One
Waking up covered in blood is exponentially scarier when you don’t know one of two things.
One, it’s your blood.
Two, it’s not.
As if that’s not enough to terrify me, as I press up off my chest from the cold tile ground, my skin sticky with blood, the crimson liquid surrounds me in a pool that’s in a borderline lethal amount. I glance down at my forearms holding me up, to my naked chest and bare abdomen.
Why the fuck am I naked?
I swing onto my back, bracing my weight on the heel of my hands and feet as I whip my gaze from one corner of the room to the other. Marble-braided columns brace a gilded ceiling overhead. The room is framed by an extravagant gold molding, encasing a lush painting of florals on the vaulted ceiling. In the abundant greenery of the artwork are various colors of dragons peeking out from fronds like mischievous cherubs. One for each elemental dragon.
Red for fire.
Blue for water.
Green for earth.
And white for air.
In the center of the ceiling drops a gargantuan crystal chandelier, lined with rows of lit candles.
Gold frames everything in here. In ornate swirls and filigree, from every crevice and corner. On almost every wall is a framed painting of a dragon. But these ones are unlike the ones on the ceiling that flit playfully through the greenery. These are fearsome beasts summoning their elemental magic. Blasting walls of fire, calling upon the sea’s darkest tides, manipulating thorned vines, and ripping down lightning from the skies.
Pushed against the wall in front of me is a massive bed with golden filigree, its mattress at least two feet thick with plush, crimson duvets spilling out onto the marbled floors.
“How do you feel?” a man’s voice calls out.
I snap to the sound, my attention settling on the double doors where a man clad in shining gold armor stands. Fumbling backwards while trying to cover my chest with one forearm, he turns his head away while still bracing one door open. As if all it took was that simple question, pain snaps into my extremities.
“Who the fuck are you? Where am I?” I hiss as I bump back into a wall, leaving smeared blood in my wake. My stomach flips at how much there is. My caramel-colored legs are coated. Splashes of red smear against my stomach, my breasts, my arms.
“Don’t panic. Drink that glass on the table next to you, and you’ll be as good as new,” the man answers.
I narrow my eyes and afford a quick glance to my left, where a small table separates me from the bed. A pristine wine glass sits in wait, a tangle of gold clawing its way up the stem toward the lip. I could grab it and, depending on how it’s made, smash it to create jagged edges. In this room, it’s my best and only chance at a weapon. And given the amount of blood coating my skin, I bet I could slip out of his grip. That is, if I didn’t falter to blood loss, first.
A window with diamond-shaped panes is on the opposite side of the room. Likely my best route of escape. Though, from this distance all I can see is blue sky and clouds. Unable to decipher how high up we are, I drag my attention back to the man.
“And if I don’t drink it?” I ask with a lifted chin.
“Then you’ll bleed out. But decide quickly, because you’ll fade fast. And even if you change your mind, I won’t be able to save you.” His head is still turned to the side to give me some semblance of privacy. Or maybe he’s appalled by the amount of blood. Given he seems to be a soldier of high ranking, I’m willing to bet on the first.
He’s right, though. There’s already a tingling beneath my skin. A weakness in my bones. I have no idea where I am, and perhaps that’s due to the severe blood loss.
Grumbling, I crawl toward the table and swipe the glass. Swirling it, I watch the liquid slosh and still. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.And considering my fading strength, if it’s only to kill me, at least it’ll be a quick death. Squeezing my eyes shut, I toss the liquid back into my throat and swallow it before I gag.
It slips down like silky, bitter oil. Coating my insides until the stinging pain subsides to a quiet calm. A haze settles over me, dulling every sharp edge. It’s a familiar sensation, somehow. Something similar to the trance of alcohol.
“You have your own bathroom here. Wash up, and you’ll find fresh clothes fitted to you in the wardrobe,” the sandy-haired man calls from the double-doors. A light beard dusts his jawline, and his features are drawn in sharp angles. “Once you’re done, knock three times on the door, and I’ll return.”
I narrow my eyes and rise on shaky legs, hugging my chest. “And if I don’t?”
Finally, he looks at me. Those hard-set brown eyes regarding me with authority. “You will. Give that wine some time, and you’ll start to remember.”
He shuts the door.
I stand staring, racking my brain for information. Testing whatever wine he commanded me to drink. But nothing comes to me. Not where I am, what I am doing here, or even?—
