Faefalling (working title)

20- | | I | | | _

Hall after hall, the foreboding manor drifted by. On the upper floors, torches lined the walls casting light on the servants and maids who wandered about in small groups. All grew silent at our passing and inclined their heads to the crown prince, less out of reverence than fear I suspected. With each descent the beacons of light grew fewer and fewer, as did the personnel and with them my chances for aid. Not that I'd bother calling out to them either way.

As we set off down another flight of stairs, Daemon split off from the group without word or backwards glance. I would've called after him, should've perhaps demanded his attentions, but I just watched him stroll off, didn't bother resisting.

What was the point anyway? I wasn't going anywhere until Lazuli was back with me where she belonged.

My feet dragged over smooth stone, aching at the chill. It was only at the third looped passage that I realized the guards were trying to disorient me. Not that it mattered.

I'd not been committing our path to memory, but instead raking the air for a whiff of sunflowers. Every door we neared had my hopes rising and falling.

Even before we rounded the next corner, I caught a scent. Not the one I'd been searching for, but one that had me walking straighter, if only to calm the boiling of my blood.

The pooka, back in the skin of that very first captain from the woods, stood, arms crossed, in the middle of the hall, signature leer on her face. My hands flexed within their bonds, urging me to rip that grin off and keep tearing until there was nothing remaining but bone.

At her left sat an empty cart, the interior turned ruddy due to rust or worse. The pooka stepped forward. Hips swaying, her features shifted into Lazuli's for a moment, and by the gods it took more than my all to conceal my temper beneath a layer of simple distaste, not enough of a reaction for her to revel in.

I bit my tongue as she began to pat me down, vile hands sliding under my armor and down my legs. Daggers were removed, Craorag as well, scabbards and all. They clinked against the cart's bottom at her toss.

"He's got a blade in his vambrace and another latched behind his shoulder," the pooka directed. "I didn't sleep beside you without doing a little recon," she added with a wink at my gritted teeth.

The guards pulled out the weapons and added them to the pile. Much as I tried to shy from their hands, my chest plate and chainmail came next. Then, nothing remained but a once-white shirt and muddied trousers. Pathetic as it was, I wasn't about to let the pooka see anything but a stony gaze.

"Give me his hands," she said after another quick once-over.

The guards nodded, loosening their grip for the first time since my capture. Perhaps they'd come to expect compliance. Their mistake.

Without a second thought, I elbowed the pooka in the face. Her nose snapped to the side, gushing blood, and the guards grabbed me once more. Nails dug into my arms, yet still I chuckled. The pooka straightened; red splattered the grimy walls at the flick of her finger.

"Oh, so sorry. That wasn't my hands. Gimme another shot. I'll get it right this time."

The pooka sighed as she rested a hand on my shoulder. Then, a fist rammed into my gut. I doubled over, groaning as the guards hauled me upright.

The pooka leaned down, lips against my ear. "If I were you, I wouldn't cause any trouble. Don't forget who has your dear leannán."

While I wished air back into my lungs, she grabbed my bundled hands and, just as quickly as the ropes had been tied, slid on a pair of cold, leather gloves.