HEIR | The Cursed Monarchy | Book 1

Emergence: Part I, Chapter 2

Before the sun disappeared below the distant horizon, Cecily approached the Gallows Gate of the Kingdom of Imrath. She recalled the night she received her summons to appear in court at  the citadel, a mere month after Daire's visit to her uncle's tailor shop, and hadn't the faintest idea what to expect. Ever since her mother's passing last summer, her life had taken a turn, spiraling into a disheartening current of pain. While she looked forward to finding a new purpose in life, her past left her expecting more heartache. Still, she could hardly refuse a summons from court.

Leaving her simple life in Maydale had been the root of her worries from the start. The thought made her eyes well up, but she blinked the tears away, and allowed herself a moment to recover from a sudden wave of anxiety. It was as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs, leaving them bare and hungry. Imrath was indeed a far cry from the quiet, homely streets of her hometown. Adjacent to its harbor, the kingdom seemed to tenderly cradle hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of homes within its protective walls. In the center, a steeply pitched castle pierced the land with its higher turrets off toward the harbor, but not so much as a shout could be heard from where she stood. She sighed and tried to smile. The past no longer mattered. She was going to be part of society. Her work would give her purpose and something she'd never had – a sense of belonging and a home.

Looking down at her feet, she closed her eyes for a moment, hearing nothing except her shallow breath and her faint heartbeat. Slowly apprehension faded, the air returning to her lungs and Cecily, her eyes glistening with satisfaction, altered her gaze to capture the golden sun as it chased the horizon set before her. After a few moments of brushing ineffectively at the dust on her modest black dress, she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. One hand idly traced the spool of thread and thimble, the other gripped a fresh packet of hand-rolled cigarettes. She moved forward. Her face wore a fierce radiance – a kind of brightness that made her features, – with her strong chin and large, shadowy eyes –, like that of a warrior depicted in an ancient tapestry.

When the two sentries saw her approach the gate, they immediately stood at attention in front of the wicket gate, a small metal door at the foot of the larger Gallows Gate, just large enough to admit one visitor at a time. They were armed with shields and scimitars, and though their armor and weapons seemed ordinary, Cecily was sure there was nothing ordinary about these guards.

The first guard approached her, weapon at the ready, smiling with pleasure as he demanded that she identify herself. When she did so, he scoffed.

"Methinks 'twould be better if you served me tonight," he said boldly. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. "What do you think?"

Cecily felt a drop of sweat form on her temple, fearing the worst as the second guard drew near.

"The castle is busy tonight and, apparently, full of scoundrels," the second said, dismissing his comrade. "No one enters these walls without papers."

Relieved, she handed him the scroll and politely stepped back as he read the summons requesting the presence of Cecily Trask at the Household of Niadh, where she would begin her labor as a servant on her eighteenth birthday. 'This changes everything' was the thought that passed through her mind now, just as it had every day since the summons had arrived. Silently, she watched the guard read, feeling the oddest sensation – a steady, unrelenting pulse of strength. Was he an immortal as well? Why surely he must be – his power was so overwhelming; frighteningly overwhelming and wonderfully overwhelming at the same time.

"Welcome to Imrath," he said curtly, giving her a quick but thorough inspection. Then he handed her back the scroll, seemingly satisfied with its authenticity. "Your presence is expected by the others."

There was a peculiar tone of emptiness in his tone that contrasted drastically from the liveliness she imagined for the inhabitants of the citadel. It caught at her even as he beckoned for the wicket gate to be opened. Drawing her cloak about her, Cecily bent down and slipped through like a thread passing through the eye of a needle. Pitch torches in sconces along the walls flared in the dark hallways of the gatehouse, illuminating coats of arms that established the Niadh lineage. Behind her, there was a creak in the hinges, then a soft thud as the wicket gate closed, followed by heavy footsteps. Then she was standing alone with the powerful guard inside the gatehouse.