So You Might be Soulless (Season 2)

8|| Fight me

The next day, Diya woke up much earlier than she'd intended.

She stared at the water-logged, monochrome ceiling, unsure why she was feeling a cold trickle of dread creep down her spine and settle somewhere behind her stomach. She gripped her thin blankets and turned on her side, the soft snores of the other recruits filled the silence, but they weren't so loud that they should be keeping her awake.

Gentle light streamed from underneath the curtains and Diya flicked her wrist to send a shadow to lift it up. Once glance told her it was barely past dawn and she huffed, dragging her arm across her face.

Damned Second Prince. She scowled into the gloom. Making me run a fool's errand last and now not letting me sleep. Was it irrational to blame Caspian for everything? Possibly. Did she care? Absolutely not.

Upon realising that sleep was a losing battle, Diya dragged herself out of bed and stretched. After freshening up, she changed into her uniform, shuddering at the coarse material against her skin. Can't wait until I can wear nice clothes again.

Her footsteps barely made a sound across the wooden floor and she opened the door with a slight creak, breathing in the cool, morning air. The days were getting hotter and she knew she wouldn't be able to get away with wearing long-sleeved shirts anymore without looking suspicious.

Just hold out a bit longer. Just until Lucas-san gets back, then everything will be back to normal again.

Her mind idled and wandered back to the mission last night and she gripped her sword with a murderous scowl. She'd gone down to the docks, as ordered, and asked for the records. What his Royal Pain in the Ass had failed to explain was that there were a lot of ships that had docked within the year.

She'd barely managed to get through them with her eyes open and had dragged herself back to the palace. She was even too tired to be angry about the fact that the Second Prince was fast asleep when she returned with the report, and had to give herself a stern reminder that it wasn't worth going to prison over this waste of oxygen to stop her from smothering him with a ridiculously plump pillow. Cold anger blossomed in the pit of her stomach, and she made the mental note to find the biggest Neithe in the garden and throw it in his face.

Diya took another deep breath to quell her rage and raised a fist to knock on the kitchen door. She froze midway, hearing soft sniffles and hushed voices from the other side. For a second, she contemplated coming back later, but then she recognised Siriana's anguished tone.

"Hello?" She murmured, pressing close. "Is- is everything alright?"

The door was wrenched open. Siriana appeared, her red hair messy and eyes swollen and lifeless. A weak sob pushed past her lips as she frantically wiped her cheeks. "Diya, p-please come in."

"What's wrong? What happened?" Diya's gaze fell on the huddled group of servants who wore similar expressions of convoluted dismay and grief.

Then she saw Fred.

He was leaning against the wall, knees drawn to his chest with his arms locked around them as if he was trying to keep everyone out. His gaze was dark and dull and stared at a spot on the wall, not even stirring when Diya crouched by him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Don't–" One of the maids started to push her away, but was stopped by Siriana's sharp shake of the head.

"Hey, Fred," Diya whispered in a sweet and gentle voice. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Tears welled up in his eyes and the tiniest whisper tore free from his throat, scratched and hoarse from too long spent in silence. "I said no."