Daggers & Gloves

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      Cyra dropped the blade to the earthen ground, jumping back to avoid it slicing open her foot, but still gaping at Wyndemere's words.

      "You knew the First King was murdered." Wyndemere scoffed, furrowing his brows.

      "But with this blade?" She shifted uneasily, eyeing the dagger on the floor.

      "He had to die somehow." The shrug he gave was all too easy; there was a piece of the story missing, and Cyra had to know.

      "Who killed him, though? And how did you acquire his blade?"

      "You mean her blade." A woman? Cyra blinked back her shock, swallowing hard. "Listen, Cyra; there's a lot you don't know about your ancestors. Let's say that the woman who wielded this blade did not become a Queen." She wouldn't ask anything further, knowing that she would find answers if dug far enough, but she wouldn't like them. Cyra picked up the blade again, sheathing it into the holster she now wore under her skirts, then sighing.

      "This will kill Omar for sure?"

      "If you can thrust it right, you'll get a killing blow every single time."

      "Does the dagger have a name?"

      "All weapons do; its name is Chaossong."

       With her newly acquired weapon at her side, Cyra walked through the castle with a little burst of confidence

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       With her newly acquired weapon at her side, Cyra walked through the castle with a little burst of confidence. She would be able to defend Halewijn, her mother and father, and anyone else with ease, which would help her sleep at night.

      Mirabel waited for her in her room, the lady-in-waiting reading as she lounged in a chair before the fireplace. "How did the conversation with your mother go?" She asked, closing the book and standing when Cyra entered.

      "Terribly. My mother was more concerned about my marriage prospects than actually delivering justice."

      "Sounds like Bilka..." Mirabel sighed, touching her red braid with trepidation. "And Halewijn?"

      "He's going to invoke the Twelve Trials after our wedding day." The lady-in-waiting frowned, unsure of what she meant. Cyra shook her head - uncertain if she wanted to explain the magnitude of the High Prince's plan - and crossed over to her bed, laying on her back.

      "What happens if he... fails?" Mirabel spoke slowly, sitting on the side of her bed with care.

      "He said he wouldn't. I have to trust that he won't."

      "Princess," Mirabel shifted over to her side, propping her head upon her hand and eyeing the curly-headed royal carefully. "You are not someone who usually leaves your life up to chance." Cyra felt the dagger grow hot on her thigh. Mirabel was right; she knew her mistress well. "You have a plan... don't you?"

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