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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His body became limp the moment the blade touched his heart. The blade had sunken down until it couldn't be pushed in any further. The handle restricted it from doing so, and Adalia wretched the blade out from his back, his dying flesh surrendering the blade.
Blood smeared. Clothes tattered. Eyes aglow. His nefarious deeds were halted only by death.
He belongs to the devil now.
Her mother, shaken up by the ordeal, pushed the dead man off of her. His corpse hit the ground with a loud thud that made Adalia's blood run cold, and her mother dragged her knees up to her chest like a child who had just been beaten. Her arms shook and her eyes were swimming with tears that had yet to be shed. From her mouth, soft sobs escaped. She looked beyond broken and humiliated.
Adalia observed.
Adalia observed the weak, vulnerable look smeared across her mother's face like the blood of crimson.
Her mother had always been a strong woman.
That strong woman was reduced to crumbling stone in a matter of seconds. Her eyes were like broken glass, looking shattered and shiny as they were wetted by her tears.
The air wreaked of fear and utter shock. Adalia's hands shook and her mouth hung wide open, stunned by what had just happened. Reality was slowly sinking in and sweat dampened her forehead. Her legs felt weak and threatened to collapse.
I just killed a man. She thought to herself. I killed a human. I took a life.
The blade slipped from her hands and clattered upon the ground. The impact splintered the wood beneath her bare feet and silence became like a viper - deadly and hushed. Both women's breath was rapid and strained, and a single tear fell from Adalia's eyes.
The tear hit the ground, splashing onto her naked feet.
Water turned to blood. Blood. Blood.Blood.
The corpse was drenched in it. Her innocence was tainted in the blood that was spilled by her own hands.
Splattered. The crimson life force was splattered like paint on a canvas and ran like a river run red. The floorboards became stained like her hands. Like her heart. Like her conscience.
I just killed someone. I was the cause for someone's last breath.
Her knees buckled and she fell face forwards onto the ground. Her hands held herself up and her hair dragged in the blood that haunted her so. Adrenaline was fading and weakness and exhaustion was setting in.
She was close to a mental breakdown.
She didn't know what to do, nor did she know how to handle a dead body. The rights of slaves were not protected, and murder was against the law. Would she be forced to live life on the run, as some kind of fugitive, now?
