them better than us?” Seraphina asked as she followed her mother’s trail, diligently avoiding any missteps on the path into wilderness.

“If every human sat back to ponder on that, we would be even more jobless than we already are,” Lisbeth replied as she hiked higher up the mountain, combating thickets with tender hands and observant eyes.

“I wouldn’t say we’re all that jobless,” Seraphina huffed, a frown easing onto her brows. The lush overgrowth darkened their paths ahead and the only light soothing their insecurity was the lantern in Lisbeth’s hand, swinging to-and-fro.

“That’s because humans as a species are inherently stubborn and would never concede their pride. Their territory, they would, but not the pride.”

“Ha!” Seraphina exclaimed, avoiding the outgrown roots with a small skip in her step, “That’s why we are here, in the thick of the night, because you are too prideful to accept Mr. Henrick’s accusations!” a cheeky smile graced her face as her mother’s arrogant shoulders slumped just enough to prove her point.

“We are here to help old Mr. Henrick. Not because he offended me with the baseless accusations of feeding him the wrong medicine. He’s a patient and so, we must be patient with him. If humans abandon their patience and kindness, we’re no better than those who invaded us. Remember, haste makes waste.”

Lisbeth crouched under a low hanging branch and turned to hold out a hand for her daughter. Under the fluorescent glow of the lantern, her brown locks blazed gold. Seraphina rolled her eyes at her mother’s holier-than-thou smile but held onto Lisbeth’s hand as she crouched under the branch and was swiftly pulled to the other side.

“Look at you, still being so prideful,” Seraphina scrunched her nose with the reply.

Lisbeth let go of her daughter’s hand as they neared the hill-top. Her steps grew smaller and gentler as she placed them precisely over flat stones or muddy patches lining their path, “Be careful of the Panicum maximum,” she pointed at the guinea grass, “There’s already limited grazing pastures. No need for us to ruin more.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I always am,” Seraphina sang, “We must protect the limited resources left for human survival.”

“Ruin one life and it always comes back to you,” Lisbeth sang back and the duo broke into laughter. Upon reaching the hill-top, Lisbeth inhaled fresh gusts of carbon dioxide as if it were early morning air; regardless of its major constituents, the air was still more pure up there than on the ground they came from.

“I love being in the midst of nature,” Lisbeth commented as she raised her lantern to illuminate the trees around.

“Being raised in a bunker surely makes you considerate,” Seraphina snorted as she squinted her eyes in the opposite direction of light. “I think I found it,” she pointed at a lush tree with long broad leaves and a silhouette of round fruits hanging in the center.

Lisbeth raised her lantern to Seraphina’s side and rolled her eyes.

“Are you kidding me? You understand that using basic observation skills is not a privilege. It is a right and you can exercise it, my daughter; that is the Annona Muricata, not even close to what we’re looking for. Don’t you see the literal spikes on its fruit?” Lisbeth worded out her exasperation.

In the light, Seraphina’s brown hair seemed haywire, each strand in strong opposition of sticking to the other. They framed her head like a crown of hay, giving way to a large forehead and sunken grey eyes. She raised her glasses closer to her eyes and replied, “Well it is not my fault that we are trespassing on government grounds with barely a light source to survive. I’m not the one with fifty years of experience in illegal activities, mother!”

“Thirty-seven!” Lisbeth corrected and turned Seraphina’s chin to the opposite side, “And that is what we are looking for. Carcia Papaya, its leaves are used to increase potential platelet count of a patient suffering from Dengue fever. Pick out the fresh ones; we’ll make a juice out of them for Mr. Henrick.”

Seraphina nodded at her obvious error in observation, for surely, the papaya tree bore round fruits instead of prickly ones. “It might need a little bit of climbing,” she pointed out, comparing their cumulative short heights with the tree’s.

She grabbed the lantern from her mother’s hand and opened up her backpack. Lisbeth grabbed a fistful of chalk from a paper bag and rubbed it across her palms. On the count of three, Lisbeth grabbed a hold of the tree’s slender trunk and mounted it with the ease of an expert. Though, just as she was about to pluck a leaf, from the gained extra height, Lisbeth spotted a fire on the lower end.

“Sera! I think there’s a fire across,” she informed as her hands hastily plucked the leaves and threw them to Seraphina.

“Why then, jump and run, mother?!” Seraphina whisper-shouted as she haphazardly picked up the leaves.

Lisbeth’s eyes did not move away from the smokeless flames which flared up her beloved trees; two silhouettes struggled in the midst of it.

“No, there’s people there…we must help them!”

“Are you kidding me? We are trespassing, mother, we cannot be caught up in it!!”

“Seraphina! I raised you better than that!” Lisbeth snapped as she jumped down with a subtle thump and forced the last bunch of leaves in her backpack.

“Even if we save them, the system will have our heads!” Seraphina snapped as she zipped up her backpack.

“We all have a choice and we must all choose kindness. If we do not, then we are no better than them.”

Lisbeth looked her daughter in the eye. Against the lantern, the grey of her eyes twinkled like a star. It brought a smile to Lisbeth’s face.

“You go home, wash the leaves, crush them and juice them. I’ll see what I can do to help. Run, now.”  

So, Seraphina ran.

 

The Lucielle Box - 3 : The Secret !

CHAPTER TWO

Outside the window, the world always seemed loud and pleasant. On a stony piece of land outside the walls of the Orphanage, street kids would holler around with a ball in hand, bickering over potential teams and points scored in the last match. Their basket was a worn-out plastic bowl balanced on the edge of the wall, always withering, when left empty, with the gusts of wind. Anyone standing on the inside could spot about five different bowls scattered on the ground, having succumbed to the fate of abandonment and the recipient of no human making retrieving attempts.

Isadora would stay at her seat’s edge as the match would grow more intense by the second, everyone’s homework on the line as loser’s weight to bear. The notes of Vivaldi’s winter warmed the tension in the air, involuntarily breathless, Isadora would just stare. The ball would dribble and be passed, sometimes a catch was missed, sometimes a basket was scored. She would exclaim and swear with great mirth and disappointment, mumbling to herself about all the ways she could have avoided the other team’s defeat. Though, her fate was one of a great observer but never an intervener, a helpless god overseeing the fate of people with great detail but possessing no ability to undo it.

The best Isadora could do was look away.

Her eyes fluttered open and the extravagant jewels etched in the dome shaped ceiling caught her attention. She swung up and the delicate engravings on the wall in front made her squirm back, into the cushiest pillows to have ever touched her undeserving back. “What in the…?” the words left her hoarse throat as her eyes scrutinized the lavishness around. Gold walls, shiny blackwood furniture engraved with precious stones, the mere spaciousness of a playground and overwhelming grandeur of paintings staring down on her.

“Was I kidnapped again…? Sold off to some rich sleazy bastard…? No, no, no, that would not be cannon appropriate,” she mumbled to herself; the words came out raspy, owing to her parched throat, yet skipping the covered glass of water placed on the bedside table, she got up and wobbled over to the desk and chair placed in front of an imperial window. The large table was littered with papers, documents and she shuffled around until she spotted a seal placed over a bunch of manila envelopes.

“Runa…me, I should have been dead…did the,” she picked up the seal and turned it over to reveal the golden crest of a sword with wings. “Fuck, did he really…” she grabbed the letters and all of them were addressed to, ‘Arizel Delmore, the thirteenth of Isdarien.’

“Of all people…why him?” she bit her lower lip as she pondered over the misfortune of the thirteenth prince, “He’s the first to die…tsk.”

She placed the letters and the seal back in the place and meandered around the room, only to stop in front of the full-length mirror encased in gold engravings. It was her appearance that caught her off guard and made her stand and stare. She used to be a simple girl with dark hair and dark eyes, no distinguishing features to set her apart from the common populace but here…here she was Runa Don Russet, petite and pale with curly ringlets of burgundy hair flowing to her waist and eyes as clear as morning dew. Though out of all miracles, the fact that she had hands was the most blessed one. She raised her hands in front of the mirror and gazed at them with much love. They were pale and slender attached to dainty wrists and long fingers, certainly made for a character who wasn’t a survivor. Nonetheless, her heart swelled with gratefulness.

“Woah…” she touched her small face and felt her dainty features, “It couldn’t get more fictional, could it?” she snorted as she tugged at her hair and genuinely felt the sensation in her scalp. Then, she realised that she was clad in a loose silk shirt and lacey shorts – did someone change her clothes? Of course, they would have gotten rid of her bloody dress but…her line of thought was interrupted by a sudden thud.

She flinched and instinctively turned to face the sound. On the window, perched like a wounded bird, was the thirteenth prince staring at her with an amused smile. His dark hair flowed with the wind, freely, a stark contrast to the bloodied white shirt stuck to his torso. Was it his blood or hers?

“Oh! You’re up, I could get used to this,” he smiled as he jumped inside the room and instantly started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Woah, woah woah, what do you think you’re doing?” she uttered, nostrils flared and brows scrunched with exasperation.

The man stopped mid-unbuttoning and looked up with a smirk, “Commonly, in a situation like this, someone would wail, ‘who are you?! Where am I?! what do you want with me?!’  but you said none of that!”

She frowned.

His dark eyes held her light ones, piercing with interest. All the while his nimble fingers worked their way through the buttons. He got rid of the sticky shirt and it was cue enough for her to yelp and turn on her heel.

“Have some shame, you pervert!” she gasped, only to realise that she was now facing a high-definition mirror with him being perfectly reflected in it.

“So, it looks like you can see far into the future but the immediate second, got it,” he chuckled as he caught her eye again, through the mirror.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she gasped and looked away, “What are you yapping about?!”

“Ya-yapping? What is that? Nonetheless, you do not have to be on guard with me, I know your secret and—”

“—Wait, what, how the heck?” she cut him, brows afrown, as she turned to face him and immediately regretted it. She placed her hand strategically ahead to over his muscular torso from her vision.

“You did not even ask, ‘what secret’ tsk…you’re suck a horrible liar.” As if to test her patience, he walked towards her and with every step he took, his torso would get clearer in her vision so she would bring her hand closer and closer to her eyes until the only thing in her vision was the back of her hand.

“Wh-what secret do you kno—” her words were cut off as she felt a hand gently caress her head. Her body stiffened upon his touch and chilly words escaped her lips, “What do you think you’re doing…?”

The man hesitated for a mere second upon receiving the chill question, looked at her narrowed clear eyes and immediately retreated his hand. “Why,” he scoffed awkwardly, “I was trying the little witch to like me so that she can heal me, ha ha…”

“Heal you…?” she frowned.

“Ah-ha! So you accept that you’re a witch!” the man exclaimed.

“What!? No! Oh holy—oh my, no, I am not a witch dude, what the heck?!”

“Do not dude me, Lady, and do not lie—” he stopped mid-sentence as he stared at the look of genuine confusion on her face. Her wide eyes stared into his with equal scandal. “Oh,” he uttered.

“Duh,” she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet.

“Lady, I LITERALLY,” he turned to expose his bruised and bloodied back in her face, “THREATENED MY LIFE AND STATUS TO SAVE YOU!”

He turned back to face her. She merely stared, stunned beyond speech.

“I am not trying to guilt-trip you, obviously,” he seethed, “But you insinuated that you were a witch!”

“Accusations! I did not!” she snapped.

“Holy Sael!” he exclaimed and shoved his head in his hands while pacing back and forth.

“Were you always this imaginative and gullible…?” she asked, partially amused, partially horrified and wholly exasperated.

“Oh, you don’t know what I have done,” he turned to face her, eyes blown wide and forehead bunched with frowny stress, “You don’t know!”

She hesitated to ask, jaw clenching, but the curious words escaped out of her mouth without permission from thought or consideration, “What did you do…?”

“So,” he licked his lips and pressed his hands over her small shoulders, as if to ground her in case she would recoil upon hearing the news and jump off the open windows. The pervious shyness of having his bare chest in such close proximity was veiled by the uncertainty their future held. “You see, lady, I thought you were a witch and you would get us out of the pinch, so, so I well, announced, claimed? No, no, announced, ah-declared! In front of the entire family, oh did I mention that we were royalty? Yes, I said that you will be my wife.”

There was a moment of silence that rained down upon them like piercing swords.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” she questioned, frowning.

“I got hit for it but they—well, I got it to work somehow…” he gulped and removed his hands from her shoulders to scratch his neck.

“There is no way you got the entire royal family involved, dude—”

“—your royal highness,” he corrected.

“—Does it really matter?! WHAT DID YOU EVEN THINK I COULD DO?!”

“WELL, I DO NOT KNOW HOW WITCHES WORK BUT A MEMORY ERASING SPELL WAS MY FIRST CONSIDERATION!”

“oh my,” whispered, holding her head in her hands, “DID YOU NOT, FOR A MOMENT, CONSDIER THE FACT THAT IF I WAS A NIFTY WITCH THEN WHY WAS I IN A PICKLE IN THE FIRST PLACE?! WOULDN’T I HAVE SAVED MYSELF.”

The shouting forced her into a violent coughing fit.

He paced across the room and fetched her a glass of water from the bedside table. While she sat and drank the water, crouched onto the floor, beside her feet and mumbled like a dejected child, “Wow, I really did not think this through.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snapped, voice hoarse again.

“It’s Arizel, that’s my name.”

“Mine’s Runa.”

“What now?” he looked up and asked.

She shrugged before saying, “Thank you though, you did save the world and your family by saving me. It was a good decision so I hope you don’t—”

“You’re doing it again,” he snapped, frowning.

“Doing what?!” she all but cried.

“This enigmatic old wise witch woman thing,” he snapped.

She rolled her eyes at that, realising that she was, indeed to be partially blamed for this blunder.

“What now?” he asked again, eyes narrowed at her.

From her height, she could see the bruises on his back. They seemed deep and letting them remain open and untreated for too long would encourage all sorts of infection. She shrugged again, “I don’t know…let’s get you fixed first,” she sighed.

“You cannot fix it,” he sighed.

“Why?”

“They’re poisoned blades. I already feel my head growing foggy.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SITTING ON THE FLOOR, BEING SO CHILL ABOUT IT, YOU MADMAN?!”

He laughed at that.

“At first, I was hoping you would save me – you know? I sort of wagered my survival against these so that they would let you marry me. Dumb idea, is it not? It seemed brilliant then. Do not worry though, m’lady, I was being poisoned way before this, I am quite resilient…maybe I will make it. Don’t miss me too much though.”

Though, she knew, he wouldn’t make it.

The Lucielle Box - 2 : The Infamous Dungeon !

CHAPTER 1

The sudden brightness made her face squirm and eyes crinkle in response. A hand reached into the box, grabbed her by her hair and pulled her onto the ground. A flurry of laughter rose overhead. With her face pressed onto the stone-cold floor, reality began seeping in her foggy brain. Her vision cleared up and she spotted two pairs of leather boots in immediate sight.

“Not a fighter, eh?” one of the men said.

She felt a hand on her foot, grasping, as it dragged her across the floor and manhandled her onto a wooden chair.

“Change them ropes to thicker ones,” another man said.

“Let me look at that face first…kekekekeke.”

A finger and a thumb urged her face up by her chin and forced her look at the men surrounding her. There were four of them, leering in her face, exhaling odours which felt better to anonymously read off the pages of a book than experience in one’s breath. Their faces were scarred by time and war, darkened by the sun and an assumable abhorrence towards water. Thick bushy hair left no pore unmarked on their faces, in hopes of asserting dominance probably. Their beefy builds left no room for a violent retaliation unless she wished her head to be smashed open, in one blow, and end the nightmare before it would begin.

“She a gud one, I tell ye.”

The strange man’s hands grabbed her by the shoulders.

The girl sucked in a breath from that pungent, murky, damp, air.

“Show ‘em heaven, lass, eh.”

“Mee too, mee too!”

As soon as the man neared her face with puckered lips hidden amidst the bushy mouth of his, the girl began coughing. Violently. Her neck jerked forward but her spit reached flung forward, reaching left, right and centre; she coughed and coughed, distancing the men from her sickly, writhing body.

The dungeon was large, dark and cold, encased by a stone floor and stone walls, lit up by fire torches and lanterns. The men backed up into a corner, eyeing their captive with much disgust as her body contoured into different angles with no breaks in the cough-fest.

“Is she dyin’?”

“Last storm before the final calm?”

Third of them wiped his spit splattered face by his sleeve.

“Or is she acting?”

The fourth man scowled forward and charged his hand for a resounding slap but the momentum of his bulky hand reaching her face was slower than the spout of blood exiting her mouth and making him recoil in defense.

Too late though, for his open mouth and bushy face were now covered in blood. Certainly not a new sight but surely a sudden one for all of them.

“Argh! You disgusting country lass!!” the man scowled.

“Boss!”

“Bossman!”

“Sire!”

His three underlings ran up to his side, armed with their sleeves to instantly wipe clean their superior’s face. Though, their loyalty lasted only until they heard the words being hoarsely let out:

“I … h-have…tub-tuberculosis, ARCKHAHKKKHKHKHAAKHAM KHA KHA KHA, co-con-con-ARKHAKHAKHAKHAKHA-contagious.”

Heaven, Earth and everything in between knew the woes of a long-term slow death exceeded that of being shot by a bullet. So, in respect for their future, all the men hastily retreated to – what one could easily assume – clean themselves up.

The girl spat the last of blood in her mouth and fell back into the chair with an audible sigh of relief. Her tongue dangled out to let it remain open for some cold air to seep in and caress the open gash inside her mouth. She had bitten on her left cheek to make the violent coughs look more convincing but heaven knew it hurt like hell.

‘Well, I survived that thanks to watching so many dramas…but for how long?’ she thought as she looked around the dungeon. Behind her was a prison cell against which stood the box she was brought in. On the farther right was an empty wooden table pressed against the wall and directly opposite to it was a suit of armour.

An idea struck in her head as she dropped onto her knees, from the chair, and seethed as a sharp jolt of pain shot through her legs. The ground was rough and sharp against her knees but she was in no situation of whining about the ill upkeep of a castle dungeon – even though her opinion should have been highly valuable as a prisoner.

The girl crawled and managed to reach the suit of armour at the expense of her kneecaps and threw herself onto the metal, sideways, making it crash to the floor with a resounding THUD! It broke its shape as the head rolled off one direction and the arms in another.

She cringed at sheer loudness of her actions and could only hope no one heard. Amidst the dismantled parts, she spotted the armour’s sword laying near the prison cell. She crawled her way to it, gasping in delight as the slightly unsheathed blade, at the rear, glistened under the torchlights. She pressed the sheath under her foot and struggled to pull the sword out by its hilt. Though, as she stretched her body to pull harder, the sheath slid inside the prison cell emanating a loud drag while the hilt remained in her hand.

Praying to the plot gods, she began attempting to cut open the ropes on her hands.

“Ah, a dungeon escape?”

The sudden words jolted her in the direction of the voice. She spotted a blurred presence in the prison, dragging the sheath as he walked forward, from the depths of the cell, into the light.

Her hands began moving faster on the blade.

His eyes caught the glow of the torchlight as stood beyond the bars, looking down on her with much fascination. The buttons on his coat jacket glistened crimson and it was giveaway enough for her to know that he wasn’t an ordinary prisoner.

He seemed to have spotted the fast hand movement behind her back and could not help but snicker the words, “The Isdarien Dungeon is infamous for being an inescapable labyrinth, don’t you know?”

“I know,” she replied, monotonous, tongue poking out the side of her mouth to let the cold air soothe her burning gash.

“How…?” he frowned.

“Did you not say it is infamous?” she scoffed.

“I was being enigmatic,” he scoffed back, “Of course no one knows.”

She frowned.

“Well, now I know,” she shrugged.

“So, don’t you consider your ardent efforts at escaping to be futile?” he asked, eyes narrowed and neck craning to try and get a good view of her awkwardly rubbing the fraying rope to the sword’s blade.

“I don’t,” she replied, nonchalant.

“Damn, are you a regular?”

“What are you in for?”

A charming laugh resonated off the dungeon walls, intriguing enough for her to look up, momentarily. Curly dark hair covered his forehead but did not hide the genuine crinkle of his sharp eyes.

“I disrespected the big old man,” he replied, a boxy smile encasing his mouth.

“Pfffft, God?” she sputtered and looked away, afraid he’d catch her staring (though, in her current circumstances, there was much else she should have prioritised on her ‘scares-me-right-now’ list.)

“No,” he scoffed, “Grandpa.”

“What’d you do?” she asked, unknown to the fact that a smile was sneaking its way onto her lips.

“I laughed at his thirteenth wedding,” his reply was hushed like a conspiracy.

The rope tore apart and the sword jingled against the floor, once again.

“A punishable offence,” she uttered hoarsely as a realisation set in.

He is a prince.

With her hands free, she rotated her shoulders and wrists to feel the new-found-ease in her limbs. Her brain pondered over the princes’ lore in the book but all she could recall was how each died at the hands of Leonora.

“I am not a regular,” she answered as she picked up the sword and wedged it in between the ropes of her feet, “I was abducted.”

There was a moment of silence as the slow drag of the sword blade tried to penetrate into the thick rope of her feet.

“So…how do you know about the dungeon?” he asked, audibly confused.

“I know about a lot of things,” she shrugged in reply.

“Oh!” he neared the bars and grabbed one each in hand as he asked, “Do you know something about me?”

As she looked up, she found a wide pair of blazing eyes staring back into hers. An upturned smile graced her lips, out of sheer fascination, and she replied, “Well, what I know about us is that if I die here today, then,” she leaned closer to the prison bars and crouched down to be in his line of sight, “An upcoming war will wipe out the entire Royal family in five years.”

She held up hand, wiggling the five fingers, in his face.

Maybe it was because he was crouched, away from the torchlight, but his face darkened.

She picked up the sword to repeat her chore when her breath hitched.

Distant thuds of footsteps made her hand movements hasty and imprecise.

“Someone’s coming,” the prisoner said.

“I can hear it,” she struggled to move the sword faster but as the footsteps closed in, her heart thundered harder in her ears. Sweat overtook her hands as she tried to grasp the sword by the hilt to make it work faster but a sudden coagulation in her throat compelled her to begin cough. ‘Ah! How did I forget…Runa was a genuinely terminally sick person…’ she thought.

Footsteps closed in, the wooden door was pulled open, she continued coughing violently until blood oozed from her throat and splattered all over the pink dress she was wearing. Her vision darkened as she felt a hand jerk her head by her hair.

Then, darkness consumed her into a pool of her own expulsion.

The Lucielle Box - 1: Waking Up In My Favorite Dark Romance Novel !

 

 PROLOUGE

 

THUD.

 

NEIGH.

 

THUMP.

 

Her head banged on wood, insinuating a jolt of pain that drove her out of slumber. The subtle to-and-fro of the carriage that once cradled her body now became an incessant gesture of alarm. The fog in her mind hindered the comprehension of words being passed around yet her ears did not cease to gather.

 

“Leonora’s lass, she is.”

“Caught her straight off the Square, we did.”

“Dun’t know what got her!!”

“Kekekekekeke.”

 

A sharp pain stung through her back as the carriage overcame a stone in its way. Her body fidgeted to find a more comfortable position, when – her eyes shot open! Her perspective was darkened by the lack of light, but that was the least bothersome thing in that moment. For when she rolled her shoulders, she felt two unfamiliar weights bent at a painful angle. When the woman turned her neck to look back, to her absolute surprise, she spotted a pair of hands tied behind her back by their – her – wrists.

‘I have hands…?’

Panic surged through her veins as she realised the compactness of her surroundings. She tried getting up only to realise that her feet were bound together, around the ankles, with yet another rope. Her parched throat threatened to let out a scream but was hindered by a sudden round of laughter.

 

“That skimpy bandit would’ve no choice but to surrender ‘erself now!”

 

“How dare a pesky woman like her threaten the Crown?!”

 

“As soon as we reach the castle, let’s teach this lass a lesson. For the daughter of a Bandit Queen, she sure is quite a looker.”

 

Chills ran down the girl’s spine as her feet gave up and she fell back, onto the cold hardwood of the box. Questions overwhelmed her mind for the last thing she remembered was sitting by the window, staring into the sunset. The year was 2024, the wind was polluted, her body had no hands but at least she was a free individual – who would want to kidnap a disabled orphan? And what did they mean by the Crown and the Bandi--!!

 

Her eyes widened as a hazy memory of a name pierced through her common sense. Leonora. Bandit Queen.

 

Her lips broke into a mirthless grin.

 

Daughter of a Bandit Queen.

 

Her forehead bunched into a frown without hindering the toothy grimace. Her newly found hands grew cold and clammier behind her back as exasperation of the situation dawned on her. Somehow, call it fate’s folly or destiny’s greater ambition at giving the Gods a good laugh – but she, Isadora Bailey, had transmigrated into a fantasy book she had loved ever since she was fifteen.

The Lucielle Box.

 

“Holy fucks.”

 

The plot was simple, yet complex, depending on the age one pursued it.

The story followed a Bandit Queen named Leonora Russet, in the land of Isdaren, who plundered the rich to provide for the poor. She was a brave and kind woman with a sickly daughter and in order to save her only family’s life, she was searching for the Lucielle Box. An object deemed to be hidden somewhere in the Royal Castle with magical properties of rejuvenation. It protected and immortalised the royal family and was Leonora’s only hope to keep her child alive. Though, after time and time again of begging the King to show mercy on her dying daughter and heeding no positive results – Leonora resorted to accumulate power, steal, bring the people on her side and protest against the crown.

The carriage halted and a gust of nauseatingly fresh air entered into her captive box through the small holes on top. The chattering men dragged the box down a slope, mounted it over a trolley and began dragging it towards doom.

Bandit Leonora was wildly successful in her pursuits and even after having the greatest bounty on her head, she remained uncaptured for a decade. That was until the Third Prince’s cavalry were able to capture Leonora’s daughter. They planned to use her as leverage to make the Bandit Queen surrender and puppeteer for the Crown but some low-level soldiers could not resist the temptation of a captive woman at hand and decided to violate her.

The box almost dropped off the trolley while the men were hoisting it up a staircase. A flurry of curses resounded against the cold hard walls of the stone dungeon. A musky damp scent prevailed in the atmosphere, making the trapped girl’s throat itch.

“Could’ve jus bot the lass, but no! Haf’ta bring a goshdarn box all the way ‘cross!”

Leonora’s daughter dies while trying to protect herself. The Third Prince’s plans fail and he shoves the reason of his failure on one of his brothers. Though Leonora was a woman, she was a concerned mother first and avenges she does her daughter’s blood by slaying a Prince…but it does nothing to fill the gaping void of her heart. In five years, Lenora storms the castle, slaughters the royal family, takes over the Lucielle Box and uses it to make a deal with the devil. In return of her child’s life, Leonora unleashes darkness onto the world and plunges it into chaos. She forgets all regard for mankind and wreaks havoc until the Hero slays her at the end of the book.

It was a sad story, yet one brimming with great mystery and adventure. A tale where the sadness was worth the journey undertaken – but that was a fifteen-year-old emo Isadora’s perspective. Twenty-two-year-old Isadora, stuck in a box that was now being pried open, hated the concept of valour stemming from sacrifice.

Especially when she was the sacrifice.

She was Runa Donn Russet.

The daughter who was about to die.