Scars of Gold

Chapter Eight

 The queen swept ahead of us along corridors of glass, sandstone and gold. I glimpsed roaring fires, rooms filled with sweet smelling steam, and dazzling ballrooms. More precious gemstones lined handrails and windowsills, polished so that they sparkled in a way they never had in the mines.

But there were no people. The palace should have been heaving with Etealians. We all knew they stole the best of us for the capital: the pretty ones; the quiet ones; the ones who could pour tea without spilling it into laps - on purpose or by accident. We - the left behinds, the defective - mocked them endlessly, but we were all envious of the luxury they would see, of the lives they would spend outside in the sun as servants and maids, instead of gruelling days of farming or mining. So where were they? Where were the Lathrians? The courtiers? The guards? The palace ought to be crawling with guards. It was the heart of the city. Even at this hour, shouldn't it have been less deserted?

We passed through a labyrinth of corridors. I tried to use the portraits on the walls to memorise the route in case I had an opportunity to escape, but either the Lathrian royal family all looked very similar, or the queen was leading me in circles to disorientate me.

She eventually stopped in front of a small wooden door. I'd expected a throne room: a huge hall filled with courtiers baying for blood. This door was more than anti-climactic; it looked as though it led to a store cupboard. Dante's eyebrows were raised too.

The queen knocked once before entering, leaving me and Dante to follow her inside. Beyond was a large room lined with bookcases. The shelves were piled high, not with books, but weaponry: swords and daggers of varying sizes, at least three shields, and a tarnished helmet with a crack running down one side.

The room was dominated by a grand desk, behind which sat a man in a satin crimson blazer, medals gleaming from the lapels which matched the golden metal band around his brow: the king.

He sized me up as I entered, then sighed.

I scowled. Had he expected me to make more of an effort for my execution? The scowl wobbled, threatening to transform into a visual representation of the fear curdling in my stomach.

Then I caught sight of my reflection in the glass behind him, allowing me to see what he had sighed at: a scrawny girl in worn clothing, her hair a mess of tangles, dark eyes wild with anger and fear, hands balled into insignificant, useless fists. Was I even worth the effort of killing? Maybe that was why we were meeting in a study.

There was a rustle to my right and I realised we weren't alone in the room. There was a boy there too, a couple of years older than me. He didn't look like a guard: his lightweight trousers and shirt looked like they'd be easy to fight in, but the formal blazer he wore incongruously over the top had seen more ballrooms than battlefields.

His eyes were steel grey and turbulent as a storm filled sky. And the stubborn fury on his face mirrored my own. I knew why I was angry, but not what had caused his cheeks to burn red with rage. His fists were clenched at his sides, twitching from the effort of keeping them there. A golden spiral blazed against his pale, unblemished skin.

"Thank you, Dante." The king's voice brought my attention back to the real threat in the room.

Dante replied with a deep bow, his brow still knitted in confusion. He looked to the boy for clarification.

"The play has changed," the king continued, addressing the volito with a sigh. "The Etealian could prove more use alive than dead. But only if no one knows who she is."

My chest blazed with hope. Did he just say alive? Maybe they couldn't restore order in Volcaria and wanted to send me back. I shifted from foot to foot.