Poisoned Lips

20: Truce

Instead of his usual white uniform, Felix had a black uniform. He wore a dark cape around his neck, and his belt was weaponless. His dark hair shone in the ray of light, grey eyes gleaming with mischief. He gave her a flattering smirk.

Devil.

Everything in Freyja screamed at her to run. It’s what she was good at, wasn’t it? But he cornered her. There was nowhere to run to.

Hoping he couldn’t hear her heartbeat, she pointed her dagger in his direction. “Here to finish what your howlers couldn’t?” She asked, her words dripping with spite.

He winced, raising his two hands in the air. “I was hoping for a warmer welcome.”

“What do you want, Felix?” She took a step toward him with blades for eyes.

“I can’t really talk if you have that thing in my face. How about we leave this smelly place and talk over breakfast?” He asked, gagging as a rat passed beside him.

Water dripped as the silence stretched.  Plonk. Plonk. Plonk.

“Can we call a truce for a few hours, please?”

“I have somewhere to be.”

“Yes, with me.” 

Freyja gripped the handle of the dagger tighter. Her heart was hammering inside of her chest.  He didn’t have any weapons with him, giving her the advantage. She could overpower him and escape. But his Royal Guards could be waiting for her on the surface.

Or he could easily overpower her now and drag her back to prison.

She frowned. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Oh, darling, no, you don’t.” 

Freyja’s muscles tensed. Though out of prison, she was still powerless. She stared at him, hoping to convey how much she despised him. He understood because he beamed.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” She asked wearily.

“I swear on my cat’s life that I’m being honest.” He extended his arm out. “Truce?”

 He loved his cat. Freyja put her dagger away and cursed him.

“Truce,” she said, her voice flat. She disregarded his hands and went up the ladder. She ignored the pain in her sides. It was better if he didn't know she was hurt.

The air was heavy, clinging to her skin as she walked. Thick dew sat over the village, masking the top of most houses and shops. The roads were empty. Except for the women getting their stalls ready or the men on their way to the farm, Freyja saw no one. No Royal Guard or howler in view.

She glanced at Felix.

“What game are you playing?” Freyja asked, balling her hands into fists. 

He blew a raspberry, deep in thought. “What game am I not playing is what you should ask.”

Freyja resisted the urge to cradle her sides.

They took a left. Freyja spotted a small bridge. When she studied the map of Brausee in the Sanctuary, she memorized landmarks. That bridge was part of it.

The bridge was made of wood and ropes. But after centuries of neglect, the bridge was condemned. It was too unsafe. The villagers used boats to cross the stream of water instead. Freyja had a plan.

Freyja discreetly reached into her pocket.

“You know, you never asked what I did with her body,” Felix said, shoving his hands in his pocket.