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.