The Cruel Crown (A Young Elites Fanfiction)

Adelina Amouteru ❦

The weak perish; the strong prosper—those are the rules.
—The Endgame, by Evangeline Bellamy

The wails don't stop. The cries are like a melodious ballad to my ears from a beautiful music box, but ironically the notes aren't eloquent as the box would suggest. Instead the harmonic screeches provide only the yearning for one to deafen oneself because the aria is more than a dirge, it's hapless and excruciating to most.

I revel in it before being brought back by Magiano's tone of impending danger. I shoot him a cursory glance. If I must fight, I shall fight by dagger; good that I can proficiently wield my blade to kill. I will not—cannot—use my power of illusion, or I will be one step closer to a painfully stupid death.

Magiano looms outside my chambers. His hair is awfully messy, like he's been racing the wind—and the wind won. It's flaring out all over, awry and free.

I hastily climb out from under my warm blankets, with my heart's rhythm beginning to quicken to unfamiliar amounts of distress, and slip on my black boots, grab my cloak and daggers, and follow him out. I grip the hilts tightly, not realizing my muscles are tensing in antiquation of what is to come. My knuckles are probably white from gripping too hard, but it's so dark I can't even see two feet in front of me. There once were dozens upon dozens of candles held alight in sconces lining the corridor, but all have been extinguished. By either the horror of invasion and cowering away or some of the servants are about to be fired at.

"When?" I murmur to myself and then upon realizing Magiano isn't close enough to hear my soft tone, I snap without meaning to, "When did the Daggers arrive?"

What has become of me that I've become this ignorant to the invasion?

Even now, when I know he's so close, I cannot pull on our undeniable connection that connects the living to the dead. I seek for the strings within me and surface with nothing except confusion. His presence is hidden from me. Even if I'd been more cognizant, I couldn't have suppressed this any quicker.

I quicken my pace to match his, so that he can guide me further to where they are; I hate feeling this helpless as to not know where I'm going, to have to depend on someone else. I shudder. My eye hasn't adjusted to the darkness that has swallowed me whole, and I don't know if it ever will. Sconces line the wall but remain unlit. This isn't some midnight promenade or ballroom dance set in the shadows (even though the night may prove more entertaining than originally planned) so where are the candles I'm so greatly in need of? Nonexistent, apparently.

He guides me through the intricate lace of walls and corridors. We twist and turn until we come out into the foyer. The grand ceiling of the former pristine foyer is hardly illuminated by light, if at all, for the chandelier has been bursted at the seams. The grandiloquent lighting decor has been sheered and crashed on the marble, near the swirling staircase that Magiano and I traipse down. The moon is visible from where we stand onlooking; the massive opening above threatens to cave the whole place down; At least that's what I believe, from my sheer knowledge of how architecture works. But I always look for the negative in any situation, my dictionary can't define optimism.

Scintillating metal and the shinking of blade on blade echoes out, and I whip my head around to meet the faces of the Daggers and my own. There are more of the adversary than I remember; I hardly recognize the majority. My daggers ate clenched tight at my side while my mind ferociously tries to conjure a plan, but all I can focus on is the wreckage of my acquired nobility.