I’m on a deadline.
An agonising scream rips me from my thoughts. I search for the source and spot a commotion near the bank. I scurry forward, and the crowd parts before me.
My stomach drops at what I see.
“Leave him alone!” A young female screams, waving a sword. She must be no older than a juvenile. Two officers from the Royal Army and one elemental are trying to reason with her, but she refuses to back down.
“He was conscripted because of his abilities. Stay back, now!” The taller officer bellows, stepping forward, his hand grippingthe hilt of his own weapon. Sparks of magic flare from the elemental beside him, ready to intervene if she strikes.
The girl’s eyes flash with defiance, and for a moment, it seems she might actually challenge all three.
“He is sick! I won’t let you take him!” She reaches out with the hand without the sword, a purple orb forming in her palm. Whatever her magic is, it smells powerful.
“Stay back now!” The shorter officer roars, getting ready to defend himself.
Her hands tremble as she tightens her grip on the sword, but remains in control of the orb. “I won’t let you take him!” Tears pour freely down her cheeks as the orb expands.
She moves, as if to throw it, but then collapses, slamming onto the gravel. Her veins are popping and she is clutching her throat desperately, as if she is unable to draw a breath.
Realisation hits me, and I pivot in the direction of the elemental. He is dancing with his fingers, cutting off her air supply.
One heartbeat. Second heartbeat.
She gulps.
I race to her side, but have no way to help. “Stop it right now!”
The royal officers glance at each other, clearly taken aback, before stepping aside, while the caster’s gaze remains fixed on me.
“Sure thing, darling,” he says, his voice cold and clinical. He sways his casting hand and makes a chopping motion.
The gulping stops, and then I hear a heavy thump. The female is lying in an unnatural position.
She is dead.
The urgency ceases.
I am no longer here. I am in that throne room. I take two deliberate steps, halting inches before the caster. I can see the sweat on his forehead, how his pupils dilate, his bravado fleeing.
“And why have you done it?” I don’t recognise my voice.
The officers try to say something, probably apologise, but my attention is fixed on the caster.
“What’s your name?” I ask, as if it is important.
He answers, voice slightly shaken. “Rowan, my Lady.”
“Rowan…” It doesn’t taste sour or bitter. Amazing.
“Scatter around, now,” I warn the crowd, yet I remain, asserting my dominance over Rowan. Judging by the echoes of footsteps, they have listened.
“I want you on your knees with fingers in your eye sockets. I am curious to see if you will manage to touch their tips from inside out,” I feel a sick sense of satisfaction with how he trembles.
“My Lady...” He hesitates.
“Now, Rowan.” I lower my face. “Are you going to do it or do you want my help?”
“Please, please…”
