My hand glides towards my dagger, my grasp instinctively seeking the sleek handle. There’s plenty of monsters that lie inthe darkness, they just don’t know that I’ve learned the real monsters are the ones that rake against the recesses of my mind.
With my free hand, I push the door closed. My ears prickle in the stillness. Caym should be on the other side by now. I wait, straining to hear if he twists the front door knob.
Waiting in the eerie silence unnerves me so I quickly make my way to the wooden desk and peruse the contents that lay across the polished desktop.
It’s a mix of maps and short commands declared by King Euron. Included among the papers is a wanted poster, containing The Hidden’s supposed crimes and a list of names. Mine is near the top and a sick sense of pride swells within me.
A sudden shout from outside has me dropping the papers and I rush to the window that is nearest the front door.
Caym lays there, crumpled into a ball wailing a guttural cry as someone stands above him. His dark, stringy locks cover most of his face except for the part that is scarred and pink. The man holds his fingers to his temple, a sick smile twisting his lips.
“Oh gods.” My whole body sends a cold jolt of panic down to my toes and I’m diving towards the door.
I need to get to him, to save him from whatever this stranger is doing to him—to stop whatever magic is tormenting him. Recognition slams into me as I look out the now open door. Dagger in hand, I barrel towards Caym.
King Euron’s watchdogs are easily identified with their onyx garb and dark hair. They’re the only soldiers who are dressed head to toe in black and the only soldiers with magic they willingly use against their own people. They’re executioners, warriors, but really they’re remorseless monsters.
The Devourer and The Nightmare. Two of the worst, cursed souls that would see my people chained. Gauging the way Caym is writhing currently, he’s being tormented by the latter.
“Caym!” I yell his name, breaking the concentration of the vile abuser. The Nightmare removes his fingers from his temple and I’m met with soulless eyes. Eyes that are currently searching for whoever screamed from the shadowed room, searching forme.
Oh gods.Ice daggers jolt to my feet, fear closing my throat up. The moments slow, and I watch the huntsman, for lack of a better word, stalk towards the door. I rush to the nearby drapes hoping to conceal myself.
Caym isn’t moving, though I see him through the grimy window panes. His chest heaves up and down between his visible labored breaths.
The scratchy material of the curtain clings to my unkept curls, the dark mahogany velour faded from constant sun. I practically gag on the smell. Moths flee from their once peaceful home which causes my skin to crawl as the brittle wings flutter past.
Heavy steps race towards me, throwing me into confusion as I’m witnessing The Nightmare barely make it up the rickety steps.
Suddenly, the door slams shut. The wooded sound echoes in the empty room. This isn’t right. The Nightmare wouldn’t close the door on himself.
Peering out the window to search for the ghastly man, my gaze lands on Caym again. He’s curled into a ball now. The position is so unlike him, so foreign, so innocent, that my body tenses up. All I see is his once strong form, helpless andwrong.
“Nooo…” the soft gasp releases even as I will myself to be still.
What’s the bastard done to him? Caym doesn’t move and I still haven’t seen signs of The Nightmare.
Frantically, my eyes scour the doorway from the outside. The steps are empty. Dread coils in my belly.
If only I could get outside unnoticed and drag Caym to the forest, away from this villainous man, to give him a chance at a life with Leeson like he deserves. Like they both deserve.
A gloved, firm hand wraps around my mouth and pulls me backwards. It’s a harsh, brutal grip and I’m falling faster than I can catch myself.
In a desperate attempt to stay upright, I grab for the mothworn drapes but instead rip them from their attachments.
The scuffle between me and my offender increases, my screams and kicks reverberating in my bones.
The hand covers over my mouth again in an attempt to silence me. I claw and rake my nails over the leather gloves though it doesn’t seem to matter, the punishing grip moves under my chin and holds along my jaw.
The physical bruteness of the hand is calculated, as if the person holding me is restrained and careful. Another hand snakes across my belly, the forearm barring across my midsection to keep me from writhing.
A low, smokey voice whispers in my ear, “Don’t fight me. You won’t win.”
I throw my head back into the man’s nose, the pain of doing so momentarily making me falter.
A grunt of anger, or in pain, I hope, claws its way through the surroundings as I roll away, but not before his arms lock around me once again.
Launching to my feet in a practiced move, my muscles tensing and ready due to the many training sessions I’ve done with Caym, I distance myself from the man. He kneels and wipes the crimson blood from his nose with his shirtsleeve.
