The War of Six Crowns: The Heir's Choice

A Dream of Chains and Shadows

Bells rang in Callan's head. She keened and tried to cover her ears. Her arms wouldn't move. The noise grew until she screamed out in agony, but the sound couldn't escape her lips. She ground her teeth too hard.

Callan trembled, trying to find herself in the dark chaos surrounding her. She opened her eyes. Slowly, she became aware of blurry people restraining her limbs and holding her head immobile.

Someone moved within her mind. Not the entity. Kinder. He seemed almost caring in the way he tried to soothe away her panic. It had to be the same man whose voice had come to her one night in Nordaine. He felt the same. A presence almost physically tangible, but always only in her thoughts.

Is it you? she asked.

The noise died.

Callan struggled to sit up. Slowly, the people holding her down released her, allowing her to lurch up into a seated position. Her vision weaved in and out, alternating between blasts of white and moving shadows. She couldn't hear a thing. Callan hung her head, waiting for her disorientation to pass. Her breaths came and went in short gusts.

The evil entity expanded within her, threatening to smother her soul. Callan whimpered, but the man in her mind restrained it. That was the only possible explanation. Usually Callan had to be the one to cage the entity in her soul. This time, she'd done nothing.

She trembled from the numbness left behind. The entity fought to escape once more, sending waves of nausea over her. Callan dug her nails into her palms, forcing the entity back with all her might. If she could get it to stay caged, things would be okay. For now.

Slowly the terrible coldness faded.

It's all right now, the voice in her head reassured.

Callan struggled to form thoughts, so she had to settle with feeling grateful and hoping the voice's owner understood. For a strange moment, he seemed to hug her, filling her with warmth. She could almost feel him next to her, but of course, he wasn't there.

Two hands took hold of the sides of her face and turned her head. Quinlan came into focus. He spoke, but she couldn't hear anything. She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

I'm going to let you go now, the voice murmured, sighing, be prepared for the rush.

Rush?

The calming presence vanished, replaced immediately by a flood of voices, footsteps beating against wood and the burn of strangers' stares. Everyone seemed to be shouting for something different and running about. The discord pressed against Callan. She hunched over defensively and clamped her hands over her ears. Being able to move again was bliss.

Quinlan put his arms around her and rubbed her back. She leaned into him, soaking in his strength. Once she relaxed, he tilted her chin up, his thumbs tracing along her jaw. His touch grounded her. Brought her back to herself.

She was on a bed. Covers had been thrown over her, but now they pooled about her hips. Golden light filled the air, soft and almost as gentle as Quinlan's caresses. It gave all the people moving about an ethereal glow. They were beautiful.

Quinlan carefully pulled her hands away from her head, drawing her attention to him.

His frowning gaze roved over every feature of her face. "Are you back?"

She nodded and watched his chest slowly move up, then down in a long sigh. It tickled her skin. Her focus drifted back to her surroundings. The walls fluttered as if they breathed. Her hands pressed into a very soft mattress. She glanced to one side. Several elves and Kaela stood there, hanging back. Their gazes stung. What had they seen? Moaning softly, she turned away from them as best she could.

"Lie back down," Quinlan said, gently pushing her backward. "I'll get rid of everyone for you."

That was exactly what she needed. Peace. Rest.

Callan sank into the warm embrace of the mattress. Exhaustion crawled up her limbs, lulling her to sleep before Quinlan even managed to usher everyone out.

Darkness embraced her once more. Callan hugged herself and chafed her arms, but chills continued to run over her skin. The entity wasn't there, which counted for something. Except this place gave her the creeps. The air was rotten with dank water and old blood. It smelled so bad that she had to breathe through her mouth.

She knew this place. She'd seen it before.

The voice's owner was here somewhere.

"Where are you?" she called, slipping on the slimy floor. Swallowing back a cry, she threw out her hands, trying to grab anything she could. She touched a cold, wet wall and leaned against it. Whatever was covering the floor, she didn't want to fall in it. The sticky wall wasn't much better, but she preferred it to the muck trying to suck in her feet.

"Where are you?" she called again, desperately searching for a source of light. The darkness remained impenetrable.

Someone groaned and Callan stumbled toward the sound.

"Is it you?" she whispered.

"I don't want you here." He sounded so tired. She risked moving away from the wall, waving her hands about until she made contact with his clammy flesh. He hissed out a pained breath.

She gasped and took an unstable step back. "I'm sorry."

"You have to go."

Even if he couldn't see her in the dark, she shook her head. "Not until I've helped you."

"Callan..." His voice cracked as if he wanted to cry. "You can't help me. Go home. To Nordaine." He gasped a sharp breath. His chains rattled. "Don't try to save me. Save yourself. Save my country. Nordaine always comes first."

How the hell was she supposed to do that?

He laughed, but the sound was brittle. "I'll—"

A door creaked nearby, throwing light over them both. Callan cried out and staggered back, blinded by the sudden brightness. She hit a wall, splaying her hands for stability.

"Now," the man who entered the cell said. Shivers of recognition shot up Callan's spine. "Time to have some fun."

"Can't be," she murmured, cringing back and waiting for him to grab her.

But the man she'd killed didn't come closer. He didn't realize she was there.

He was completely absorbed in his prey, a ghoulish grin distorting the scar spanning diagonally over his face. Over one white eye—blind from the cut she'd given him in Pendran Castle. The same cut had disfigured him.

The torch he held up cast eerie shadows everywhere. Shadows that seemed to move on their own, wanting to crowd over Callan where she stood.

Shivering, she stepped into the flickering circle of light. The man whose voice had comforted her hung chained to the ground and the roof.

Bruises covered his face and body, making recognition impossible. All she could see was his black hair, and the strength in his tall physique. But he was exhausted. It had to be excruciating to hang from his shackled wrists. He didn't deserve this.

"Go," the prisoner whispered. "Forget me."

"Not after you helped me," she said.

The captor turned slightly, cocking his head to the side. "Who are you talking to?"

"No one," the prisoner said.

"Mmm... we'll see." The scarred man drew out a knife and slowly cut across the prisoner's chest, drawing out a pained scream.

"No!" Callan shouted.

But it was futile. The shadows danced with glee.

What is up with Callan's nightmares? Any guesses? Let me know in the comments, and if you're enjoying the story, please vote!