DILLON

Darkness greets me when I open my eyes.

I do not remember how I got here, limbs spread across this enormous couch like a lazing cat. I lie in the serene darkness and listen to the celebration beyond— echoes of laughter and music. My body is tense, arms and legs too heavy to move. I should not be here.

Suddenly, I am reminded of the new duties and responsibilities I must uphold. It comes alongside this title I do not deserve; heavy it lies on my conscience.

I am to dance with my future bride, but I have gotten pissed drunk instead, like a fool. Now that I am once again somewhat lucid, I consider my current state; stiff body, and an uncomfortable headache. My joints pop and crack as I sit up slowly, peeling my body from the couch. How long have I been in this room?

Large bay windows to my right let in a stream of moonlight, casting sinister shadows throughout the space. Hours, it seems. Night has already fallen and the stars glimmer in the sky like jewels.

I think of my poor comrades, loitering awkwardly in the grand halls, conversing with vainglorious aristocrats, being endorsed to tell gruesome tales of battles fought.

I think of Luxus and his boyish charm, telling tales and flirting with ladies of the high court. And Mop, I wish I got to know him better. And Rifco, a man like him, however, is of an entirely different breed. One that would be contented to rub shoulders with these pompous nobles just for a taste of affluence. Though this is my ceremony, I am grateful to be left in peace.

One of my duties tonight was to dance with the royal princess. An easy one at that, but somehow I have already messed that up. Regardless of how she and I had acted this afternoon out there on that veranda; I am not certain she will be so tolerant of someone as myself, now that our lives have intertwined so publicly. Out there, we were only pretending. None of it was real.

I have already missed my window for that dance, why rush back to the party?

I scan the cluttered room for some wine, or any drink, for that matter. I hobble to the corner of the room, legs stiff and numb, examining silver trinkets and baubles scattered messily atop an oak table. Everything here is grand, from exotic feathered quills to jewelled paperweights and golden candle holders. But, none of it looks worn or used. Mere decorations to sit prettily and gather dust.

I twirl away from the desk and head further into the room. A large bed sits snugly at the far end of the room, enshrouded partially in darkness. Whose room could this belong to, situated so close to the ballroom? As I edge closer to the four-poster bed draped in light-coloured curtains, a peculiar smell hangs in the air. It is stale, acidic and utterly putrid.

When I reach the edge of the mattress, I notice a body lying under the silken sheets. It is hard to see in the darkness, made worse by my towering shadow. I step to the left. The light of the moon gives me a better view. It is a body of a man; his face is rugged and old, with light hair and a regal robe.

It is the King.

My pulse quickens, something is wrong. I reach for his neck to feel his pulse, but as I turn his sagged flesh toward me, his mouth hangs open and the smell enters my nose. I gag. Woxin venom. Made from a rare plant in Eastern Nessaz. Extremely costly and hard to produce. I have never seen the effects of this poison in the flesh, but I have heard stories.

I bring my sleeve to my nose and inspect his face. His eyes have rolled to the back of his head, the corners of his lips and mouth have corroded and the strange dark foam that flows from his lips has mixed with blood. The sight is revolting, causing my stomach to churn.

I yank my hand from his face and clench my jaw. How is it possible that nobody knows he is here? His body has not yet turned cold, but the poison works fast. He must have only been dead for less than a couple of hours. Had I been here the entire time passed out beside a dead body? Or was he placed here after I had fallen asleep?

I take long, quick strides towards the doorway. I halt as I reach the doorknob. I am alone with a dead king. The king that had just knighted me mere hours ago. I have been missing for hours, yet no one has tried to find me. There is no mistaking it, no matter what I do, I will look like an assassin. I have been set up. But, by whom? My comrades? These royal swine?

I press an ear against the door, listening for sounds of footsteps and voices nearby. But, all is silent except the sounds of the celebration beyond. Sweat beads on my forehead. My heartbeat accelerates, I am doomed.

"Fuck!" I cry, pressing my forehead into the cool wood. I cannot stay here, hidden away in the dark like I am already guilty. Slowly, I open the door, peering out into the brightness. I exit quietly, shutting the door behind me. Every direction lies empty, with no sound, no movement. I stifle a sigh and fix my suit. With steady legs, I manage to walk all of five steps until two guards round the corner and notice me. I nod lightly and smile stiffly, hoping they will pass and not ask questions.

But, of course, they stop and ask, "Pardon, sir, this area is restricted. May I ask why you are here?"

"Well, I was very drunk, and I got lost, you see…" I scratch my head and laugh, swaying slightly. I am not a good actor and by the looks in their menacing gaze, they know it, too. Should I run? Fight? I have no sword, no weapon.

They glance in the direction I had come from. The grand chamber behind me where their king lies dead from poison. No matter what I do, I will be labelled a traitor. When I glance up at their unfeeling faces, I see their eyes light up with fury.

One breath later and I am on the ground, my head crashes into the floor, causing me to gasp.

"That's the guest-chamber, check it!" One of the guards shouts as he pushes my chest to the floor with his armour-plated knee. I try to grab his sword, but with surprising strength, he twists my arms behind my back and holds it there. I can hardly breathe under his weight. Nausea rises.

I hear the clicking of a door and running footsteps.

"Sound the alarm!" A guard pants, his pitch is sharp and panicked. I squeeze my eyes shut, teeth gritted. "The King has been assassinated!"

After that, everything moves in a blur. A deep horn sounds throughout the palace, followed by a ringing of a far-away gong, then men and women shouting. I feel a pair of hands grip my arm so tight that my flesh turns numb. And then the beatings come. Blood, pain, and the sound of armour clinking.

They hold me down, my face bruised and sore against the expensive carpet. They kick me again and again with their steel-heeled boots. I retch into the ground. I get no reprieve as someone grabs a fistful of my hair, another grabs my arm and they both hoist me up onto my feet.

Blood hinders my sight. I do not know where I am bleeding from. I can taste it in my mouth, I feel it on me, I smell it everywhere. There is no time for me to react as they push and drag me along this endless hallway. I wheeze like a dying dog, my chest is in searing pain. My ribs are probably broken.

When they throw me headfirst onto the marble floor of the dreaded ballroom, I hear screams and whispers. My front teeth ache from the impact. I must look like quite the sight. Battered and bloody, covered in vomit.

"Hold him up!" A deep voice echoes from somewhere in the room, I do not know who is speaking. They pull my head up by my hair, my neck is exposed. I feel vulnerable and helpless.

But, more than that, I am seething.

My eyes rove over the aristocrats standing huddled around me like groups of vultures, they all have a look of horror and anger on their faces. But there is a glint of amusement in their eyes. But, it is not them I am looking for.

When my eyes finally find hers, my gaze softens and a deep ache rises inside me. I feel nothing else, not even the injuries I sustained. Arellia is wide-eyed, clutching the sides of her dress, shaking. Fear? Anger? Sorrow? I do not know. The only thing I see is her and the small teardrop that runs down her cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut from the guilt, the pain.

I wish I can explain, to go back to that veranda and laugh with her. I wish I can tell her anything at all that would make me look in her eyes half as decent as I currently feel.

But, there are no words.

When I open my eyes and flick my gaze to her again, those silver eyes look dull and cold. Hollow and detached— mirroring mine.

It seems I was right after all, that she would grow to resent me.