The King Trials.

~Eyes Of The Night~

After that...unnerving narration. The Chieftain satisfied and the rest of the Oromians full of both entertainment and what passes for food. They released us to our new quarters for a time. The Herems were whisked to the one side of the compound and I was hauled down the other. Escorted to one of the sleeping huts to share with other females, virgins like myself.

Seated on a tattered mat for a bed, on solid rock, with nothing but a threadbare blanket to keep warm. Fortunately, I don't need it. The night air is rather impartial, neither warm, neither cold. My legs are folded, head and back resting against dry clay brick.

I cannot sleep. I know it shouldn't bother me, but it does. The legend bearer's mystical show with the use of fire magic to regale...some prophecy brought by their deity. It haunts me still. Thoughts clamour in my mind, only driving sleep further away from me. Which is not what I need. I need my full strength for whatever will unfold tomorrow; my energy reserve already halved because of the lack of nourishment to refill my tank. As one can imagine. I couldn't bring myself to eat that bowl of mushy, living slugs. The choice to starve was the only appetising alternative.

Hopefully, at the hunt tomorrow. I can get a good kill and feast on my triumph.

My gaze lowers to the slumbering, feminine figures all laid down. Silence hums with their collective breathing. Shadows draped over them, faces unseen. The only source of light is the orangey glow reflected slantwise on the ground, outside the doorway, from a nearby fire torch that flickers and flares.

All of us are tightly packed inside like freight crates in an airship's cargo bay. On wakeful nights like this, I would lounge on the ledge of my balcony. Beholding a view that overlooks the entire Prime Province that glistens under the stars with beads of lights that fleck the dark expanse. Nostalgia like a gloom as black as this night saddens my resign. My heart but a heavyweight in my chest. I shake my head, warding off the deluge of midnight emotions.

I need fresh, non-recycled air.

I grab my boots, shoving them on and lacing them back up. After, I scramble to full height, snatching up my coat, which I was using as an improvised pillow. I unfurl it and slide my arms through the long sleeves, propping out the collar as I move forward.

I tiptoe through the spotted gaps between a maze of arms, hands, and legs like trying to cross a minefield. Accidentally stepping on someone's limb and wakening them from their sleep is more deadly than any bomb. Shortly, I safely make it to the other side, breezing through the doorway. I walk down the narrow footpath and onto the main pathway of the compound.

The compound is segregated into four key parts in the tribe's body; at the centre, but positioned on the flanks are the sleeping huts; ones for young females and the other for young males. And the others allocated to parents and their infants. The fifth part is the head of the compound, where the Chieftain's dwelling stands alone. The only form of...recreational structures is the bonfire for dinner time and storytelling. And at the foot of the compound, where a lounge of stone seats are situated in a ring, surrounding the communal firepit.

 I wander down the wide pathway, flanked by the string of round huts. 

My sensors serrate, on high alert. In my periphery, I can see a few patrolling Oromian soldiers and even a few of our guards. My coat is completely open, daggers exposed but concealed enough by the cover of night. Allowing wafts of wind to rustle the hem, too light to cause it to billow.

This is nice, calming, just what I needed—the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Suddenly I feel a powerful presence behind me. A great shadow looming. Whoever they are, they cannot be a sincere threat or they would have been caught by the night guards.

The shadow grows in size, closer and closer to me.

Instincts override my rationality—I seize my one dagger and in the same breath. I spin around and my hand flashes to a thick throat; the blade inches from the skin. I look up. The darkness blinks, staring down at me with an indecipherable look.

My heart flips over.

"Notable reflexes," he says factually, without a hint of praise or surprise in his tone.

I sheathe the dagger.

"Or notable training," he suggests. His eyes examine me from top to bottom with a maddening, unreadable look.

Under his gaze, I'm flooded with uneasiness, a sense of insecurity, resisting the urge to look away. On its own volition, my hand lifts to inspect my hair. Locks of it straggles out of its bounds, dry and tangled, already feeling like a ringerd's nest.

"Trouble sleeping, Hera?" Mock filling his tone. "This must be difficult for you, I'm certain you are not accustomed to sleeping on anything other than an extravagant bed." He looks ahead of me, brushing past me like I'm nothing.

The explicit action irks me in such an...unparalleled way. Anger pouring through me.

The Herems were brought up in the same luxury as I. But apparently, the relocation and the adjustment to daily living is more difficult for me because I am a woman? Anger swells within, like a well bank of borrowed verve. I whirl around, marching towards him with long, stomping strides. The ends of my coat struggle to keep up.

"There are things beyond such unimportance that plague me," I utter, mustering all the loathing I can, to add, "Primus,"

Primus Kelan frees a scant laugh; short and scathing. "And what troubles plague a Hera? What kind of gowns to wear, estates to vacation to or which Nobleman to bed?"

A frown screws up my face into a taut scowl. How dare he!

I have never used my title to demand respect. That privilege was always offered to me freely, but I now I wish to bludgeon him with it and remind him to whom he speaks with.

"I resent your vulgar assumptions." Words compressed by my gritted teeth. "And I think it is very narrow-minded of you to clump me into a stereotype because you do not know me. And somehow, I earned your ire?"

Without a sign. He wheels on me fast and abrupt—I flinch back at the hostility.

"The grievance I bear against you is not because of you; I do not know you and I do not care to."

A nameless ache needles my heart.

He steps forward and moves to tower over me intimidatingly, only expanding the daunting measure of menace. And it works all too well.

"I have a problem with your presence here." His voice frayed by aggression. "Do you honestly think that the Trials are only comprised with endeavours of diplomacy. This is not even the start of phase one. The Trials will test you more than you know, more than you ever thought possible. Only before death do you truly see, and come to realise who you are."

His eyes burn with raw intensity. Despite the moonlight that shines on his rear, his face absorbs it into his skin, into the dark pools of his eyes. Shadows crest the peak of his cheekbones, determined to remain dark.

"You will be faced with challenges that not only test your strength but your sheer will to live. The Herems may be flamboyant, but they are trained in the arts of war as is required of any Nobleman. My problem with you, Hera, is that you should not be here."

He steps back and rotates around to resume his march. Trapped, my foot locked on the ground as I stare after him until his burly frame thaws into the black. I have heard his words before, and I will hear them still.

But for some reason... his hurt the most. As he said, I barely know him, but his words carry such a burden over me, with the power to either build or destroy. But I will not be put down by any of them, not by him, the other Herems or whatever dangers I will face in the Trials, as I'm so obstinately reminded.

Many believe I do not belong here.

I will show them all why I do.