Free

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

Many people said many things about her.

Cursed, they said.

Carissa slid a palm down her flawlessly smooth arm, feathered by the stale city air.

She saw no curse.

Betrothed, they said.

She swept her gaze over the flow of people. A tiny child, more ghost than girl, wisped through the streets, her clothes dangling rags, a satin bag of clinking coins hugged to her chest. A skeletal man hunched in an alley, eyes blank, spidery fingers tapping out a silent tune on his patched trousers. Knights' armor clanked as they walked through the crowd, their breastplates like silver coins flecked amongst the muted fabric of peasants.

She saw no betrothed.

Carissa wormed to the sidelines of the cobblestone street. Five days since she'd left her parents' tiny cottage in the Village of Hasita and made her journey to the bustling City of Zonah, so far on the cusp of the Nysian Kingdom that in still air a dog's bark could be heard from the Esmerian Realm. By this time everyone in her village would know she was neither cursed nor betrothed.

She was free.

Carissa gulped a mouthful of the warm, smoke-tinted air. It wasn't fresh or earthy like her village air, but it was the taste of freedom nonetheless. After eighteen years of waiting for a betrothed who'd never come, Prince Elon himself, she had taken her life into her own hands. Ever since she could remember, the murmurs of her curse had frightened away all the other girls and the Prince's claim on her drove away the affections of all the men.

And to what end? Did the Prince really expect her to wait until he came at his leisure? Had he ever intended to come? Or would he have let her age into an old maid due to his sick whims?

But the Prince had served one purpose: he'd aided her escape. Albeit, unknowingly.

Her gaze darted to the crowd. A man had stopped walking, and his stare burned her skin from beneath the hood of his cloak. She shook her head. He was probably just curious. Her raven black hair was considered exotic, after all.

She ran her thumb beneath the satchel's mercilessly heavy strap on her shoulder before dragging the satchel forward and flipping its flap open. The Prince's letters were nestled at the top, unharmed from her journey.

Ever since she was twelve, the Prince had sent her letters once a year on her birthday. The villagers who'd visited Oran city, the capitol where the Prince resided, had warned her that the prince was an arrogant man and that no doubt he'd written her to tell her how high and mighty was he and how low and pitiful was she.

But at the romantically-inclined age of twelve, she hadn't believed them. In the privacy of her room, she opened the letter and skimmed the middle. Her gaze caught on the words: But don't be afraid; I will help you.

Her nose crinkled, but she kept reading, until her gaze hit the sentence: You need me. Without me, you are lost.

She'd never read his letters since. Her stomach twisted at the mere thought. She'd only managed to throw a page into the hearth's fire, until her parents had caught her in the act and forbidden her from ever doing so again. So she'd kept them.


She brushed the paper with her knuckles. The parchment was creamier than her skin, and its gold-rimmed edges and colors were more vivid than any sunset. It would fetch a high price at a shop.

Carissa smoothed the satchel's flap over its contents. She glanced to the side. The man who had stared at her so intently was gone. He'd probably had his fill of her and rejoined the current of the crowd.

Now, to find a shop where she could sell the parchment for some gold coins. Preferably before dark.

***

She clenched her hands into tight fists. "Pardon me, sir?"

The man brushed the shoulder of his worn velvety crimson shirt. The points of the shoulders were curved and peaked. "Two copper coins."

She'd hoped the parchment would bring in gold, not copper. "This is unacceptable."

He smirked, causing grooves to mark his oily cheeks. It seemed he'd slathered his whole face in the shiny substance or he merely sweated profusely. "Then you are welcome to find another willing to buy your item or" –his slimy gaze oozed down her figure— "you may offer more of your wares in addition to the parchment."

She tilted her chin up. "In that case, I believe we're done here."

He offered her a mock bow. "A pleasure, madam."

"I wish I could say the same." She pivoted on her heel, striding past shelves cluttered with used weapons, some of them uncleaned and crusted in red; clusters of mismatching shoes; and a horse's bridle half-eaten by mice. With a push, the shop's door whined open before clattering shut behind her. Her blood brewed beneath her skin, keeping the night's chill at bay.

That impertinent storekeeper! Who did he think he was? How dare he offer such a low price and make such despicable insinuations? She stamped down the rickety stairs and onto the street. The arches of her feet cupped the cobblestones as she avoided the filthy cracks in between.

Cold soaked her skin past her homespun gown, stealing both her breath and her anger. How was she to find lodging without that coin? Perhaps she could trade the letters for lodging.

Streaks of yellow light streaming from windows to the cobblestone were separated by long stretches of darkness. Whenever she crossed a swath of light, her shadow walked beside her before vanishing into the night. Wagon wheels creaked as they thumped against stone. Cloaks rustled and snapped as people waded through the night. And beneath it was the quick, soft sound of footsteps, like the sprinkle of rain before the storm. Of course, there were many other footsteps pattering along the street, but the pace of these footsteps was faster.

And they were coming closer.

She peered over her shoulder, and her breath caught.

It was the man she'd seen in the street, dark eyes glinting beneath his hood. And just as before, his gaze was only for her.

Perhaps that man just happened to be in the same part of the city as she. She clutched the parting of her cloak with one hand and her satchel against her side with the other as she picked up her pace as discreetly as possible. So long as she remained in crowded areas and kept her distance, he wouldn't dare hurt her.

Despite her attempts to slow her breaths, her breathing grew so loud she could no longer hear the man's steps past its roar. The street split, one path going straight, the other to the right. She turned right.

Only after a few minutes did she realize she'd made a mistake.

As she walked, the houses curled into themselves, turning from stone structures into squat shacks. More people walked the street, their black silhouettes eerily vague against the night. During the day, she'd passed this area and it'd been deserted. Now it had come to life, as if woken from the dead. The stench of sewer wafted through the air, its scent searing her nostrils.

The glint of armor caught her eye, and the sudden wave of relief washing over her nearly left her limp. One of the city's knights. He could help her.

She swerved in his direction. "Sir Knight!"

The knight straightened from his slumped position against the building and wobbled a bit.

Her steps slowed. Surely he couldn't be drunk.

The knight's gaze shot from her to a few yards behind her, where her pursuer's footsteps had slowed. And then the knight pointedly glanced away.

Her jaw dropped. Was he not going to aid a damsel in distress? What kind of knight was he? Were all knights in border towns like this? "Sir!"

A chuckle behind her chilled her blood.

In such a place as this, no one would even pause to look at a man attacking a woman. Not even a knight. A burst of footsteps exploded behind her. A glance over her shoulder confirmed what she'd suspected.

The man had sped his stride into a sprint, mouth curved like a Reaper's scythe of legend.

Her feet moved of their own accord as she ran through the streets. After a few seconds, pain pierced her side and fire engulfed her lungs and legs.

Her parents had always kept her tucked safely into the cottage, lest the curse be roused or the prince's future bride damaged. She'd heeded them, rarely venturing outside, and now her weak body was paying the price.

She swerved into an alley, hoping she'd lose him among the narrow, twisting streets of the city.

A wall cut her escape off. It was a dead end.

Her arms trembled with the urge to claw at the walls, but she knew they would remain unmoved. She whipped around and pressed her back to the flat stone behind her.

The man's massive frame blocked her escape. He stalked towards her, pace leisurely. They both knew she was trapped. The dead end in the alley had spelled her end.

As she panted, the invisible holes piercing her side seemed to rip. She ached all over. Carissa's gaze darted to either side of the man.

The curve in his lips deepened as a dagger slipped into his hand.

Shudders wracked her body, halting her breath. No. She must breathe deeply and think. There must be a way she could escape. She pressed her palms to the wall and swayed, eyelids drifting half-closed, as if faint. Her only hope was to catch him unaware.

Shoes tapped stone as he approached. The dagger gleamed in the corner of her eye.

Then she shot to his right. The dagger arced through the air. Cloth ripped.

And then she was out of the alley. She ran until the energy coursing through her veins slowed to a trickle, until she could barely breath, until dots swarmed her vision. She collapsed to her knees and pressed her side to a building.

If the man was still in hot pursuit of her, he was sure to catch her now. She had no more strength left with which to escape him.

But the man never reappeared.

Carissa curled her legs and hugged her knees to her chest. Pain clenched her forearm and warm wetness seeped into her skirt. She sucked in a breath. The man's dagger had found its mark.

***

A fiery throb, pulsating through her forearm, awoke her.

She blinked bleary eyes. A few planks were missing from the cone-shaped ceiling above, like the gaps in a beggar's smile, and sunlight shone through the slits. Where was she?

The last thing she remembered was collapsing in an alley. A wisp of a memory tickled her mind, but dodged her grasp before she could snatch it. She'd seen someone last night. Someone had come to her. But who?

Carissa rolled to the side and sat up. A curtain of straight hair slipped past her shoulders, blocking her vision before she shoved it behind her ear. Cots lined the room in neat rows, most of them filled with children or the elderly, though there was a young man in the corner with his eyes swelling and purple and his hand splinted.

The stone wall was interrupted every so often by a tiny window, giving her a glimpse of the city below. Beneath a window, the floor sunk until it disappeared. Perhaps that was a stairwell.

A girl to her left suddenly began hacking. It was a thick, deep, wet cough that made Carissa wince in sympathy. Soon sniffles, then sobs accompanied her hacking. Before Carissa could move to comfort the girl, a burst of footsteps echoed through the room.

A robed figure, hood pulled to his hairline, appeared from the stairwell, hugging a sloshing bowl of water, a heavy satchel slung across his broad shoulders. His cloak fluttered around his feet as he strode towards the girl. Pale yellow lined the robe's edge and a woven pattern adorned the robe's hem.

The man knelt, and the clay bowl clattered to the ground. While hushing the girl, he plucked a rag from his satchel, wet it, and wrung it before pressing it to her forehead. The girl quieted.

The memory flickered again. This was the man she'd seen last night, who had come to her when she was curled up in an alley.

She shifted to the edge of her cot and tilted her head, trying to peer beneath his hood.

The man's gaze shifted to her. His eyes were pools of the deepest, purest blue. She suspected if she ever saw the ocean its waters would match his eyes in color and depth. Shadows darkened the skin beneath them, and scruff fuzzed his angled jaw. He looked as tired as she felt.

He withdrew a glass jar from the pack, unscrewed the lid, and held its dark green contents to the girl's lips until she sipped tentatively. "You slept well?"

After a pause, she realized he spoke to her, though his eyes didn't meet hers. "I did."

The man capped the jar and stuffed it in his bag. "Excellent. The draught worked well then."

That was why she remembered so little. "Where am I?"

"A tower in the middle of the city." He straightened and walked towards the stairs.

She swung her feet off of the side of the bed. "Are you a healer? Is this a monastery?"

He paused before the stairs and loosed a slow sigh. "I'm a healer, but not a monk, as are the other healers here. If you'll excuse me, there are others that need tending. Rest well."

Her gaze sank to her forearm, bandaged with gauze instead of the ripped strips of her skirt she'd used last night. "How long until I heal?"

"A fortnight at most."

"But I don't have any coin with which to pay you."

He waved a hand dismissively. "There's no need." He descended the stair before she could ask another question.

She curled her knees to her chest and rested her arms on them. At least she had food and lodging for a while, but the idea of being at the mercy of someone's charity irked her, though not as much as being confined to this tower for two weeks.

She settled back against the cot, staring at the wooden ceiling with its rotten or missing planks. As soon as she was able, the first thing she would do was repay the kindness of the healers. Until then, she'd have to suppress her yearning for freedom for the next two weeks.

But only two days later, she found herself cornered. Not by a man with a knife, but by a more dangerous threat: Prince Elon himself.

***

Acknowledgements

Before my next chapter I'd like to acknowledge a few readers who have been particularly supportive of this story:

Nataliebrook22

LotusBlack24

ParidhiDuggad

slcjnk2008

piscis1998

chloe4hamilton

Hannahdoom

panda_mimi_1108

GuerillaReader

victoria353

Brittany2642

ChristalGodbey

Coley1116

rosenthorns

And my friend, Brenna, for helping me outline the first few chapters.


Whoa, hold up!

(Yes, I know this looks boring...

but if you could read the paragraphs below, I'd really appreciate it 😉)

I know most readers are probably going to skip this section. Please don't. Just like in my last book, Captured and Crowned, I'd really appreciate if you could not use any cussing in your comments. Yes, it's probably silly of me to ask this, but it's important to me, since I'm somewhat responsible for whatever comments you put on this story. Thank you so much for reading this, because I know it's boring ;) And I hope I didn't come off as too high and mighty.

With that, please feel free to share whatever's on your mind in the comments, whether it's how lame my plot is, a word I misspelled, your reactions, thoughts, questions, etc. Constructive criticism is welcome. I'm going to do my best to write this story, but I know I'll come up short in many ways.

Updates will be Wednesday and Friday afternoons.

 If you ever need anything, want to get something off of your chest, or ask for a second opinion, feel free to message me. After all, fan=fam.

Lastly, I really hope you enjoy the story!

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net