The Catalyst

Chapter 13

Scraping the remnants of his meal—a depressing porridge thing—Matt tossed the clay bowl, sending it clattering against the narrow bars that made his door. His stomach growled in protest. He actually felt hungrier than before.

Oil lanterns were set at intervals in the somber stone hall, casting shadows more than lights through the bars and into the small square cell. Matt wrinkled his nose at the staleness of the air. Always dank and cold, the dungeons were a vast structure of halls and cells built underneath the castle's keep.

They were allowed two meals and one bucket of water a day.

A fresh arrival of prisoners had been brought in earlier, some screaming and thrashing as the guards dragged them along, others numb, almost complacent. Too high on sleeper's fix to care, Matt guessed.

Right now things were calm.

"Please stop telling them to give me half your portions," came his sister's voice from the cell across the hall.

He could see her through the bars, though not so clearly in the feeble light. Moira looked a bit like him, same copper hair, pale skin, blue eyes, though the shape of her face was rounder and more freckles dotted her cheeks.

Matt's reply was stern, "You're pregnant. You need it."

He had languished in these forsaken dungeons nearly four months now, ever since the army's gloomy return from Etreon. The broad dark magic scar on his chest, proof of his transgression, discovered on the way back.

The hateful queen ordered Moira's arrest a week or two after, along with their mother, when it became clear Matt wouldn't talk, not even under torture, without some kind of incentive.

"We don't know that for sure," Moira said, her tone lacking conviction.

"You always had a flat stomach before," Matt replied, "and I highly doubt you gained weight from eating that damned rotten stuff every day."

Plus her breasts had swelled, she hadn't gotten her bleedings, and there had been morning sickness. He may be a soldier, not a healer, but even he knew to recognize those signs. What had Matt so bitter was that the father of his sister's child was a rapist.

It had been done following the queen's order. Not that Matt cared, he had plenty enough hatred in store for both Tessa Nightvale and his sister's abuser. Kemon Clay.

Never one to waste a chance to be of service, Kemon had also been the one to catch sight of Matt's scar. Of course Kemon proudly told his father, witnesses in tow, all too aware of Tomas Clay's duty to report the incident to the queen.

Ever the rivals, Matt and Kemon had trained hard at the barracks over the years, proving their worth with a sword, competing for the captain's admiration and pride. But Matt had never hated him before, not like this.

Now he knew the truth. Kemon only cared for himself and his stupid, silly, lifelong infatuation for the pretty princess. If Matt didn't hate him so much, he might pity the guy, for now he knew all about Tessa opening her legs for none other than Kemon's father.

In her cell Moira stirred, leaning herself against her bars.

"Arthur?" she called. "What are they up to?"

Whenever things were calm, and no guards patrolled nearby, Arthur filled them in on what he was hearing through his demon. A bat named Fang, roaming the castle's keep out of boredom, hiding in corners, becoming invisible should prying eyes come its way.

Locked up in the cell next to Matt's, Arthur couldn't see him, but they could talk through the wall.

"They're in the council room," the old man said.