"Run, Princess. Run."
Those aren't the words I want to hear on a perfectly lovely, Hespera-blessed day in Khavena. Tears and bloodshed? Definitely not on the agenda. But here I am, scrambling into the Cambrian forest, a million (give or take a few thousand) Seekers hot on my heels. Honestly, will this ever end?
Branches snap and lash at my face as I barrel onward, hoping my feet know where they're going, because I certainly don't. I'm Arielle, daughter of Queen Athenica of Khavena, third in line to a throne I'm starting to think I'll never see. For someone who hasn't even celebrated her eighteenth birthday, I'm finding this whole warrior princess thing awfully exhausting. Though, let's be honest, the warrior part is mostly sarcastic.
Khavena is a land of women, a haven of beauty and peace. We've lived apart from the world of men for centuries, and I'm starting to understand why. The Seekers, these men, are relentless.
The Cambrian forest is supposed to be our safe haven, a dark and spooky place filled with traps to deter pursuers. But it seems they've found a way around them. I should have been more careful.
A rogue branch reaches out and snags my ankle, sending me sprawling. Graceful, I am not. Cursing under my breath, I roll to the side just as a Seeker lunges, his crude blade slicing through the air where I'd been a moment before. He hadn't expected me to move, and so I kicked him in the face. He falls back, surprised, giving me an opening.
I scramble back to my feet and pull out the dagger hidden beneath my tunic. My mother always insisted I carry one, "Just in case, Arielle. You never know when you'll need it." Honestly, she's usually right.
Two more Seekers emerge from the shadows. I take a deep breath. Time to show them what a frail princess can do.
The Seekers lunge. I duck and weave, avoiding their clumsy attacks. One of them steps on a cleverly disguised pressure plate. The ground gives way and he falls into a pit, impaled on sharpened stakes below. I grin. One down, two to go. I slice at the tendons behind a man's knee. He buckles.
"Thought you'd get far, little princess," a voice sneers above me, drawing my attention. Honestly, do they have to use that tone? More Seekers appear, surrounding me. I sigh. So much for a swift victory.
"I could get far, you imbecile," I retort, pushing myself up. Though, admittedly, surrounded and wounded on the forest floor probably isn't the most dignified position to deliver a withering insult. My calf is bleeding heavily.
"Poor soul," another voice chimes in. "Let us take her to Lord Ciaran, as ordered."
As they drag me roughly through the forest, I overhear snippets of their conversation. "Lord Ciaran says she's the key," one of them says.
"The key to what?" another replies.
"He didn't say. Just that Lord Callum is greatly interested in her. Her blood, her soul - everything she has to offer." It's unnerving. And what does she is the key mean?
I try to wriggle free, but their grip is too strong. "Where are you taking me?" I demand. They ignore me.
We pass through the city, and I see my mother, Queen Athenica, looking every inch less of the regal ruler in the chaos. Her face is etched with concern, and she meets my gaze for only a moment. My guards, despite the danger, rush to assist her to the front. I would apologize, but I am being dragged to the highest point in the city. As we approach, I see Lord Ciaran addressing the crowd. What's he up to now? His jaw is firm, and his shoulders are squared. Tall, almost copper hair and the bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen. The hair around his jaw is almost as much as that of a sheep before shearing. Green emerald-like eyes.
"We seek the chosen," his voice booms across the plaza, "...a descendant of Hespera and Arcaena."
A collective murmur ripples through the crowd.
"We have none that you ask for."
Honestly, you'd think they could put a little more conviction into it. It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of my prospects.
Lord Ciaran smirks, a decidedly unpleasant expression that does not improve his face. "Oh, really? I think we already have what we want." He snaps his fingers, and two Seekers shove me roughly to the front of the platform.
"Arielle!" My mother's voice cuts through the crowd, sharp and furious. Before anyone can react, she's shoving her way through the crowd, guards trying to keep up. She dodges past the Seekers guarding the steps, her eyes blazing with protective fury.
"Ciaran, release my daughter!" she commands, her voice echoing across the plaza. "This is an act of war!"
Ciaran raises an eyebrow. "War? I'm merely offering you peace, Your Majesty. Peace through… cooperation."
"Cooperation? By kidnapping my daughter?" Mother spits. She draws a dagger from her sleeve, its blade shimmering in the light. The crowd gasps. My mother is known for her diplomacy, not her combat skills. I have never known her to draw a weapon. She really is worried about me.
"I admire your spirit, Queen Athenica," Ciaran says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But I'm afraid I must insist. The prophecies cannot be denied. And she," he gestures to me, "is the key to fulfilling them."
"There will be no cooperation," Mother growls, stepping forward. "Release Arielle, or face the consequences."
Ciaran sighs dramatically. "Very well. I offered you peace. Now you shall have…" He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "…a choice."
He gestures to the Seekers holding me, and they shove me to the very edge of the point, the wind whipping at my hair. The fighting stops. All eyes are on me. I suddenly have a very, very bad feeling about this.
"This is what we are looking for," Ciaran declares, gesturing towards me with a theatrical flourish. "This will end the evil of King Adem. If you work with us, the rightful King will bring a balance to NAIN. Do you prefer peace or war?"
The crowd murmurs again, this time with a distinct undercurrent of panic. Honestly, couldn't they have chosen a less public forum for this ultimatum?
"We are in a difficult predicament, Lord Ciaran." My mother strides to the front, and as she walks, the Seekers back away slowly and with a deep respect.
"We choose peace," she says, her voice ringing with authority. "I am Queen Athenica, Mother of the chosen. We are sorry for the inconveniences, but you dropped in rather...harshly."
Ciaran inclines his head, a flicker of something that might be amusement in his eyes. "The Prince accepts your apology. He wishes to reverse the hands of this moment to before. But only you, him, and I will remember..." He pauses, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. It's unnerving, and not entirely unpleasant.
"As you wish," my mother says, her eyes narrowing slightly. She definitely doesn't trust him. And frankly, neither do I. But something tells me this is just the beginning.
The words are barely out of his mouth when a black smoke starts to billow across the battlefield. What is that? Some newfangled weapon? Or perhaps Ciaran is just trying to make a dramatic exit. Whatever it is, it looks decidedly unpleasant.
I watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the smoke spreads, engulfing everyone in its path. And then, the screaming starts. Not just the usual battle cries, but raw, piercing screams of terror. One by one, people are sucked away, dissolving into the blackness like… well, like smoke.
The air grows thick and heavy. Smoke, acrid and bitter, spirals toward me, not dissipating but coalescing, a phantom serpent coiling around my body. My limbs feel heavy, and the distant pronouncements of Ciaran fade into a muffled, mocking echo. The smoke reaches me, and I feel a searing agony bloom across my skin, a thousand needles of fire. This isn't a punishment; it is a grotesque transformation.
I stare down at my hands, my vision blurring, the world tilting and fading. The flesh, once solid, is not burning, but disintegrating. Flakes of my skin peel away, carried off by the smoke. Like sand turning to glass, my body is coming undone. I am becoming nothing. My shriek is stolen by the wind, lost in the swirling, gray madness.
Just before the darkness takes me completely, a voice cuts through the chaos. Not Ciaran's. Not my mother's. It is a low, resonant baritone, a whisper from the very essence of the smoke that consumes me. "Your ending is not here," the voice slithers through the smoke, cold and final. "We have much to do before you can die."