The hallway was much like any corridor in the castle: wide enough that four men could walk side-by-side, its walls made of large ndrayen blocks. Moonstone in the common tongue. Throughout the corridor, there were few paintings, tapestries, or other adornments. The decorator had instead prized the stone’s rough beauty, and had chosen to display it.
The floor was covered with a rich green carpet, mimicking the patterns of treetops seen far below in the human realm. The carpet was not just for beauty. No, like all things in the castle, it served a practical purpose. Helping to muffle footsteps and absorb sound, it prevented loud echoing from overwhelming the occupants’ sensitive ears. And instead of candles ensconced in the walls, the corridor had windows every so often, letting the natural pale light create its dim atmosphere.
And like any other corridor in the castle, its peaceful atmosphere had been shattered and its quiet hum of daily life absent. Debris littered the floor, and the once beautiful carpet was now liberally filled with scorch marks. Large black stones lay scattered across the hallway’s length, cloven in two. The wall the corridor had shared with the outside was constantly being battered by stone projectiles, for the enemy’s assault was relentless. Relentless and effective. More common than windows were breaches in the walls, scattering debris everywhere. In some places, the breach extended to include parts of the floor, making the already structurally unstable hallway treacherous to navigate. This partially explained why the corridor, once a main flow of traffic, was deserted.
Or, at least, mostly deserted. A young Starling carefully picked her way through the rubble as she made her way down the hall. Though young, she had an aura of grim determination, much like war-weary soldiers.
For the past month, the castle had been bombarded. The surrounding town, Jay’naldra, had become deserted in the face of the unseen enemy’s onslaught. Its people now crowded in the castle’s bowels, hoping and praying the bombardment would end. What fighters remained patrolled the castle’s hallways, constantly alert for any traces of the enemy, but they found none.
A fortnight earlier, a small band of fighters had left the castle’s relative safety and had gone in search of the enemy, seeking to bring back information, or at the very least, force the enemy to fight hand-to-hand. What was left of them had been unceremoniously dumped in the castle’s courtyard, their final screams unheard. Fear began to creep into the Starling people as they lay huddled together in silence.
The images haunted the young Starling, but she did not force them away. She was a healer, tasked with treating illness, mending the injured, and reassembling the dead. It was grim, depressing work and ill-suited for her, according to her father the king. But she stubbornly insisted. It was her responsibility as a healer, and no one could not argue that.
Princess Annalydessa suffered without complaint alongside her people. Her once bright innocent eyes faded till nothing but a dull lifelessness remained. Her once expressive face became like a stone, a sad, pensive beauty replacing youthfulness. Her long silver hair was bound tightly, strands hanging limply down her back. Her white dress was simple, the belt encircling her waist cinched tight. And though no enemy had breached the castle’s interior, she looked about with wary, searching eyes, a hand straying down to the dagger on her belt.
Time after time, the route was blocked, forcing her to backtrack, but Annalydessa made it to her father’s audience chamber. The two wardens quickly opened the large double doors at the sight of her and gave abbreviated gestures of respect. She smiled wanly, a gesture they did not return. She entered the chamber, the heavy doors closing behind her.
