The Search for Terror (ONC 2021)

Chapter 1

      Amaia Goldmorn sat alone in the throne room, the usual way to end an evening of meetings though a boring one nonetheless. The throne was of solid gold, a nod to her surname, and she craved once more to melt it to a puddle. It was neither comfortable nor aesthetic, but it was a sign of wealth and power, so she would continue to display it. She would not, however, sit in it. 

      Instead, she had pushed a more comfortable chair up behind the throne so that the backs pressed against each other. Draped over the plush backrest was a blanket she'd been given as a coronation gift from a neighbouring country. 

      Settled in her small haven, Amaia gazed out the glass wall, which was much too large to be called a window in her opinion, and watched the birds flit from nook to cranny, roof to roof. She loved the way they flew daringly overhead, unnoticed by most and loved by the others. She loved the way they could sneak past the people's defences and thrive in a house that wasn't made with them in mind. She loved that their sweet song could change so swiftly into a battle cry when in danger. 

      "Mai?" 

      The air warmed and the room felt softer. The familiar shift in atmosphere had Amaia rising from her chair, still invisible behind the tall gold block that bore her family sunrise crest. "Issar," she smiled, curling around the side of the throne to lean against it facing him. 

      Issar Bakir stood in the doorway as if it was the only place he wanted to be. His dark hair, usually bleeding into his eyebrows and curling at his ears, had recently been cut short. Likely by his mother. His dark eyes pulled her closer. "Unfortunately," he said against her cheek when she was beside him, "I'm here on business." 

      The mood shattered and Amaia took a confident step back onto a more solid foundation, lifting her eyes. "Close the door and speak," she ordered, arms folded neatly across her chest. 

      "You're no fun," Issar said with a roll of his eyes, laughing as he turned to close the door with a soft click. Amaia hated the sound of doors shutting loudly. She had once had someone imprisoned for slamming a door, but that was another story. Issar led her to the low bench that ran along the base of the wall - usually used by the guards to seem taller. 

      "Business isn't meant to be," Amaia answered, taking a seat beside him. "Out with it."

      Issar sighed, "I have no reports of any terror anywhere, Amaia. There is only slight unrest in Haglaiya, and even that seems miniscule." He rested a hand on her head, smoothing the soft brown hair down her neck, but she shrugged him off at the shoulder. There was a time and place, and this was not it. 

      "I know you doubt the prophecy, but I am meant to end a reign of terror," Amaia insisted. "If the fates say so, then it will be so." She'd had to remind him that it was a cold, hard fact every single time the topic had come up over the last couple years. "You don't get a name like that from getting things wrong, do you?" 

      He didn't say anything more - it would only be the same conversation they'd had the day before, anyway. Instead, he lifted her hand, pressed a gentle kiss to the back, and walked back out the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, then, Mai."

      She nodded.

      The door shut behind him with a click, and immediately she was on her feet, heading back to her safe space behind the throne. Bending down, she lifted her marker pen from the seat cushion. She glanced once more at the closed main door before jogging over to the wall left of the throne. Again, there was a bench that ran along the side, though not the whole length. Instead, she was able to push it down the wall until it hit the front of the throne room, leaving several feet of space unbarricaded. 

      Placing her hands one above the other, the top curled around the pen, against the wall, Amaia pushed forward and forced the secret door to turn on its central pivot, tracing the scratch marks in the wooden floor. As soon as the gap was wide enough for her slim figure to slip through, she moved quickly and closed it behind her with a hard shove so that the opposite side slid into place like the final piece of a jigsaw.

      As her head turned to face the opposite wall, her left hand scrabbled for the light switch behind her. 

      The snapping click of the switch echoed in her head, as all noises did when she wanted silent secrecy.

      Illuminated by the string of small white lights around its border, the whiteboard of scribbled notes stared back at her. It covered most of the wall, though the room wasn't very large. A pot, hung at elbow level to one side, held the rest of her whiteboard markers. It was the purple one that she held now, that she'd accidentally carried back into the throne room with her last time. With it, she added another squashed note: 'slight unrest --> escalate soon? --> Haglaiya'. 

      She would send Saqat in to test the waters in the morning. 

      Smiling at the gentle rattle of the pens as she returned the purple to its place, Amaia took a step away from her thoughts. It was evening already - the sun had fallen, and her warriors would be demanding rest. 

      Amaia pressed an ear up to the stone door and tried to listen for voices or footsteps, both of which would be muffled almost completely - an unfortunate downfall. Hearing nothing, she crossed her fingers for good luck and wrapped her hands around the metal bar, pushing her weight down into her feet and leaning backwards. She pulled her hands towards her, her face scrunching up with the effort. 

      The door scratched open, and she squeezed herself through the small gap, quickly stepping over to push the other side back into place. Once that was done, she pulled the bench back up the wall to cover the scratch marks on the floor. 

      She positioned herself in the throne, one leg curled over one of the golden arms, her elbow pressed into the other as her head leaned against her fist.

      As expected, a knock sounded at the door a few uncomfortable minutes later. She didn't bother replying - considering both the distance to the door and the material of it, they'd never hear her if she did. It opened soundlessly, allowing her aunt to pass through and request her presence at dinner. Amaia couldn't help it, she smiled and rolled out of the throne with an excitement reserved for Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Beatrice only. 

      "Here, Am," her aunt smiled, "Tonight we're having your favourite." 

      Twenty-three-year-old Amaia's favourite meal was quwarmah al dajaj, the perfect curry, a bowl of tabouleh alongside it, the perfect salad. However, she was more than happy to be reminded of fifteen-year-old Amaia's favourite tonight - fish and chips.