It was a dark and stormy night. An unnatural haze lingered over Oxford. In his bed, Darren shivered. For a summer night, the air was cold and the sky was black. It was almost as if something evil lurked out there in the shadows.
Darren rolled over, clutching his pillow, and tried to fall back asleep. But a worry nagged in the back of his mind. Something was not right. No matter how he tried, some ghostly force prevented him from sleeping. It made him uneasy. With a sigh, he rolled out of bed, pulled on his shirt, and poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher on his nightstand. Quietly, he left his room.
The halls were silent as he walked in the dark. He did not know where he was going, or why, but his body seemed to move on its own accord. He was being drawn by an unseen power. Past his father's bedroom, past the dining hall, past the living room, and out onto the terrace. With the moon hidden behind thick clouds, it was nearly impossible to see in the inky black night. But something lying on the path to Darren's right made him gasp in shock. A body!
'Holy--!' Darren shouted. He leapt over the terrace railing and onto the ground below, running toward the fallen form as fast as he could. Tree branches scratched at his skin and pulled at his clothes, but he paid them no mind. Heart pounding, he fell to his knees on the pathway and placed a gentle hand on the figure's face.
Now that he was closer, he could see that this was a young girl of Alronia, a princess by the looks of her, who appeared to be no more than eighteen years old. But she was in dire need of help. Her clothes were torn and bloody, and her hair was matted with green blood. She needed the attention of a healer, immediately. Without a second thought, Darren picked up the wounded princess and, cradling her in his arms, carried her inside to seek the help that was so desperately needed.
