Chapter 1
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I looked out at the rain, pouring down into the earth and onto the red ground. I had never been one to hold back – if I set my mind of something, I would do it. It was how I was made; treacherous and stubborn. The legacy of my rage was now plastered in blood and bodies out on the yard. I stared from above.
I thought to myself: what is a little sacrifice for eternal freedom? What damage might a few deaths do, lost to the heavens above or the lands below, if it were for the greater good? These thoughts comforted me as I was led to the stone battlement. Looking down, I could see the product of my handiwork. Red upon red upon red; bodies of soldiers and horses and women. I smiled.
Waiting in front of me was the reward for my ambition.
The executioner’s block.
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They say your life replays when you’re about to die. The walk to the block had suddenly morphed into a warm, sunlight filled castle. I had been transported back to fifteen years ago. My little feet were carrying me towards a chest that lay upon the foot of my bed; a chest that had been in my possession, yet not mine to possess.
Locked as it has always been, locked for centuries upon centuries, locked, contained, and no key in sight. No king, no prince, no noble nor lord could open it. No matter how intricate, how accurate the key was, even if made by the most talented blacksmith; no matter it be gold or silver, bronze or wood. Nobody could open the chest, yet it rattled with the weight of magic and power when some walked past. I remember.
It rattled for me.
As a child, I had been subjected to legends and stories about this very chest. How it contained the most powerful weapon, or the most powerful sail. How whatever was in the chest would turn into whatever was most needed at the time of use, and how nobody was quite sure of what exactly the chest itself contained. And though these stories certainly entertained, even as a child I did not indulge in such flighty fancies such as believing in simple nighttime myths.
Even so, one morning, at the age of ten, barely even introduced into this world, I had opened the chest. Listening to my father describe the beauty, the horror, the demise and the fortune that this chest contained and could cause, how could I not feel interested? I could still recall it. Cool, cracked wood splintering underneath my tender fingers. Running my hand along the bronze lining of the lock, rust coating my fingers in a fine layer of red. Moving my touch upwards, towards the top of the chest.
I could hear my breathing in the warm, summer air, alone in my old room. And as soon as my palm had touched the smooth, wooden lid of the chest, it had begin to glow. A beautiful, golden hue that made my thoughts disappear. Mesmerised, as all children would have been, I was frozen. And as soon as the glow as appeared, it had left. Left me sitting on my stone floor, the light filtering through my window as my only companion. It was then, lost in my thoughts, that the lid creaked open. Dust from millions of years ago floated out through the opening, mixing in with the fresh sunshine from the morning, intertwining with each other, dancing through the air, welcoming me .
And though I should have been scared, I was not. I leant forwards and saw a sword. Beautiful, but heavy, definitely not made for an eight year old. Writing, intelligible to a child who had not learnt language yet, intricately carved into the handle. Beautiful gems; rubies and diamonds on the handle, with emeralds and opals, carefully placed on the blade. I remember the weight of it in my hands, a strange feeling of desire, to do something about this sword.
My gaze switched to the the top of the chest, the inside of the lid. It read:
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‘The power of death is held in the hands of the sword-bearer’
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He brought down the axe.
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———
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Two Years Ago
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Tonight was the long awaited Winoage Ball — an old tradition that had my father had begun to practice, after a near century of our lineage forgetting it. A tradition in which all, from our town of ten-thousand, gather in my father’s ballroom and enjoy the night. It was meant to be a celebration of the Summer arriving, so the King had decked out the ballroom with ornamental birds and flowers of all kinds, gardenias and lilies of the valley surrounded by bluebells and marigolds adorning our great doors.
As I stepped into our ballroom, my breath was taken away. The birds were kept in big, bronze cages; beautiful budgerigars of all colours and bluebirds perched within. I missed the fading gold from the setting August sun, as all we had now was the eerie grey that seemed to come down like the rain. Soon, it would be replaced by the glow of our moon, casting its light over the empty floors of the ballroom and the wooden tables holding food and drink. The father, the King, called out to me, “Bella, could you ride into town and announce that they are welcome to arrive? Thank you, princess.” I did as my father asked and headed out of our castle. I opened my umbrella and turned right, leaving the tall stone walls of the castle behind me and towards the stables, where my horse Prism was resting.
Walking past the garden was never an easy task; my mother had loved poisonous plants of all kinds, and was adamant about them becoming handy in the future. The irony was strong, and the mere sight of them filled me with disgust and sorrow. Petals and leaves of orange and green and white stared at me as I took a deep breath, holding down the nausea that always overcame me when I thought about my mother’s death.
But I had a job to do, and wallowing over anything, even someone ever so important to me, was something I had never allowed myself to do, especially after her passing. And so, I wiped the tears that had formed at the corner of my eyes and shook my head to clear my thoughts. But however hard I shook my head – however many deep breaths I took; I could never lessen the fog of grief that had settled across my mind ever since I lost her. The rain was beginning to soak through the parasol.
Grabbing my cloak, I travelled with these thoughts through the village as I rode up to the town for the Ball. The sight of so many familiar faces and rosy cheeks poking out of their homes would’ve brightened up my mood, if not for that veil of dark that seemed to follow me around. But as my father always said, why focus on the past? I could think of fifty reasons as to why, but it was pointless to argue.
“The King would like to inform you that the Winoage Ball will begin at three o’clock this evening. We expect everyone to be there in an hour. Please wear your best and try to stay dry in this weather, or the warmth of the castle will surely turn unpleasant. See you all soon!” I turned to leave, and smiled at the cheers and whoops of the villagers behind me. At least others were happy. Trotting back up to the castle was surreal – the grey of the clouds surrounded me as if purposefully trying to get me to turn back around, away from the castle. All in due time, I thought to myself.
An hour later, the guests had begun to mill into our ballroom. I was standing at the front door, greeting those who walked in. Thankfully, the rain had stopped shortly before people started to make their way up to the castle, though the muddy footprints they left on our moat weren’t going to be much fun to clean up. The sun was starting to peak through the clouds, but he was also on his way to find our moon, so the fading light he cast through the grey storm clouds did not bring much warmth to the ballroom. As a sufficient amount of people were already enjoying themselves and talking amongst each other, I was planning on heading to the table with all the delicious food that our chefs had prepared when a flash of black caught my eye.
Turning around, I saw a young man, meticulously dressed in a dark suit with a masquerade mask covering the upper portion of his face.
Two things were for certain – one, he was most definitely dedicated to his attire, he was almost entirely dressed in black; and two, he was staring right at me. His eyes cut into me like the roughest edges of a emerald and the intensity of his stare made me freeze in my spot – it was as if he was studying me, thinking about how I would react to his next move. And yet, without coming up to me or even a mere smile, he turns away and I was left, shocked, under the dim, orange light of the crystal chandelier above. Evening gave into darkness and darkness to the glow of the moon and I had yet to catch another glimpse of the man with the green eyes.
His stare was so unsettling, so eerie and so familiar that I couldn’t shake the feeling that I just had to find him. But for what? For him to walk away again, to leave me with more questions, to disturb my sleep for the coming days? These thoughts were interrupted by one that was arguably more reasonable: why was I stressing over a man that probably had no ill intentions?
Perhaps he was just admiring my dress; it was an emerald silk gown, after all, the deep green contrasted my black hair and eyes with such grace that I knew I had to wear it for this event.
My eyes were nothing like the ones that the man with the green eyes had, though; his were so intense, such burning passion and yet, fragility inside that made you wonder what he had gone through. I just had boring, black eyes. And though you could see some specks of honey brown or gold when the sun shone his light on me, my eyes really did not tell any stories of any kind – yet, that was not what my father had told me. And now I understood him.
Eyes, he would say, can tell you so much about a person. Do you see that man’s eyes? He points to an old man, sturdy, but limping, carrying a bucket of fish towards our kitchen. His eyes, my father said, tell me that he has lost someone.
I looked into that man’s eyes, I looked and I stared and I thought, and yet I couldn’t tell whether he had lost someone or had a table full of smiling faces waiting for him at home. I turned to face my father, and looked into his eyes; creases at the corner, dark pools of brown staring back at mine. “Your eyes are so full of life, Bella. So full of possibility. Your eyes, they remind me of your mother’s,” he had said.
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