Larkspur | ONC 2023

Chapter 3

Skullcrest's office suited her name because the décor in her office was all skull-themed. Porcelain, wood, shiny metals, glass—even with all the candles burning, her office was spooky as hell. 

"Do you call spirits here or something?" I asked.

Hemlock glared at me from the opposite side of the room. He was obedient at following orders and never talked back with the people higher up in the chain of command. He would rather keep his head down and interaction minimum rather than ask the relevant questions.

Skullcrest however didn't seem to mind. "A room describes the aura of the person Miss Lark." She gestures around. 

"I wouldn't know, would I?" I give a cold smile.

Growing up in an orphanage amidst the common orphan fairies, I barely had food two times a day and a roof over my head. They had a charity school where I and Hemlock learnt boring subjects that never made any sense to me. But I didn't complain. I used to have nightmares and wake up in cold sweat, but I had never shed a tear. I couldn't cry. It was like I was stuck in a state of permanent acceptance of my fate without going through the stages of grief. The child in me was gone the day our village was destroyed.

"I wish I could say sorry for what happened to your families, Lark, Hem," she paused, shooting a sympathetic look at Hemlock. He shrugged. We were long past all the condolences. "But I won't say sorry because it wasn't our fault. The king was the one who gave the orders. But now you both—"

"Will take revenge. Yeah, I know the deal." I snap. "I've been hearing it for the past ten years."

"Miss Lark." The teacher announces in a sing-song voice.

A frail white hand rises in the air. The teenage girl has matted silver hair, dull from days of not having a proper wash. The dull brown sweater hanging off her is too big for her–probably a hand-me-down from some older kid who had outgrown it. She looks fragile like a twig, bones sticking out at awkward angles but there is a certain unmistakable gleam in her eyes—a fire that refuses to be doused. 

"The headmistress needs you."

She nods simply and stands up. The dark-haired boy in the back of the class was watching this entire expression calmly. The moment she exits the door, he gets up without permission and rushes after her. The teacher doesn't protest. He had been following her like a shadow since the day some patron dropped them off at the school. No parents, no titles, no magic–they only came with their names, Lark and Hem.

The girl keeps walking through the stark white hallways that smell like strong floor cleaners and the bodies of hundreds of children. The boy follows her but never comes with her. She doesn't look back because she knows he is there. The girl opens the door at the end of the hall and a brilliant yellow light spills out into the corridor and then the door is closed. The boy quickly moves to the door and puts his ears to it. Only muffled sounds are heard through the door. The boy presses closer to the door, his ears at the doorknob. The door opens suddenly, making him lose his balance and tumble into the room. The door closes, leaving an empty hallway through which they would never walk again.

"Miss Lark."

I snap out of my memories and focus on Miss Skullcrest. Her face is uncomfortable near and the yellow light of the room makes a halo behind her, highlighting the black-wood spikes sticking out of her bun like a crest. There is a strange gleam in her eyes that isn't really magic or human, almost like someone had diluted the life essence inside her.

"Your eyes." I point out.

Skullcrest blinks and abruptly turns her face away. "Pardon?"

"Your eyes are dull," I repeat.

"It's none of your business, miss," she hisses. My brain is running at full speed. I have heard about half-breeds. They are not very welcome either. The only difference is their magic is a lot weaker than the nobles. Not because they are not strong, but because they're not allowed to use the full potential of their magic. They are branded at birth by the magical entraver ink. 

Skullcrest fidgets with the sleeves of her robe. Half-breeds or demi-fae have a little chain-like delicate entraver tattoo around their wrists.

"You aren't a full fairy, are you?" I snap my fingers. Hemlock clears his throat audibly—sign to back off.

"Miss Lark—"

"Fine. What did you need me for?" I shrug. Better not to dangle scraped knees in front of a shark. Demi-fae are not very happy about being less powerful. No wonder she craves vengeance, like me, Hemlock.

"They are getting impatient." Skullcrest picks up a bunch of papers from her table. "They need action."

"It's been two days of me being here. I still don't know who the Prince is. I need more time. If they are that impatient, they can choose a different assassin." I meet her eyes coolly.

"Sassy won't do any good here." Her eyes blaze for a second. "The people we work for are ruthless and you are very replaceable. Don't forget it. So, get back to your job of finding the crown prince."

"Could you at least give us a hint as to who he is?" Hemlock speaks up for the first time in so long. "A vague description perhaps. We came in here fully blind."

"If they knew, they wouldn't have needed you both." Skullcrest makes a face. "But apparently you two are closer to his age and they trust you to blend in and trace the prince."

"How much time do we have before they land on our necks?" I narrowed my eyes.

"This week. You have until the end of the week to trace him and then wait for further instructions. Remember, don't kill him on sight. We need certain things from the king—"

"Got it." I stood up, my chair scraping noisily on the wooden floor. The room was suffocating me, bringing back memories of where it all started. And those weren't memories I'd want to reminisce again.