The Heat of the Onyx Court

P r o l o g u e:

I enter the shadowy court. Black licks the light away from the wall, covering as if it were a velvet blanket.

Death is upon me. But I stand in front of the king of the broken court, pretending that I was taken against my will from my own.

People look at me with hate, their eyes pressing, their bodies stiffening, then fuming over in malice. I ignore them.

They took me in the dead of night when I was supposed to be sleeping.

My sister, unaware of my lies, didn’t wake. My father, oblivious to all, who thinks his two daughters breathe air purified from their lungs, did wake.

He stood in the hallway outside my room, my wrists tied in metal shackles meant to suppress power. His eyes were filled with shock, but not an ounce of fight in him.

He didn’t say anything, not as I was dragged away. He followed only for a short minute. My three captures stared daggers at him, and he stilled.

The front door was kicked open, and I was led out, away from everything that I’ve ever known.

They did take me against my will, but it would break one’s heart to believe an alternative point of view, especially as I am placed at the edge of the throne, restrained. My former clothes stripped from my body, paint and mere cloth my only dignity from prying eyes.

Eyes from those all around me, still glaring.

How did I get here? Only bits and pieces give me clues. Drugs? It must have been. I was held back, a vial pushed to my lips.

I catch the eyes of one, a man, dressed thoroughly in black. If a house can have black accents, such as handles and chandeliers, his weapons all had onyx accents, completing his look.

Even his skin blended with the night, his eyes dark; he looked away as if bored, but I didn’t miss his longing look. I break eye contact.

We’ve been forced into a world full of actors, myself included. But I don’t have to fake my anger.

My menacing grin at the crowd as the high lord begins speaking sends anxiety through the structure. I swear the walls begin to crumble as people gasp.

There’s a pause, and a rush of people out the back door. The hurried steps echo, and I see the small bodies.

Children. They have sent their court’s own children away in my presence. I merely yawn at the arrangement. Actors. Check.

I feel the heat from a certain set of eyes placed on me instead. My body shudders involuntarily as my eyes, which should appear bored, meet with the ruler’s.

He sits in the shadow that is his throne. I’m on the stone floor, my knees bare against the cold.

I throw the tangled mop that is my hair back, doing it in a smooth motion to check the restraints. My hands are cuffed.

A smile dances on the ruler’s face, showing amusement as he takes a handful of my curls and pulls them toward him, exposing my throat to the crowd from his chair.

“Traitor,” he says quietly, then louder to the room.

My head is thrown forward as he rips his hand away from my hair. He stands and begins to circle.

I should be dead, and I will be. But only after the curse is broken. His words are useless to me; none offer escape.