1705. Luck had never been on Eleanora Finley's side. After her father died in a tragic fire, she was left at the mercy of her domineering and abusive mother, being deprived of all love and affection.
Truly, who would have thought that the simple red...
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1711, Aethiel Palace, Kestramore City
When Eleanora opened her eyes and gazed upon the paintings of baby cupids and angels on the ceiling above her, she thought that she had truly gone to heaven.
Her body felt warm and dry, and all her pain had seemingly melted away, leaving her as right as rain. The bed underneath her was so soft and comfortable that Eleanora thought that she was laying upon a bunch of angel feathers. If this truly is the afterlife, not a single word of complaint would come out of Eleanora's mouth.
Now, she could finally rest, in a world where Dinah Finley and the queen simply could not reach her. It was a beautiful world, a beautiful existence, where she could gaze upon paintings on the walls for hours on end-- is that a bloody sword? Why would I need a sword in the afterlife?
Frowning, Eleanora pushed away the blanket and sat up. The blood-stained sword was not the only oddity in Eleanora's enchanting afterlife. Propped against the wall were two iron axes, and resting on the vanity table were a pair of gauntlets and a set of daggers.
That is strange. That is very, very strange.
It all came crashing down on her when the door suddenly swung open, and a remarkably tall, well-built man with black hair and dark blue eyes walked inside. Who is this, an angel?
It was ironic for Eleanora to think that Nicholas, the ruthless war general, was an angel. Well, perhaps, in a sense, he could be called an angel. The Angel of Death. Nicholas had only worn a thin, plain white shirt which was left unbuttoned, exposing his bare chest. Although his muscular chest was quite a spectacle itself, Eleanora instead noticed the scars that littered his skin. Some appeared to be inflicted fairly recently, while some seemed to be much older.
"You have awakened," Nicholas remarked. "Took you long enough. For a moment I thought that the fever would have killed you."
"I am not dead?" Eleanora gasped, her tone sounding more horrified rather than grateful. "This is not the afterlife?"
Nicholas frowned. "Any other person would be ecstatic to know that they are still alive. On second thought, I think that you might be in delirium."
"I can think just fine, good sir," Eleanora retorted hotly. "And I am most certainly not delirious."
"Now, that is not how you speak to your saviour. Who are you, anyway? I believe I should know the name of the ungrateful girl I had saved."
"Tell me yours first," she countered. "I believe that I should know the name of the cocky gentleman who saved me so I can properly thank him, so that he will not call me ungrateful anymore." To tell the truth, thanking him was the last thing on Eleanora's mind. He looked so painfully familiar, but Eleanora simply could not put her finger on who he was. She had definitely seen him before, but where?
