CITADEL | acotar (ON HOLD INDEFINITELY)

02

LENA AWOKE TO THE CLAMOR OF SHARP WORDS AND THE FEEL OF COOL METAL ON HER ANKLES. And, as she worked up the courage to peel her eyes upon, the decaying and sticky stench that drenched her body. It took effort to squint open into the dark remnants of the fray, to find what the commotion was and to confirm for herself what she thought she remembered.

A sinewy cloud of Renner's blood, writhing in the air as it erected a staticky charge before plunging back to the stone of the temple's porch, drowning its owner with what had once kept him alive.

Intelligence she had scraped into a handmade weapon over the years hinted to her that what had happened was not in fact a fluke, but the first joyful leap of a power that had been stifled by those Cauldron-damned shackles. A power so dreadful, so unheard of, that her stomach twisted in a vice grip at the very mention of it. Lena's heart stuttered when she remembered the absence of its presence on her left wrist, and she summoned all of her willpower to fully look at her bare wrist.

It was as slender as a child's still, the brown skin paled considerably because of the lack of the sun. Lines of pink scar tissue, jagged and cursed no doubt, seared the point into her body forever. Good, Lena thought bitterly. So I have physical proof. The allowance of her joint to breathe was so wonderful that Lena forgot, if only for a moment, everything.

And then the jangle of icy metal on her ankles echoed deep within her, and Lena's senses sharpened to a precarious point.

The thick darkness of the night sky was cut up by shimmering faelight, illuminating the stand-off mere feet in front of her prone body. She was sitting near the entryway, back pressing against a cool alabaster column, body prone as drops of thickening blood dripped from her shredded sari and rolled down the steps. The battle, of quick and horrendous violence, was won-- and yet one of biting words was still waged in front of her. What was left of the able-bodied priestesses, dented weapons sheathed beneath their billowing robes, stood in a triangle formation nearest to the temple, led by the two Fae females who had winnowed in. Across from them, arms crossed and leathers still perfectly shining, were two of the winged warriors; the one with the purple eyes and the one with the shaggy hair. Azriel, the only person in all of Prythian whose name Lena knew, had separated himself from the argument and leaned against the pillar opposite of Lena's. He was watching with a thin look on his angular face, but his shadows crept towards her lightly and casually.

One neared her feet and Lena followed its swirling path, watching in wonder as it shrank away abruptly at her gaze. But she had realized where the liquid shade had been headed, and horror filled her as she stared at her bloody and torn feet. Or, more importantly, her ankles, which were wrapped together by thick chains.

It had been too much to ask the Mother, for freedom from the Sultan. She had pressed her luck and now was in the hands of these fierce winged warriors who had demolished men that could take out thousands of normal faeries. Hysteria rose, and Lena fought to keep it tamped down as she struggled with what to do. Azriel seemed preoccupied, as all the other inhabitants of the grove, with the arguing, and so Lena began to worm her fingers beneath the large metal links. She hadn't been bound loosely, more precautionary, but her breath was still stolen at the idea of being another ruler's serf.

She listened closely to what the people in front of her were discussing, so she knew when to cease her efforts if their conversation ended, and realized with a start that she was the topic of heated content.

"Have you not heard a word of what Nesta is saying?" one of the Fae women snarled, hand placed threateningly on a thigh sheath. She was the one with white-blonde locks, and a feline manner of moving. "That female is no threat to us."