Ironheart

prologue - bone of iron.

There's still blood caked under my fingernails.

The journey back to the palace is a long one, and an autumn rainstorm beats down heavily on us. Our horses nicker nervously at every flash of lightning, and rain trickles into my armour, weighing my body down and soaking my skin.

I feel filthy, in more ways than one.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my face heaven-ward, letting it wash over me. My nose is numb from the cold, my exhales little more than pale, half-formed ghosts. In the back of my mind, I wonder what awaits me back home. I wonder if they'll be serving venison or lamb in the Hall of the Sun, and I wonder if someone fed the fishes in the lake today, since I'm not around.

I wonder if tonight, just like all the other nights before, I'll see the shadows of the dead dancing on my bedroom walls.

Before I know it, we're past the gates to the capital. Rain slicks the grey cobblestone with an oil-like sheen, and people watch us from streetsides and windows as we make our way into the heart of the city. 

I sigh wearily, noting the painfully obvious relief on my men's faces. Some are itching to get home to their families, to their parents and wives and children, while some of them plan to head towards the nearest whore house or liquor parlour instead. And though I disapprove of the latter, these past three months felt longer than they should have been, and I don't have the heart or energy to lecture them on morality.

My mare, Ira, is jostled from the side as a white stallion flecked with blood is reined in next to us. I busy myself by staring disinterestedly at anything but its rider.

"Damaris," the rider calls. Please just go away. "Oi, look at me. Or do you only answer to Anai- "

"What do you want, Aleksander?" I snap, whirling to face him. He doesn't even flinch, and has somehow found the audacity to grin widely at me, eyes sparkling.

"Nothing," he chirps, ruffling his short black hair. "Just wanted to see your pretty face."

I bristle in annoyance. "This is no time for light-hearted jests, General," I spit his title from my mouth, the word sour on my lips. "We lost a few hundred men today. Not everyone is in the mood for amusement."

Aleksander's smile drops away. I take that as my cue to leave, digging my heels hard into Ira's rear and spurring her on as she gallops fast towards the palace.

We dash past the half-opened gates, Ira's hooves thundering against the smooth pavement of the courtyard. My anger is irrational and I know this; Aleksander has always managed to bring out the worst in me. I push Ira forward and forward until I eventually burst through the doors of the marble throne room, sending the attendants scattering in alarm.

The sitar player at the foot of the throne stops strumming, the strings screaming in protest when he halts in surprise. But the handsome young figure sitting lazily on the marble throne simply looks at me and smiles, looking inexplicably feline.

"Damaris," he says dryly, chuckling a little. "What a pleasant surprise."

I slide off Ira's saddle, my armour noisy against the marble as I land on my feet.  "My king," I reply in cool acknowledgement. "The army has returned from the border."

He hums in assent, waving away the sitar player and watching him scurry away with hooded, golden eyes. "I am aware," he murmurs. "Although I do remember me asking you to call me by name. We've known each other long enough, and 'my king' seems rather cold and impersonal."