Black Reign

Ellette

Consciousness does not greet me with a vile soreness circling my throat as I thought it would, neither does it with pain. Instead I am brought back by nothing but shafts of bitter white light tumbling through three long windows against the left wall of a wide rectangular room. Its high ceiling is adorned with golden whorls all converging into a gilded diamond chandelier that hangs down and reflects the harsh light into my irises.

I rise. My joints are oddly smooth as I wait—for the nausea, the pain. Whatever I must bear for the reckless decisions that will for sure resurface in my mind in the moments to come... But nothing does. I wait and wait, and still, nothing greets me but an almost peaceful emptiness. Almost.

I swing my legs off the bed I lay upon, lift thin pale green sheets from my body. Lilac slippers have been laid before a bedside table which I slip my feet into as I stand, toes settling into the familiar indents months of wearing them have worn into the soft fabric. My knees wobble for the barest of seconds. I regain my balance and walk.

The room is like any other in the healers' wing of my palace. A tidy room with a single row of beds lined up against the back wall of the narrow space. Wooden floorboards meet pale walls that sweep high to meet the ceiling, faint markings permanently etched into the once-spotless ivory paint.

Nobody is here. Not Thorne, not the healers nor any citizen. There are no sounds, no shuffling of feet; whisper, murmur, shout... no voices at all. Nothing.

Confusion pinches my brow.

My palace cannot possibly be empty at such a time for it is noon's peak and the complex should be bustling with people, families. Unless perhaps they have gathered elsewhere, but the only place they possible could have gone is—

The arena!

My heart jumps and a hot nervousness oozes into my veins. I am quick to grab the gown that is left folded neatly upon the bedside table for I have been left beneath the sheets with nothing but my chemise and pull up and over my head. Once on, I smooth the creases of the dress—a faded pine green, partially torn at the hem and of a rough material across the forearms—I rummage through a draw until I find a knife. It is small, pathetic but I take it. Just in case.

I leave the castle in a matter of minutes but not before sweeping whatever I could of my palace before worry overtook me in such a strong wave I felt choked. I searched the dining hall, quarters and kitchens. Places all of which I would usually find teeming with families: mothers fretting over their child, fathers trying to clean any mess of broken clay pots or glasses or helping to clean, maids dusting off the plates and cutlery for dinner's use. Something in my chest aches at the lack of noise and the lack of the usual life buzzing through the air deeply disturbs the fragile peace in my bones.

I stumble into my courtyard, blinding light cascading onto the rusty gates. Paint flakes off the poles and falls to my feet. Around me, my own nerves crackle in the air.

They are okay, Ellette.

They are okay. They are okay. They are okay.

I lift a forearm to shield by eyes from the sunlight's sting but to no avail. Tears prick my eyes and an ache surges through the back of my head. Damn the North's starkly-bright sun. Is it like this in the South? Does the Southern King suffer as I? Are, too, his lands starved of vegetation, his soil parched and sun painfully strong?