Seek

I’m imprisoned. You’re probably thinking, “oh, oh my, the poor little princess is imprisoned. This is another sappy dreamy ‘my parents won’t let me be free’ story that makes me cringe my way to death.” Nope. I’m imprisoned in a real prison, with bars and all that jazz. In a much larger prison for criminals. On a tiny island. Full of guards. Surrounded by lethal sea serpents. Two hundred miles from land. I mean as if a highly secured jail with four hundred guards wasn’t enough! No, they had to be impressive as the “safest prison in the world” and surround us with ocean and flesh-eating monsters.

Now you’re wondering why a princess would be in jail. “Is she dangerous to her mother’s throne? Is her daddy simply mean?” Nah, I earned this. Three years ago I stole the most valuable object in history and ran away, accidentally having to murder a few people (few being ten) to escape. After a bunch of struggling to stay out of soldiers’ grasp, I winded up here. Saava, the Prison for Unforgivable Crimes. The thing is, I’m not okay with being here. The whole reason I took the Dior (a sword that turns everything the tip touches to gold) is that I wanted to become a Seeker. I’ve heard stories of the valiant group of outlaws who hunt sea serpents and wild beasts till they seize victory. Ever since I was ten I’ve been foraging maps and books, attempting to discover the location of the Seekers. Thinking back on it, it was a pretty dumb thing to do, because the Seekers are always on the move, never staying in one spot for two nights. Then there’s the part where they require anyone who wants to join them to steal and hand over a priceless object to prove themselves. Well. I did that. And what did I get in reward? My very own cell in Saava. Go me.

All that to say . . . I failed. Almost completely. I still managed to, you, know, smuggle the Dior with me into prison. Safe and snug in my pillowcase, sheathed inside the black leather case enchanted to not turn to gold at the Dior’s touch. I know it’ll only be so long before it gets discovered. Then I’ll be left with nothing. No hope. Hope is the thing I’m still clinging onto, after these harsh ruthless five months in prison. I need it to survive. Without hope, there’s no reason to keep fighting the acidic truth: I’m never getting free. But I have hope. A small glowing strand of the belief that I might be able to escape this rotting pit of helplessness. That hope is worth more than gold to me, more than the Dior, more than the brilliant blue sky.

“Mirren Zade?” Standing in the iron-barred doorway to my cell stands a short skinny guard, not anything like the porky hippo-like guards I’m used to.

I bolt up from my pungent cot, my long mahogany hair matted over my face. “Who are you?”

“Um, Keaton Hawks. I’m uh…. A guard in training.”

“I didn’t know they trained guards.”

“You don’t know a lot. You’re in prison.”

“Right, thanks very much for reminding me, I thought I was still in my plush princess bedroom.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk to guards that way . . .” He shifts his weight, and I get the suspicion he might not even be supposed to be here. His armor is far too large for him, and I spot a glinting silver blade strapped to his arm.

I narrow my eyes at him. This alertness trigger tickles of caution down my spine and neck. “You’re not a guard. And you’re, what, twelve?”

Because he’s wearing a helmet, I can’t see his face except for his intelligent gray eyes and a few pieces of night-black hair, but I can tell he’s scowling. “Sixteen.”

“That’s still young.”

“From what I know, you’re the same age.”

I feel myself stiffen, but I try to force the stirring emotions down, locking them in the safe cell prison of my stomach. “You know nothing about me.” The voice that speaks my words doesn’t seem to be my own. It’s deep and ragged as if my fear and caution have a voice of their own and is controlling me, fighting its way from the place where I locked it below under my consciousness. I don’t know why I feel this way. All these months I’ve been in prison I’ve trained myself to be wary of everyone, not trusting. Don’t talk. Don’t let them know about you. Don’t let them break you. There’s no way this “guard in training” could know my age. Unless others told him, which is a very possible reason and most likely did happen.

The boy, Keaton, crosses his arms over his chest, almost challengingly. “You’d be surprised how much I know about you, Mirren Zade.”

My heart takes a marathon right there in my chest. I mentally take a long cooling breath. No reason to worry. No reason to worry. “First of all, that’s my name, don’t wear it out. Second, I repeat, you know nothing about me. I’ve never given away any information except for my name, age, and where I come from.”

He laughs a little, and I seriously consider ripping off his helmet and strangling him. “You think the guards wouldn’t find your papers? Your papers have every crumb of information there is about you.”

No.

Don’t let them know about you.

Why hadn’t I thought about my papers? Every known person in the kingdom I grew up in, Regnum, has papers. Files. Snooping sniping files that vacuum up all there is to know about you. Your family, your personality, your description, everything. Even what foods you like, what people you’re friends with, your grades in school. Don’t ask me how they get the info, it has to be some kind of microscopic robot that follows your every move. Super disturbing.

Keaton looks behind him, then to the left and right, down the damp depressing hall. “Also . . . I know something no guard does.”

My stomach churns, taking on a sour feeling as my captive emotions fight their way free. Don’t let them break you. Mirren, don’t ask what it is. “What is it?”

Reaching up, he removes his bronze helmet. His ebony hair is tousled, and his stormy gray eyes hold the truth. His lips curve oddly like he’s trying not to smile. “You have the Dior."