Lore Of The Lost

Chapter 4.

The mattress, unyielding and austere, with each involuntary shift—an unwelcome jolt of pain coursed through my bones and muscles. The reprieve by the riverside, where the world felt more benevolent, haunted my thoughts. If only I had pursued the path beyond the hills, perhaps I might have eluded this fate, escaped the clutches of the Scarrans, escaped this haven.

My mind was buzzing with all that had happened today, with no way to pause or stop the thoughts that whirled in my head. But worse than that was the growing panic—panic as I barely see any trace of light. I feared the night. Feared its creature, its darkness, it had always felt stifling, and now twin, luminous orbs of golden eyes continue to come alive whenever I blinked.

Casting aside the frail, torn sheet that barely shielded me from the dungeon's perpetual chill, I sat up on the meager mattress. My gaze shifted to the peaceful figure of Daella on the adjacent bed, her slumbering form curled into a semblance of comfort. The mattress, small and inadequate, struggled to contain her.

Sighing, I abandoned my corner, seeking solace on the opposite side of the cell near the bars. I slouched down, drawing my knees to my chest, and hugged them, feeling the cold seep into my back as it pressed against the uneven wall.

I turned to look at the bowl I had abandoned near the bed, even with Daella’s encouragement, I couldn't bring myself to eat the rotten-looking food. I had shifted the bowl, almost concealing it beneath the bed as the sight of it continued to arouse such nausea that the other corner of the cell now reeked of vomit.

I recoiled, pulling the light sheet over my legs, the dungeon was perpetually freezing since many lights were quenched, and seemed to grow colder with each passing hour. I put a hand on the ground as I shifted in my position and ashen dust marred it.

A sigh escaped as I pressed myself further against the cold corner of the wall, watching the lone burning torch beyond the steel bars dance with the chilling breeze that swept through the top opening.

Each moment was too slow, too agonizing, too lonely. If only I could embrace sleep like Daella, if only I were accustomed to such harsh conditions. The memories of the farm, where the bed was inviting, the sheets were thick, a warm lamp dispelling the darkness, and Eowyn’s meals were a warm delight, echoed in my mind. And If I attend, I could hear the snorting of cows, the scent of the barn, hens fluttering at the break of dawn—crack of eggshells, Eowyn’s calls—

I hugged my knees tightly, a futile attempt to stave off the cold that was forcing me to confront the harsh truth. There had to be an escape, a loophole to exploit. Somewhere, somehow.

My eyelids were heavy, burning. I watched the fire beyond the bars, too scared to succumb to sleep … to …

Pale hair wafted in the breeze, accompanied by glowing eyes—no, not glowing, just the flickering torchlight playing tricks. Above, in the distant arena, a male figure emerged, obscured by the fire barring the rest from view. His hands seemed behind, Declan—I blinked, but was left only with the lingering scent of burning fire, no trace of the pale hair or glowing eyes. Perhaps my mind played tricks on me, conjuring illusions out of desperation. I sighed, resenting my sense of helplessness.

I was uncertain when sleep finally claimed me, but the jarring noise of iron striking bars violently yanked me awake. My heart pounded in my chest, struggling to contain the sudden shock. The guard strode down the hallway, striking the bars with an unsettling rhythm, the echoes loud enough to suggest a fault in their construction.

“Ya!”

The guard's voice thundered down the hall, prompting me to rise from my crouched position. Daella pushed her legs off the mattress, confusion etched in those black eyes, questioning my choice of sleeping spot. “Do you not sleep in bed?"

I glanced at the meager wooden board that served as my makeshift mattress and sighed. Crouching against the cold wall seemed more inviting, at least to me.

“The corner was warmer," I explained, as if that were a sufficient answer. Though it was part truth. Daella simply nodded, folding the light sheet and placing it in the corner of her bed.

“The guards will be here soon," she said, and I turned my attention to the dimly lit surroundings. Dawn had yet to break, the early morning slate grey absent from the sky visible through the roof opening of the ring. I was uncertain why a guard would be present at this hour, and as I raised a brow in question, Daella elucidated, "We're all assigned a task before dawn, to be completed before the first light. It's a chore,” she explained.

“A chore?”

“Yes.” She deftly twisted the ends of her braided hair, securing them around her head.

“What kind," I asked, not out of fear for the impending chore but with a keen interest in what might be assigned, perhaps it might provide a chance to recover my satchel or ascertain its whereabouts. It might lack sustenance, but it cradled the relic, a cherished possession of my mother which was the only key to finding my true father, a jewelry I wouldn't leave Verdura without.

“All sorts. Fetching water from the well, cleaning the Verdura court hallway, washing sheets...” A pause, “Pray you're not given the task of cleaning the men's quarters," she added, her expression contorting with disgust. "You'd be treated like deer meat being ripped apart. Those men have no shame,” she uttered, as if speaking from experience.

It made me shudder in a way I didn't want to welcome.

The rhythmic sound of boots on the cold concrete floor reverberated through the dim passageway, signaling the approach of a guard. Soon, the metallic clinking of keys filled the air as he unlocked the barred entrance with one of the abundance of keys hanging from his belt. He swiftly moved to the next cell, while another guard approached ours, and Daella was by my side before I could react.

A guard with a haunting scar across his nose cinched a large steel choker around Daella's neck before turning to me to repeat the menacing action. A shudder ran through me and I involuntarily took a step back, only to be roughly dragged forward, the metal clicked into place.

"Behave if you wish not to die," the guard grunted, pushing us out of the cell into the dimly lit hallway, where other slaves were already in formation, accompanied by guards.

I swallowed, following the guard's lead. Daella stalked close behind with another guard and four other slaves but they soon parted ways. A heavy metal bucket and brush were handed to me, along with a torn cloth, and I trailed behind my assigned guard.

The path morphed into a more aesthetically pleasing route, adorned with art against the walls. One figure's gaze seemed to penetrate my soul. I averted my eyes, finding no art worthy of admiration. I had etched the labyrinthine paths in my mind, memorizing every corner we took. Ascending a stairway wider than its counterparts, the walls adorned with hanging lamps painted the lines of the bricks with subtle hues.

“Leave no trace of stain on the floor when you're done. The cuff on your neck should betray any thoughts of escape," the guard's words echoed, punctuated by the click of his tongue, revealing yellowed teeth. "Complete your task within half an hour."

With that, he ushered me into a chamber, sealing the door behind me. The room unfolded as a well-kept bedroom, not overly spacious. The window revealed curtains of a deep green, almost black, a desk adorned with tomes and scrolls positioned near the window. Candlelight flickered, casting shadows across a scattering of shelves. A lamp above the bed fought against the encroaching darkness, though not quite victorious.

I stalked further into the room, halting as my gaze settled upon two naked figures sprawled across the bed. Brown locks concealed the first woman's face, her bareback exposed, and part of a pale butt exposed beneath a scant sage green sheet, while the other's breasts were exposed, Scarran markings adorning near her belly button. The space at their center hinted at a third presence, now absent.

I tore my eyes away, suppressing any thoughts about their identities.

I had no idea how hard it would take to wash the ground before the guard would return so I ducked the large brush into the bucket and frantically began washing. The floor was different, different from the cottage floor at the farm, with a bit of marble scattered around. My back arched like fire and not even halfway through, the water in my bucket turned murky. The more I scrubbed, the dirtier the water became. When I went out of the room to ask for clean water, there was no trace of the guard. I had been tempted to walk off—to flee, but I was unsure of the guards' whereabouts or which held my satchel.

No sound I made stirred the sleeping figures, not even the coarse bristle of the brush crinkling and whispering against the floor.

Frustration rose as brown streaks multiplied. The guard's words echoed... Snorting, I poured more filthy water, watching the trail of muck grow with each determined sweep. My attempts to wipe the stains with a torn cloth proved futile.

“No, no—s**t!”

A door creaked open behind me, and I sprang to my feet, facing a figure with damp golden hair that hung against his cheekbones—a face I recognized from Declan's side.

Hazel eyes narrowed into slits. I shifted. Uncomfortable.

His head c****d to the side. Water trickled down his chest, devoid of Scarran markings, but when my eyes meandered down, a faint pattern disappeared down his pants. “And you are?”

My throat tightened. I wasn't sure he was requesting my name—for in here, I was nobody. Just a slave. A slave of the Scarrans. As long as my headgear still covered my ears, my fate may not be so harsh. Perhaps.

Pray you’re not given the task of cleaning the men’s quarters. The words came nagging at me. Dark eyes, vicious.

Yet, I wasn't sure which quarter I was. His face creased, lips tugging upward. "A slave. I see.”