-The Ballad of Blood and Crowns-

-Chapter One: The Treachery of An Assassins Blade-

                               "Let's have a toast. To the incompetence of our enemies."

                                                                                                                                                      ― Holly Black

                                                                                             ------

Run

I beg my legs to run through the ache, spreading up my thighs, burning in my throat, soot clinging to my white stays, scraping it down my lungs, setting them ablaze with each breath, and panting, my body screams for

Run, run through the torment, run through the searing pain of heat, through the blood of our mother soaking the earth beneath our feet.

Run

Smoke mixes with the fog, shrouding our path in a disorienting haze. I choke back the urge to retch, my stomach roiling at the scent of soot and blood caking our skin.

Cyra keeps close beside me, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her feet pounding against the moss-covered earth littered with treacherous sharp stones and grass.

The forest erupts in a blaze of light, flames engulfing the trees and painting the night sky in hues of hellish orange and red. Overtaking homes and families in its wake, their shrieks echoing through the trees in a chilling symphony of terror, drilling the sound deep into our ears, A steady reminder of a growing hot fate that claimed so many others.

There was one small lake, with small rocks acting as a bridge to get across. The children around Cyras age knew better than to skip across the stones; one misstep could be their last.

The heavy currents threw wondering children against the rocks and drifted down the stream tainting the river red in a twisted affirmation.

And they knew this; they didn't have to kill us here because the people who ran would face a fate so much worse than the families of Aspye.

Because even a mindless massacre of the innocents wasn't enough.

Terror was the goal they were determined to win and they succeeded.

It would never be enough.

In the mix of chaos, a sharp bone-cracking sound echoes through the forest, louder than any scream or cry.

Cyra thrashes wildly, her eyes disbelieving, horrified—her ankle twisted and bruised in a trap of vines and yanking against her skin, grabbing the grass beneath her as a futile escape to pull from the vines.

I silenced her cries with a firm hand over her mouth, my heart pounding in my chest as I surveyed our desolate surroundings, desperately trying to wave away the smoke that choked us.

I knew they could hear her, my hand wasn't enough to stop sounds that had echoed through the trees and it was only a matter of time until they found the source of the noise, 

Panic settled around me like a cold, suffocating cloak, threatening to consume us far more swiftly than any raging flames ever could, I was hasty to untangle vines as they cut and scraped my fingertips drawing blood with every thorn, every second mattered and if she was truly infected we wouldn't survive.

I looked over my shoulder with a newfound paranoia as the light sound of footsteps plagued my head, my fingers slipped and ached as she moved around and tightened the vines I finally looked down at her 

Hemlock blooms.

Their white petals intertwined with the poisonous green vines wrapped around her legs were renowned. Born from our ignorance and foolishness, they had become the root cause of the plague that tormented Apsye, sending the masses into hysteria and, soon, their deaths.

It had claimed our father's life not long after. And It would claim hers as well unless we acted soon.

Footsteps pressed against the grass drawing near to us slowly almost tauntingly in a perverted game of fate 

I will not lose Cyra.

 not like this.

Not with my hands covered in her mother's blood.

A shrill whistle pierces the air, commanding attention with its whip-like sound cutting through my thoughts and smoke. The sharp cry slicing the air restlessly hits the birch trees with a heavy thunk And my heart stutters, desperately ripping the vine apart before my arm goes rigid 

The pain hits me like a tidal wave, threatening to drag me under. Blood splatters the moss, dripping down my arm, dripping onto the white blooms, painting the poisonous petals red 

Arrows.

We've been found.