Aureate Fates

14

   HEROES FROM NOWHERE

                                  —MARISOL—

It was colder here.

Her eyes were closed, and the only thought that rang in her mind was, Jaak. Before the ball, he had stayed with Nyall's mother, who had always been pleasant. But now, with the raid and the plague—

Marisol needed to get to him.

Her eyes flew open, and she jolted back at the face that was inches from hers. It lit up with a sort of excitement. Fascination, even.

"Our queen has risen!," the young man, dressed in clothes for a guard, said. What he wore did not mirror Ziralem's silver and purple. He wore a gold breast plate, like a military man, and deep black pants. His green eyes were pleasant enough, but Marisol kicked him right in the chest.

Enough to send him sprawling away.

She aimed to run, but she realized that her hands were restrained behind her. She gave a miserable tug and found that her wrists were bound by heavy chains.

And yet she was unscathed. Untouched. No pain.

The young man scrambled up from his position on the floor, still with that gleam of passion in his green eyes. "What a woman," he mumbled, smiling sheepishly. "I've been touched by a queen."

Queen. He must have drunk too much of the Lavendar champagne.

As she risked a glance around, she saw the makings of some sort of greenhouse. The smell of plants stained every corner of the place. Lamps and torches lit the greenhouse in the night, casting shadows over the many flowers kept by Ziralem's national florist.

Marisol turned her aching neck and saw Reese, slumped over. Chained. Beside him was Drew Orvar, looking serene as he slept. Then, she quickly looked to her left and saw a too-thin girl with deep brown skin wearing a red night robe. Her small hand revealed an engraved B. Blue. Her eyes were closed, but Marisol couldn't quite tell if she was asleep.

"Who are you?" Marisol croaked, feeling as if her throat was burning. She saw no other guards accompany the man before her, in fact, it was far too quiet.

The young man, who looked to be the age of twenty-two, bowed deep, just as the citizens of Ziralem bowed to Erik Orvar. When he rose, he said, with a proud smile, "I am Jared of Quellton, at your service, Your Majesty. I apologize for my informalities—,"

"Jared," a knife-like voice rang out from the left, where Marisol could only imagine the entrance to the greenhouse was. "Stop your yapping. Attend to Phillip outside, before your mouth gets you in trouble."

Jared's shoulders slumped, only slightly, but he followed orders with one last glance at Marisol, whom he referred to as a queen. Marisol could not shake the feeling that her reality was being slowly warped.

As Jared left, a group of larger military men entered, each with the same uniform as Jared. The one who had spoken wore six medallions attached to his pants, but in the dim light, Marisol could not make out the details of them. The men seemed to regard her with a muted wonder, several steps below the expression Jared had worn when he beheld her, but wonder nonetheless.

More men entered, and this time, she heard a ruckus as they did. Dragging feat and—

"Captain," one of the lackey's called to the man with the medallions, urgency in his eyes. "We've lost eight to him."

The man with the medallions only chuckled and shook his head, half in disbelief, half knowing. "Bury them quickly, and bring him in. The border won't hold for long."