The Death of Duty | The Darkling

chapter iii.

WHEN I WAKE from a restless sleep filled with night terrors, I find my wrists red raw from yanking at the chains on them and my head aching terribly. My dress, once baby blue and beautiful, is filthy and torn. Morning light bleeds into the tent that is my prison.

By now, the guards at the estate I was living at will have realised that Bjorn and I never came back and will have sent word to my parents in Djerholm. They, in turn, will send out a search party for me. But I won't be found. There's no snow here, so we must be a fair way from the Fjerdan border. My parents' soldiers won't venture this close to a Ravkan camp, especially not if they get word that the Darkling is here.

If I want to escape, I'm going to have to figure it out myself. The likelihood of that seems... slim.

I sit awake, afraid and hungry for a few hours before a Squallor enters the tent carrying clothes and a bucket of water.

"Bathe, change," she commands, dropping the clothes at my feet and slamming the bucket down. She unlocks the chains around my wrists but watches my every move, even as I undress. It is nerve wracking and humiliating and there is a small, entitled part of me that screams I am a princess, I will be treated with respect and dignity. But I'm not a princess to them. I'm a prisoner.

The dress, white and plain, is no doubt meant to be another humiliation. The Darkling knows that a royal Fjerdan would never wear something so ordinary and simple. But I still have my jewelled hairpin and after running my wet hands through my hair, I twist the long strands up and slide the pin into place. It feels like a small rebellion. He wants me to be unembellished, plain and bare, as though that will strip me of who I am. But nothing he does can take away the Fjerdan inside me.

The Squallor leads me through the camp and back to the Darkling's tent. He is looking over a map, speaking with a few of his advisors, but he looks up the moment we enter.

"Thank you, Zoya," he says to the Squallor and she quickly exits. "Leave us," he tells his advisors. They move around the table and toward the entrance of the tent. One slams his shoulder into mine as he walks past me, glowering with smouldering hatred.

The Darkling frowns momentarily, reaching up to touch his own shoulder, but he quickly shakes the uneasy look on his face, replacing it with assured confidence. The expression of a man with endless power.

"You look well rested," he mocks me, even if his tone sounds genuine.

"You don't," I say and it's true. His hair is a little ruffled and he isn't wearing his kefta, just a long sleeved, black shirt that's partially untucked.

His lips quirk up in the ghost of a smirk. "Well you see, I have a problem. One I'm hoping you can help me solve, actually. There is a rat in my ranks." He wanders closer to me, hands sliding behind his back. He seems so nonchalant but I can tell that every move he makes is a carefully planned ploy of manipulation.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You should get a cat. They love to hunt rats," I say stiffly. He laughs at this and I hate to say that it is a sound I enjoy. When we were told stories of Shadow Summoners growing up, they were described as horrific, lumbering beasts that emerged from the darkness and tore at your flesh. But the Darkling is far from what I envisaged. He is more handsome than any man I've seen and he has an allure that I doubt many would be able to resist.

"You are my cat, then," he says. "You're going to help me hunt this rat."

"I'm not going to help you do anything."

"I appreciate your defiance, really I do. You're braver than I thought you'd be. But if you persist with this attitude, I'll have no choice but to bring my Heartrender in here to make you more... suggestible."