Freedom comes at a price and a young Earthal princess must live the life of somebody else, even if it means facing evil threats and impossible odds.
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As someone who craves freedom, Princess Clarabelle cannot just stand by and let her life be take...
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THE ROOM was dingy and windowless, lit by four wall torches with rusty brackets. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Clara didn't want to know the name of at the moment. A highly polished collection of manacles hung behind a cluttered desk.
Looking around, one thing was certain for Clara: of all the places she had visited so far in Blaire, this was by far the most interesting. It was a cramped space, full of funny little noises. Several curious glowing instruments stood on spindle-legged tables. Apart from the weird glass jars, occupying a single floor-to-ceiling shelf were books giving off a bizarre feeling.
Clara hesitated. She cast a wary eye around the room. Surely it couldn't hurt if they took a look around.
She stepped further into the room, and suddenly stumbled over a bag lying in the middle of the floor. Inside it was a shimmery crystalline shard, an array of multi-colored pens, and what appeared to be a long, curved bone. And at the very bottom, under all the clutter, an old photograph, torn in half.
The colors of the photograph faded with time. Clara could just barely make out the image of a man cradling a baby in his arms. She peered closer. And realized the baby had a sun-shaped birthmark on their shoulder.
She unconsciously touched the back of her left shoulder where her almost-similar birthmark was placed.
Only that she wasn't in her body. She kept on reminding herself.
Holly and Maxwell had been looking around here and there at the opposite sides of the room. It was unnervingly quiet and Clara felt she would suffocate if none of them would speak.
"What do you two reckon? Who could have built a place like this under the ground?" she asked, hoping to lift off the sour mood.
"True, three years of my studies here and I've never heard of such a hidden bizarre place under the academy. Have you, Miss Vanders?" Maxwell asked in a rather polite tone.
"No," Holly said flatly without looking at him.
Clara heard a scraping sound and Maxwell's shadow stretched into the lit portion of the room. He heaved a large wooden chest out of its hiding spot from under the creaking old rectangular table full of broken glasses. As the old thing creaked open, Clara edged forward, expecting something magical—or at least historic—to be revealed. Instead, Maxwell tossed out six standard-issue army canteens, three small bronze lanterns, a heavy stack of blankets and towels, and an armful of crowbars, pickaxes, and shovels.
Clara pondered if she should approach Maxwell. Her left and right foot teetered between going up to him or having herself set her exploration of the place and not being bothered by little things. Surely, this couldn't pass as something bothersome, could it?
In the end, tucking the photo inside the loose sleeve of her nightdress, she walked up to Holly, who was scouring a pile of unwashed musty clothes on a small wooden chair. Her nose was wrinkling in the unpleasant smell, but Holly didn't look ready to part from it.
