Dark Queen

xvi.

     Zora was cold. So terribly, terribly cold. She lay in the corner of the cell, curled up into a ball, cheek pressed against the frosted stones. Tremors wracked her body. Her numb fingers were clenched into fists, and the tears had frozen on her cheeks.

The guards had forced her into a simple white smock and taken her shoes and all her jewels. Despite it being wintertime, they hadn't even deigned to give her a cloak.

Her cell was tiny. Even squashed into a single corner, Zora took at least a third of the floor. There was a barred window about the size of a dinner place, a sorry stack of straw upon which Zora was on, a rusted pail for her to relieve herself, and virtually nothing else.

The dungeons were a frightful place. Screams and moans could be heard from every direction, along with the constant rattling of chains and the cracking of whips. Arms wrapped tightly around her body, she tried to make herself even smaller.

Zora had failed. Due to her lack of cognitive ability, she'd forgotten to make sure both cups were poisoned. Stupid.

At least King Hurfother was dead. She sneered, imagining his soul being tortured in the fires of Hell. It was a nice fantasy for the time being.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud growl rumbling from her belly. The unfamiliar ache of hunger washed over her. Zora's lips were dry and chapped, and her throat was screaming for water.

She'd lost track of time. Was her sixteenth birthday yesterday, a week ago, or a month ago? It was hard to tell. There was no clock, nor was there a guard who helpfully informed her of the time.

Her eyelid was heavy, but it flew open when the door to her cell clanged. A guard stood there, carrying a tray with a bowl and a tin can. "Food," he grunted. He unceremoniously dropped them onto the floor, nearly spilling the water.

"Beast," he drawled, eyeing Zora's face carefully. She couldn't imagine what she must look like now. Wild black hair, bloodshot eye, scars in full view. He shut the door with a bang, and she scrambled towards the tray.

The bowl was half-filled with slimy, cold gruel, and the water had a funny iron taste to it. Zora still downed it all in two gulps. Her stomach roiled. Bile surged up her throat, choking her. She forced it back down. Being a princess had spoiled her. Thus, she was not used to such grimy, basic food.

A bitter laugh followed her acrid thoughts. Estilda should have killed her that fateful night. Death was better than whatever Gregori must have in mind. Would she be burned like Zhoya and the Second Queen?

No. Her diabolical brother had promised that her suffering would be worse. Hanged? Not enough pain; her neck would snap too quick. Gregori liked blood, but she doubted he'd behead her.

So, what would he do?

"Zora?" someone whispered. Her eye widened. She'd know that voice anywhere. A tear winded down her cheek when she saw Pyter, crouching on the other side of the bars.