of Sword and Flame

Chapter 5: Shoot the Messenger

 "What?" The king hissed, his back to the informant. The informant, a young boy, trembled, knees still pressed against the ground, lips quivering.

"What I said was," he muttered weakly, "that the Phoenix was caught."

The king whirled around. The boy leaped back, hands raised in front of his face, eyes squeezed shut.

Aran watched it all from a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff. He watched as the boy clamored to the ground, curling up, begging the king to spare him. Aran didn't flinch.

"What do you mean caught?" the king roared. His hand latched onto the boy's collar, and Aran winced. He felt for the boy; he really did. The child must've only been fourteen, give or take. He had neat, crisp clothes and a bag beside him that seemed to be perfect for books. He must've been a scholar.

Aran sucked in a breath. Knowledge wouldn't save him, not from the king.

"Please, it's just what I've heard!" The boy gasped as the king's stare tightened. A loud whack resounded through the room as the king tossed the boy aside. Aran held his breath, trying his best not to flinch as the boy connected with a cabinet lining the wall. He felt the king's dark gaze round on him.

"Gravedigger!" he bellowed. Aran snapped to attention.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" he asked, trying to wring the fear from his tone. The king didn't like it when his Reapers showed emotions.

"Go and fetch Enchantress," he turned back to his desk, looking over a few papers. The boy slowly rose to his feet, and Aran avoided his pitiful eyes as the boy pressed a hand to the fresh gash in his hair.

"She's off on a mission, Your Majesty," Aran stared at his feet. "You sent her yesterday."

"Then get me," he hissed, "Shapeshifter and Crow."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Aran turned toward the door. He wondered, briefly, why the king always referred to them using their titles. Did he prefer it that way? Or did he not want to bother calling them by their real names? Or perhaps... Aran nearly stopped in his tracks.

He doesn't even know our names.

He could hear the king yanking drawers open and slamming them shut, digging through papers. Aran swallowed hard.

He never cared to learn.

The boy, with blood dripping from his head, began to stumble over to Aran, tugging on his sleeve. "Help," he whispered. Aran tore his arm away. The boy's sad, tearful gaze shot through the dark like thunder. But still, Aran held his breath as he left the room. It wasn't his responsibility.

When Kyra awoke, the first thing she noticed was the cool material wrapped around her hands, binding them together in front of her body. The chains rattled as she sat up, blinking. She was in a barely lit room made of some type of metal, probably steel, so there was no way she could burn her way out. The chains were steel, too, she noted, as she looked down at her hands. Standing, she stepped away from the single padded area in the room that somewhat resembled a bed.

The cell was surprisingly clean, with very little light clinging to the hazily reflective walls. It smelled of burnt wax and an overpowering metallic scent, with little hints of rust, likely coming from old chains and weaponry. Kyra brushed the cool metal wall, wondering how long it had been since the cell was used. Centuries of dust did not show, only a few years of lack of use. It appeared to be in an old but perfect condition.

It crossed her mind that when Azura heard of her fire capabilities, they might've built this cell just in case of any visits. It made her curious as to whether there were other cells like it, made to withstand Eryssa's ice or Aran's telekinesis. But she couldn't be certain.