The Heir of Red and White

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Aiyana

The smell of blood, sweat, and piss permeated throughout the cellar, thickening the air around us. The only source of light was the oil lamp clutched gingerly between my fingers. There were no windows and no doors. Just a collection of cells that spanned across the room, creating cages that towered over Arielle and me. Despite this, a stale breeze swept through the basement, raising goosebumps on my flesh.

"She's being kept in the isolation block. Follow me." The prison gestured toward the end of the hall, and we quickly shuffled after her. Someone groaned painfully in the distance, but the woman didn't flinch, as if the sound of someone writhing in pain was as normal to her as breathing.

She led us through a series of sharp turns, each more abrupt than the last, before stopping in front of a large wooden door sealed tightly with an iron lock.

"I'll give you a few minutes with the prisoner. If you need anything, simply call, I'll hear you from outside," the guard explained before unlocking the mechanism and taking a step back.

Arielle didn't waste any time before grabbing the handle and swinging the door open. I hesitated only for a moment before following her inside.

The room was small and windowless, with thick concrete walls marred with scratch marks and blood. The scent of excrement was even heavier in the cell than in the hallway, and it took me only a few seconds to realize the moans and sobs I had heard earlier had come from the prisoner before me.

A woman with a small frame sat shackled to a chair in the middle of the room. Her hands and feet were bare and bloodied, and as I tried to squash the familiar panic stirring in my gut, I noticed she was missing a few fingernails. Her head hung low; her chin tucked to her chest so that her tangled, dark hair covered her face. Steel chains had been snaked around her wrists and again, the image of the slave in the scroll haunted the forefront of my mind.

Arielle, immune to the horror, took a step forward and nudged the woman with the toe of her boot. The prisoner moaned in pain but didn't move. Arielle nudged the woman again, a little harder than before, and I put my hand on her arm to stop her. She whirled around, her eyes ablaze with a hatred and deep sorrow that seared through me. I immediately dropped my hand and she blinked, realizing her anger was misplaced. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes expressing the apology she wouldn't bring herself to say before she turned back to the woman.

"Wake up," Arielle commanded. The woman must've heard the threat in her tone because she slowly managed to lift her head.

I cringed and took a step back, barely managing to stop myself from retching. The woman's face had been carved into and dissected like an animal under study. Fresh bruises bloomed in the hollow of her cheeks, and long, thin gashes lined the bridge of her nose and span of her forehead. A large A had been burned onto her neck as if her body had been a grotesque canvas, marked by its maker.

I glanced away for a moment to regain my composure, but I knew I would not last long if I stared at her wounds, so instead, I focused on her eyes. They were a pale, grass green, and they glanced back at me listlessly, as if she had given up hope long ago.

These were not the eyes of a killer. Instead, they were the eyes of a mother. A friend. A woman who I had met not so long ago.

"What's your name?" Arielle asked, her arms crossed over her chest as she frowned at the woman.

"Leanne," she responded, her voice hoarse as she confirmed what I had already suspected.

I had only met Leanne once, briefly while I was drunk on wine and in a sour mood, but I would know her distinct, calming gaze anywhere. I had immediately taken a liking to her that night in the tavern, and I knew with certainty that she was not the woman who haunted my nightmares.