The White Sheep's Disguise ✓

Chapter 9

By the time I can see the cell around me, the heap of rotting straw and rusted bucket being the first indication that others stay here longer than myself, guards retrieve me from the dungeons. The cell door whines and echoes down the long stretches of damp corridors, alerting other prisoners that someone will die shortly. Not through torture, but at the swift hand of the Raven Queen. At least that is what I hope.

My heart thunders in my chest up the winding staircases through the towers. The guards don't grip me tightly; I'm flanked by two in the front and followed by more. I haven't gathered the strength to turn around and count how many will accompany my last breath in this world, but the sound of their boots is enough indication that too many pairs of eyes will watch me fall.

I never wanted my life to end this way. Having never said goodbye to Castiel, Theoden, or Chaska...I suppose it's easier that way. We never received a chance to hold our parents one last time, but the tears that followed their last breaths were easier shed hidden rather than to their dying faces. Castiel should go on with the same acceptance.

I'm too focused on my death to worry about my surroundings. Flashes of gold, windows that glisten with the heat of the afternoon, patches of rugs that soften the blow of the guards' steps. Somewhere, in my mind, these small details register and they're the only thing keeping me from losing my composure.

The Raven Queen wants all magic users dead, but will she make an exception for a healer? Perhaps she'll believe the story I constructed through two seconds of deliberation to save my ass, or she'll see right through the flaws. No one has ever claimed to be just a healer after being transformed against their will.

I am the Void Queen's magia. That, alone, is a threat.

Deep in thought, surrounded by the swirling black of the Void Queen's wrongdoing, I nearly run into the guard in front of me. They have halted and a collective creak of armor is the first sign of them bowing at the waist to whoever approaches. Looking up, my heart leaps into my throat at the expectation of the Raven Queen. But it is not her. Nor is it a female of any kind.

The person—elf, rather—doesn't look up from the open book in his spread hand. As if he senses us there, he moves to the side of the hall and slips through the space given to him by a cluster of metal-adorned beasts. In the midst of staring in awe at what must be a royal, I forget to bow. A guard behind me yanks on my chains, forcing me to bend down, and I let out a cry as the shackles dig into my wrists.

The man stops; the once rhythmic click of his boots saying their final peace as eyes the shade of aquamarine find mine. The long, uneven, and messy strands of his light blond hair hang past his shoulders, brushing against his silver embroidered doublet. The puffed sleeves catch some of the trusses on their stripes of black and white, but what remains rests neatly against a lean chest.

"Another prisoner," he mumbles to no one in particular. Turning his icy stare to my wrists, his thin frown deepens in disappointment. Either at the hand that I am a prisoner that once caused trouble to get here, or he despises the guards for not drawing more blood. With an annoyed roll of his hooded eyes, he springs one simple demand. "You may stand."

The forgotten book in his grasp shuts willingly with the force of his long fingers. I catch the glint of a gold band on his skeleton-like hand of milky white skin. A thought springs into my mind—recognition. Rumors of the Raven Queen's children are not short supplied on stormy nights or at the docks; overheard by drunk fishermen.

Standing before me is the oldest of the four—Gustus Terravale. The only child married off to another member of the court...a marquess. The marquess that intercepted the prison wagon earlier.

My chains rise from the floor at the hand of the guard to my right, another pitch elf. I make no sudden movements to attack, yet they feel they must protect their prince. Or die because they failed to grab onto a young girl's chains.