Dark Blood (Sword Dancer Series)

Prologue

Prologue

12th of April 1985

Drops of the pelting rain poured down the cobblestone ground, its rhythmic sound pounding against the crowded foyer in a staccato.

The cold had begun to seep into her skin, the thin fabric she wore clutching her tiny frame. Her skin had turned pallid through weeks of starving in the dank cell, dark bruises splotching her knees and lean arms, due to the seemingly endless tortures.

Everyone was dead silent except for the ruthless rain.

The pair of prison wardens, who were directed to guard their prison cell, had already been knocked over. She had the keys from one of her gaolers by singing them to sleep.

Rosabella's lone, shivering figure now held a sword directed towards the new set of guards. She and her brothers could've escaped by now, if it weren't for that bloody man who rang the alarm to alert his comrades.

A dozen pair of dark eyes watched her as if she were a spectacle they do not have any idea how to respond to. Pity was clear as day in their black coins as they surveyed her fragile form. She knew what they were thinking― that she wouldn't stand a chance against twelve armed men. The thought made her bite her lip to suppress her aggravation. She did not want their pity.

Rosabella was not weak. She would protect her brothers no matter what.

Ludwik and Derril were innocent. One look at their eyes, and anyone could tell that her siblings were indeed non at fault. They didn't deserve a life of being locked up with beggarly amount of food. She would fight tooth and nail for them to be brought to freedom.

From somewhere behind the group of guards surrounding her, a middle-aged man whom she recalled was the captain, materialized. He was wearing a uniform as the others were, the emblem of the kingdom embossed on the fine cloth. Like her body, he was drenched all over but his posture remained as straight as a rod of iron.

"Don't struggle any further and return to your cell, child," his voice boomed through the blaring rain.

Raising the blade to the side of her head with both hands, she made it perfectly clear that she was not about to back down. By the way she shifted her stance, the captain had surmised that she was ready and waiting for them to attack.

The captain shook his head as if he were disappointed. "You brought this upon yourself." With a jerk of his head, a guard began to make an advance towards her reluctantly. He didn't draw his weapon, she noticed. So he thought he could easily restrain her?

That would be your biggest mistake.

In the blink of an eye, she had lunged towards him and had swiftly bashed his skull with the hilt of her weapon, ramming him down to the wet ground instantly.

The guards grew alarmed, their hands flying down to unsheathe their own weapons. She was fast. Their vigilant comrade had been knocked down unconscious before their eyes could even register what was happening.

They now regarded her with caution, their bearings immediately forming a pattern. The guards were trained swordsmen whereas the bedraggled prisoner before them would not likely stand a chance against one of their own. This was when the real fight began.

A man made his advance toward the female youth, swinging his weapon to meet hers. The blades made a loud clash as they came in contact with one another. In an instant, she shifted the aim of the sword and let it slide without breaking the contact, deliberately thrusting the pointed end to her opponent's chest. He growled in pain as she quickly retracted the weapon to meet another, blood pouring from its razor edge. The man fell down on his knees as he cradled his flesh wound, meanwhile she proceeded on fending off the rest of his fellows.