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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The night crashed onto the land, and with it, brought a bitter windstorm that was like the frigid arctic breath of the polar regions. Outside, the trees screamed at each other with their swaying branches.
The few dead, remaining leaves blanketed the frozen ground below and fell onto the earth like a flowing dress.
The stars refused to shine and the moon failed to light the way for the wildlife that called this icy landscape home. And somewhere along the windswept allies, crept Adalia. She cautiously stepped through the dark like a prey animal and she delicately held up her dress with one hand.
She was sneaking back into castle grounds. She had just spent her day catching up with Henry. He had told her great stories of war and the mighty enemies he had faced. And while many of his stories had been exaggerated a bit, Adalia didn't care.
She was always fascinated with tales and stories of all sorts, because it helps bring her mind to a special escape and a place of freedom she doesn't get to experience in slave life.
Even now, a blush rises to her cheeks when she thinks back upon the kiss she and Henry had shared. It had been her first kiss, and it was so gentle and sweet....though, it was a bit awkward.
But nobody exactly expects perfection with their first kiss, right?
Adalia winced at her footfalls, even though they were silent as they padded across the cold tiles of the slave's quarters. Everything was so still and quiet, that she feared even the royals could hear her footsteps in the dead of night.
Her mother would be furious with her. She doesn't take kindly to women - especially her own daughter - coming home late at night.
In these times, women coming home at night can only mean one thing - she's a whore.
And Adalia didn't want to add that to the list of "Things my mother thinks about me." That list was already too long, and all Adalia didn't need to add whore to that list.
Much to her despair, the door to the small place she calls home loudly creaked open. Adalia lifted her candle to light the area, and immediately, darkness turned aglow with a deep, orange light radiating from the candle.
She spotted the little wooden chair in the corner and the makeshift pump sink that made up the kitchen. The wood-burning stove was ablaze with dying sparks that flickered and faded. Warmth seeped from the source and it felt nice against her skin.
But the best part was the fact that her mother was not in sight.
Yet.
She carefully made her way to her sleeping quarters with nothing more than hay wrapped in thick cloth as a bed. She closed her door and went to go dress for bed.
But she screamed.
Her mother was standing there, arms crossed in front of her. She wore a scowl as her eyes roamed her daughter's features.
