The Dark World

Chapter Four: The Invitation

Hours passed, and Mina sketched away. She scrutinized the blueprints in painstaking detail, trying her best to fill in the parts she either couldn't remember or wasn't part of the draft, with logic and reasoning. When she finished with her miniature map, she began sketching out the faces of the men she saw that night, when she became an official ward.

First, there was the Commander. He was the easiest. Sooty brows, eyes as gray as the thrashing seas, hair the color of a raven's feathers, and sharp, clever features. He was beautiful boy with a gleam in his eye that could only spell destruction.

Next, was the brute who had apprehended her, Claudius. His skin was the color of dried clay, his hair was shaggy and dark, and his eyes were as black as the midnight sky. He stood two heads taller than she, and his body was layered with thick slabs of muscle. She had felt how he worked against her, the way he shifted under her weight, the way he urged her along. There was a nimbleness in his movements, an appreciation of his size and strength. He wasn't cruel so much as he was efficient. Mina could appreciate ruthless efficiency. Hell, she aspired to ruthless efficiency.

Claudius had ushered her to the infirmary, where she met Doctor Phineas Clay. He was a weathered man, with deep creases cutting across his forehead, a heavy brow, and sunken cheeks. He looked upon her with a tired gaze before setting to work. Due to the late hour and lack of accessible electricity, he relied on manipulative techniques, which tested her range of motion, and his own logical deduction.

"A break to the clavicle is the likely cause of your pain."

Mina remembered staring at him, blankly. No shit, she had wanted to retort. She could have told him that much. She had suffered enough breaks to know their effects—limp, leaden movements and electric shooting pain.

"You will need to bring her back in the morning, when the power has been restored. I will be able to diagnose her more formally then." As a consolation prize, the doctor gifted her a sling.

No one came to fetch her the next morning. She hadn't seen the doctor since that night. In fact, she hadn't seen anyone other than Thaddy since that night.

Mina's pen stopped on the last stroke of the doctor's hair. She examined the drawing and frowned. It wasn't perfect—his hair was too dark, she had not adequately captured the thin, sandy cover of locks that ran across his scalp—but it was serviceable.

"Thaddy?" Mina called, flipping the pages back, to the portrait of the Commander.

"Yes, Miss Mina?"

"Do you know the Commander of the First Order's name?"

"Serbash."

"Serbash?" Mina's brows pulled together. That didn't seem like a proper name. "Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh. Serbash."

Maybe the Commander was originally from the north of Vide Noir. Mina had heard stories about the Northerners and their strange tongues and customs. They were fair-haired folk whose use of vowels and consonants sounded discordant to the ears of those who resided in Vide Noir.

Mina threw her weight into the back of her wooden writing chair. "Thaddy, do you know anything about Serbash?"

"He's strong," the man replied in his slow draw. "Strong and harsh."

Mina's lips turned down. She had heard similar things. Strong and cruel had been the terms used to describe the Commander in the Rook. Not that anyone in the Rook had reason to cross paths with him. The Commander protected the city from beyond the guard walls, and he and his men did not frequent their shabby taverns and halls.