It was in the heart of the night when the girl woke up, her eyes blinking back and forth at the unfamiliarity around her.
"Where am I?" She asked, eyes pointed at the girl–who couldn't have been more than a few years older than her–seated before a table. There was a slight frown between her brows as she scribbled words down on a scroll under the light of one of the brightly burning candles in the room.
She looked divine: blonde hair scattered over a petite and lovely face. Rosy cheeks that glowed under the lights befitting of her pink, heart–shaped lips. And when she looked up at the girl who'd just awakened, her eyes shone with a dazzling blue so intense that it rendered one both speechless and captivated.
"I see you've finally come through," she said.
The girl shook herself out of the trance, "where am I?" She repeated, sitting up on the bed.
The room, she now noticed, was filled with the heavy scent of perfume. Lilac to be specific. Bright sheets over yellow painted walls covered in designs of wild flowers at each end. There was a cage bearing a pair of love birds by the window.
Moonlight spilled in.
"Am not certain I should be the one to tell you that," she answered, rising from her chair, "but I think you should start with a thank you first. You know you could have been dead if I'd left you were you'd blanked out."
Her words brought a storm of memories to the girl who suddenly great sharp eyed. She tumbled from the bed. "My father... I need to get him." She stuttered.
"Do you believe they would have left him like that?" The blonde haired asked, hope rekindled in the girls eyes, hope which she was quick in dousing out.
"They should have fed him to the magistrate wolves by now," she continued, "those creatures are experts in tearing up a human's flesh from his bones. It's what they do to every criminal they despise... not that a noble daughter –a former noble daughter like you would be aware of such an atrocity happening in her fantasy world."
The girl doubled down, heaving, like she was on the edge of a panic attack. She was alive, she told herself, she was alive: and her precious father had been killed. In the worst way possible.
"The proper question, I believe, should be, 'what is your name?'" the blonde asked, "or should I keep referring to you as miss Rutherford? Should I call you that in public where you may get a backlash for the sake of your father's name?"
Her words, the girl concluded, were as bitter as she was beautiful. "Mira," she mouthed, "did you know my father?"
"Who didn't?" The blonde chuckled while walking over to the door, "he wasn't a very private person, most especially around here." The moment she swung the door open, the sound of a dozen cackling laughter's of men and women sauntered into the room. A man peeked his head by the door.
