Being thrown to the wolves is a death sentence.
Adalia knows that all too well, since she witnessed her own father being slaughtered in that same unmerciful way.
Living life as a meek slave in a kingdom full of royals, Adalia has no rights and is tr...
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Adalia walked with a limp as she tended to the guests at the annual Queen's ball. Her feet carried her to and fro in an attempt to obey her superiors. She held her posture high and put on a delicate smile so she might please the guests.
A tray of refreshments was balanced in one hand, and with her other hand, she held her dress up so that she might not trip over the material as she gracefully walks.
Her servant's dress she's wearing for this ball is the nicest dress she's ever worn. It's a light gray color with white lace dancing elegantly along the waist, and it tumbles down her legs beautifully.
Her straight red hair was intricately tied into a low, french braid bun. Adalia feels beautiful and it helped lift her spirits, even in the hard times that tries to drown her.
But what lies underneath her beauty is not only a scarred heart, but a scarred back, too.
Underneath her clothes reveals pain. The wounds on her back are tightly bandaged and they ache with each weak step she takes. And maybe that's why the only thing suspicious about her features are her clear, blue eyes.
They seem to be guarded as she does her best to block out the pain.
They seem to hide secrets only she knows, only she has seen.
And maybe they do. Maybe they hold abhorrent secrets. Maybe they can tell stories that should only happen in nightmares or tales of horror.
Unfortunately for Adalia, her eyes were about to hold a lot more.
The day slowly passes away, and as it does so, the night creeps upon the land, its gown falling and tumbling among the landscape, creating a dark canvas. Only the soft glow of lamps and torches penetrates the darkness.
Adalia was on her knees, scrubbing the stains from the marble floors as the hands of the clock met each other. The grandfather clocks in the castle sung their deep, low songs as midnight fell upon the land.
She was still cleaning up from the ball, and her arms trembled and her knees ached from the hardness of the ground beneath her. The wounds on her back split open with each bend of her back.
It took a moment to realize that she was washing the floors with her own tears. Her hair, now falling out of its braided bun, hangs loosely around her face. She looked like a mess.
An exhausted, wounded mess.
And rightfully so.
But she kept on working. She kept on pushing on as she wiped her tears away. Her fingers became worn and the skin split open from the constant friction upon the floors, but even then, she did not stop.
She couldn't stop.
Not when her life - and what's little left of her dignity, depended on it.
So she worked and cleaned until she collapsed. Her eyes, now red and heavy with sleep, closed. She was starving and she hadn't eaten a morsel since the day before, and maybe that was the cause of her collapse.
