Sunder

CECILIA

The citadel was a central gathering for people of power and authority; a focal point for the privileged who stood at the summit of supremacy.

It was the epitome of perfection—excellence in every sense of the word. Although, that too, was a flaw of its own.

The domineering atmosphere offered little in terms of hospitality, however.

The luxurious halls, the luscious walls, and the ostentatious décor denoted an otherworldliness that seemed unattainable and out of reach. It was nothing short of pristine, if, albeit, a bit pretentious.

Everything screamed affluent; from the tidy carpets to the spotless relics, the aesthetic paintings, and so much more—it was the pinnacle of opulence. The height of prosperity.

No matter how many times I drifted past its display, it never ceased to amaze me.

But for all the servants and visitors who often scurried about the sparkling floors, the castle had never felt more lonely.

It was a far cry from the poverty-stricken orphanage that had lacked so much, yet somehow, contained more sentiments than all the fine furniture here combined.

Each element only served as a reminder of how isolated I was. How I didn't truly belong.

It wasn't my world; it never was and never would be. I had neither a place nor a future in it, not beyond my contributions to the upcoming war. And even that came with its own conditions.

Freedom didn't come without a caveat.

I could have gone anywhere I wanted and asked to explore wherever I pleased, but in the end, it would only become a larger prison cell. A bigger cage for a bird that was out of place.

Liberation was ever so elusive. Both now and then. I hardly felt the satisfaction that came with the prerogative.

I held myself tighter, warding off the chills. It was a cold place, living at the top. I held on to that faint glimmer of hope, to the distant promise of a new life, a beginning after the end.

Today, I was one step closer.

Dismissing those thoughts, I made my way to the bottom floor, walking briskly toward the scene of turmoil.

It was pandemonium. The atrium was seldom so cluttered, nor has it ever been so disorderly.

While the bustling activity was not unusual in itself, it was the subtle fact that its occupants were all rushing to evacuate the premises.

A detail so easily overlooked yet one that made all the difference.

Having spent a substantial amount of time within its walls experiencing the mercurial mundanity of its quotidian nature, and the everyday minutiae of its discrepancies, I could personally attest to the deviation myself.

It was this sudden frenzy, a careless fraying, caused by the onset of an abrupt disruption—though one didn't have to be a resident to recognize the abnormal disturbance.

The commotion was not indicative of the norm. Far from it.

If it wasn't already obvious from the swarm of people running for their lives, one could already deduce the identity of the perpetrator based on the implications alone.

Only he could invoke such a response.

Despite the panicked clamor and the frantic yelling going on around me, all I could hear at that moment was the sound of his footsteps, echoing through the corridors, like a harbinger of calamity.