The Witch's Cursed Daughter

55. Proof

Wen's boots played a chorus of steps through the echoing passageways as the sound met with bricks, stone, and glass. Having left his half-breed younger brother behind, he was on his way to the tower where Illea would be enjoying her final playtime with Evianna before her departure to Angoles. Ascending the asymmetrical stone staircase, Wen held an apathetic stance to his position; he had placed his pieces in their optimal position - all he had to do was meet with Evianna.

Arriving at the summit of the steps, a familiar relief greeted him after concluding the never-ending climb. The first prince was welcomed by his sister's usual level of enthusiasm; as she leapt into his arms, she beamed beautifully.

"Elder brother, why are you here?" Illea's excitement roared within the narrow space while Wen gripped her tightly in return.

"I am here to visit your toy," Wen replied.

"Why?" the princess queried mischievously.

"Just like you, I have a need for some jewels."

"Is it for me?"

"Are you asking whether I am equally as enamoured with another?" Wen asked impatiently.

"Perhaps, I am just curious," Illea smiled.

"Indeed, however, if you don't run along our grandmother will be cross," the first prince retorted.

"Oh, you're right," Illea exclaimed. Gracefully lifting onto her toes, she placed a gentle kiss on her brother's cheek. As she began to descend the stairs he had just climbed, a quivering Mage dashing after her, she called, "I'll be back in one month."

As Illea's fairy-like giggles faded into the darkness, Wen found himself alone before Evianna. In the dingy cell, the girl's body seemed grotesque and misshapen. Stains from torture, force-feeding, and enuresis left awkward shading across the bony frame still chained to the wall. Over the last couple of weeks, while Julian was confined, Illea had needed to stave off her boredom with more inventive methods, which had left Evianna almost blind and deaf to accompany her mutism.

Inching closer, Wen brought himself down to Evianna's level, careful of the soiled floor, which was rarely cleaned, his eyes watering with acid as the rancid stench of something dying filled his lungs. Examining her face, he felt a light twinge. He had never considered her to be a person; now, she reminded him of little more than an animal.

A cruel idea bubbled to life within Wen; Julian wanted proof of her survival and Wen's access to her, but he had not specified what type of proof he was expecting. The prince's sword was fastened to his hip, an accessory he infrequently ventured without; however, Wen had customised its dazzling leather and gold sheath with additional weaponry.

Removing the sheath from his side, Wen ran his finger delicately across the textured surface, a bizarre, expectant smile curling his lips. Finding a small bump on the reverse side of the casing, a thin finger-sized blade slipped from within the leather. Grasping the naked blade, Wen looked to Evianna, who had not seemed even to realise his presence as her expression remained empty and her irises hollow.

"Remember when I told you that Julian is still searching? I did not lie," Wen whispered at the unhearing body. "He has even agreed to work with me. In return, he wishes you to be placed into his custody once our deal has come to a close." This time, Wen's husky voice grew louder as he inspected Evianna for a reaction; frustration rising, he continued to talk but instead to himself in the dimness. "For now, all I need is proof I can deliver. What should I bring to him?"

Leaning forward, Wen reached out with his knife, growing closer to her face until there was less than a breath between her skin and the point. A long sigh escaped from the first prince as he waited for inspiration. Swiftly he ran the blade through matted, greasy, blood-dyed hair, releasing a section from its incarceration on her head.

Catching the hair as it fell into a handkerchief, whose pristinely pressed lace seemed entirely out of place, Wen shuddered as the grime could be felt through the fabric. Disgust swarmed within him, and he threw the small blade in the direction of the limp girl's chest.

As it met its target, there was little response. No cry or scream, no struggle or movement, just the silent fall of jewels which tumbled to kiss the ground with a chime. Wen watched momentarily, waiting for a reaction, not receiving one; he knelt to collect the gems. Shifting his gaze to the blade etched into the right side of her ribcage, he chuckled lowly.

"I didn't bring a Mage," Wen hissed at himself. In the low glow of the light, he could barely make out the slight drip of red that tricked beneath her browning dress, "perhaps, someone will be free tomorrow."