Fractured Crown (Book 1: Terra)

Chapter 20

"It's here." The voice echoed ominously around the icy cave, bouncing off each wall and down the ice-ridden passageway that winded upwards in a swirl of clear glass, fractions of lights zig-zagging together and then apart again.

The assassin's reflection stared back at her in several ice-mirrors, and all six of them – herself – raised a hand to their stomachs. Mazikeen scowled, lightly brushing against her abdominal. She scanned all six of her reflections from top to bottom, stepping closer and observing her black overalls: skin-tight pants and a black top that defined her small waist yet accentuated her chest, topped with a vinyl jacket that gave the illusion of broad shoulders. She placed a hand to her hip, automatically reaching for one of the daggers in her belts before realising its absence. Her eyes wandered to her knee-high, sturdy boots, a dusty black colour due to several outings and treks. Her ebony-coloured bob was tucked behind her ears, and Mazikeen found herself tracing her reflection in the air, running a finger down the bridge of her straight nose, then across her thin, pale lips and then across and up her high cheekbones. Her fine eyebrows knitted together as she met her own brown eyes, wide and rounded, the only soft aspect of her sharp facial features.

She couldn't remember the last time she had allowed herself to look this long into a mirror. To acknowledge the ruthless beast that stood before her in all its simplicity and dark beauty, jaw jutted and set in a way that made her square-shaped face look stern and serious.

"What you need is here," the voice repeated, like a whisper of a wind, hushing the assassin's thoughts and sending chilling caresses into her ear. The voice resembled that of a female, like a thousand feathers and skirts ruffling, like leaves rustling in a lowly breeze. Coldness grazed Mazikeen's cheek and she squinted at the icy, narrowed landscape, turning in a full circle, her mirrored selves following suit.

"Who's there?" Mazikeen demanded, her voice harsh and brazen in comparison to the smooth texture of the mystery female's. A sharp pain shot across her abdominal, and she doubled over, clutching at her stomach.

She looked down at her blood-soaked hands and let out a gasp, remembering the twist of that sickly knife slamming into her gut and through her flesh, by none other than her Lord.

"Adiran," she rasped, collapsing to the ground as another jolt of pain threatened to tear at her insides, as if the knife were being twisted and turned within her own body this very moment, slicing against her intestines and pulling her stomach muscles taut.

"Adiran," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut and writhing on the icy floor below, her forehead making contact with her ice-cold reflection beneath her knees.

***

She awoke. Several, long hours later, since that knife had been plunged into her abdominal, the assassin woke to find herself lying on a cold concrete floor. Decaying, mouldy bricks surrounded her, and a rusty, iron gate shut her in what she knew was the dungeons, several feet below the ground. The assassin guild's castle being already half-sunken into the dunes after the Great War, the dungeons was never a pleasant place to be in – no form of light could slither its way in, and the air was suffocating. The smell down here surpassed unpleasant and became a dank and lonely place that reeked of decaying flesh and past prisoners due to the lack of fresh air. It was hardly stuffy, however, with the cells sometimes reaching negative degrees in the cold winter nights. Although, it was difficult to breath due to the limited oxygen supplied and the insupportable stench of expired food that had been left for previous prisoners – some recent, others, decades-long past deceased.

She clenched her teeth as she uncurled from her foetal position, holding in a groan as her stomach screamed in protest. She carefully sat up, brushing her fingers along her abdominal and lifting her blood-stained shirt to see below. Surprisingly, the wound had been wrapped, and although blood covered the white bandage, it was a crusty-brown shade, signifying it had stopped bleeding perhaps a few hours prior.