Game Of Survival •in editing•

4 A Caged Mouse

There is no way I'm getting out of this alive, it's either now or never. He is a general, which means I'll have to stay here until he falls asleep or is distracted enough so I can slit his throat. My dagger trembles in my hand, aching for me to sheathe it. I am not ashamed to admit I am frightened, my heartbeat a horse's gallop in my chest. I do not want to kill him. Out of the entire kingdom, there are three Generals keeping peace over such a large populace. The Red General is ranked second after The Red Tiger; a woman of brute strength and pious habits. She is cunning and small and beautiful; rumours made by those who have escaped with their lives or have glimpsed her face under a heavy Red mask. They all wear masks. Every General, Captain and Royal Guard are covered with only the skin of their necks to prove that they are human underneath.

He trudges with heavy, tired feet. The smell of buttermilk and soft bread permeates the air, along with a musk that can only belong to a man of his stature. He inhales deeply, sitting on the edge of the bed. A ruffle of clothes sounds like the grating of sandpaper in the silence, I hold my breath for fear that he must collect them off the floor and glimpse a small girl under his bed. Oh, how wonderful would that be in other circumstances.

His shirt is off, I can tell when he chucks it into the bureau. Then his belt when the buckle clacks together like fireworks. Then his shoes. He disappears for a while and minutes later a shower is running in a nearby room. I smile. Perfect timing.

I slip out from under the metal frame of the bed and almost crawl towards the door. Steam already clouds the air, blurring my vision slightly, my throat suddenly thickens with nervousness. I inch toward the shower curtains, his body clearly outlined through its sheer fabric. He is tall, lithe with heavy muscle and shoulder length hair. But his legs are weirdly shaped. They do not match the outline of his torso.

His arms drop to his side, the water stops running. My heart stutters as a low, disappointed click of a tongue echoes in my head.

"I'm honestly getting tired of these attempts now. It's annoying me." His voice is like a song I do not recognize, a snippet of pure amusement threaded through a tired tune. It makes me sway on my feet, wanting to stay and listen until the song ends. But the instruments clatter, the strings burst.

He pulls the curtain aside, streaks of brown and black flash before my eyes and before I know it I am pinned against the opposing bathroom wall. His heavy arm is against my small throat, thighs that are still covered in a thicker leather material pins me in. Ah, that's why it seemed odd.

"Who are you, who sent you?" The question seems more of a command than an inquiry. He towers above me. I glance up into pure honey brown eyes; eyes that are too tired for a young man with such innocence aching to break through. In another life, I would've taken solace in those eyes. Eyes that gleam a certain familiarity that pierce my soul, my stomach twisting. Eyes that remind me of—
"Don't make me ask again."

"How—"

"I know when this room is broken in to. You can't think me dumb as a General. Answer the question."

"I cannot answer that question."

"And why not?" He tilts his head precariously, an eagle ready to strike. "Did she send you? After she so callously failed and threatened me last time?"

With a raise of my eyebrow, he realizes that he's said too much. "I'm only going to ask one more time. Who are you, and who sent you."

When I stay silent, he releases me with a huff of a breath. In one quick, smooth motion, he snatches the blade from my hand and points it at my neck.

My hands fly into a surrender, eyes dancing on the glint of the blade. "Okay, okay. Take it easy."

"You have a lot of nerve telling me to take it easy when you're the one trying to assassinate me."