Lucia was not one for waiting. When she made a demand, it was the privilege of all others to carry it out with haste. Why she was still sat alone within the eastern conservatory of the Desmond Estate truly escaped her. Allowances could be made for nobility of a certain esteem, but for a lady of the great-unwashed? Unthinkable!

Bouncing a finger atop the back of her hand, resting on a knee crossed over the other, she straightened her back—it would not do to be caught slouching. She could only imagine what her peers would think if they knew. All the effort she was willing to endure, and for what? A boy? A boy who viewed her with even less regard than those backbiters and venomous gossips she called friend.

They thought her unaware of their whispers, but she was not. She was keenly attuned to every rumour, hissed with forked tongues, each one an amusement now—and a debt to be settled later.

It had been that way her entire life—mocked from the shadows. Though the Desmond household was affluent—undeniably so—their influence never quite matched that of the noble houses with which they rubbed shoulders. Among their number, there were many powerful inheritors: the Sisters of Sorrow, Beast Mother, and Maiden of Calamity, to name a few, but not one had claimed a Lord’s Inheritance.

To her peers, it mattered not that she was an heir to a head-household—distinguished above their stations as scions to mere branch families in their so-called “great” houses. Her superior talent and potential were never acknowledged. Not even her beauty—breath-taking by anyone’s standard—was sufficient to mask the glaring blotch that was her standing.

She would put on a smile and laugh it aside as, one by one, her treacherous friends came to her in confidence, turning on each other, revealing what the others had said in a bid to curry her favour. But it would not be a laughing matter forever. The day would come; she would return the lash of their tongues with the sting of a whip.

It would all begin with a boy.

Aaron despised her; she could see it in his eyes. That was all well with her. She did not mind his hatred, so long as he loved her.

Love was patient, love was kind, it always protected, always preserved, but most crucially—it always served her. The boy could hate her, if he wished, but he would come to obey—he would come to love her.

Sighing, she looked up through the crystal ceiling of the conservatory, squinting at the day-sun’s rays. The night-sun still lingered in the sky, but soon enough, morning’s full light would rise from the horizon, chasing the last vestiges of night away.

This is ridiculous, she thought, uncrossing her legs to cross them again. How long will she keep me waiting?

When that peculiar girl first approached her at a ball, Lucia was ready to dismiss her—just another low-born sycophant, eager to clutch at her her skirts and claw her way up the social ladder. Lucia had long learned that when it came to rejecting a suitor, it was always best to ready a smile. For the less odious pursuer, a smile would soften the blow; yet that same expression, for the ugly and boastful, was more scaring than burning coals heaped overhead. By the way that girl had walked up to her, swaying her steps with arms held behind as if without a care in the world, Lucia hoped her smile would burn like heated iron pressed deep into skin. The world was a cruel place—anyone that content was a liar or a fool.

She had not taken much time to consider her words. The girl wore a garish white dress with unfeminine boots—crude and definitive would suffice. Lucia could remember sucking air through her teeth, ready to engage as the girl drew near. They locked eyes, and the girl had returned her smile.

‘How might I help you?’ Lucia had asked.

‘Oh no. No, no, no. I’m going to help you,’ the girl replied. Looking the girl up and down, Lucia could barely restrain her laughter. It was all she could do to contain it to a light chuckle.

How could you possibly help me?’ Lucia said, her voice dripping with a mocking sneer.

‘He doesn’t love you,’ the girl said plainly. There was no malice in her eyes. None of the tell-tale signs of cruel satisfaction waltzed on her lips. She did not speak as one performing a vivisecting cut, plunging deep into Lucia’s beating heart to squeeze out her most hidden insecurities. She spoke the words as if discussing the weather. To her, it was a statement of fact—unworthy of passion.

‘How dare—‘

‘He doesn’t love you,’ the girl repeated, her blue eyes cold, yet glowing from within like heat-warped steel, with more than a touch of madness. ‘But if you come with me, he will.’

Thinking back, it was the girl’s eyes—Annalise’s eyes—that had drawn her in.

Many souls would burn to fuel their ambitions. More than sixty, Annalise had told her. Of all the lives they would lead into the Cell, only Lucia, her dear fiancé, and Annalise would ever leave. It could not be helped—after all, love was sacrifice.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

****

The pale glow of bioluminescent moss cast its eerie light below, bathing the city in a twisting web of haunting shadows. Stood leaning upon an open arch atop the black slated bell-tower, Havoc peered into the ever-lingering night.

The cave was vast—he had known that before venturing deeper—but the subterranean city defined all sense, common or otherwise. It spanned eternal in every direction, derelict buildings spread throughout. In its day, it would have been a sight to behold. Now, it stood as only a grim premonition. A stark reminder—even the great and mighty were forgotten in the end.

Why build all this underground? Havoc wondered, thinking such a magnificent feat deserved light of day. Sighing, he turned his mind to more present concerns.

The bell cried out and the cradlefiends were dead. It was a chilling sight. As the bell tolled, a white mist swirled above like a storm, spreading and growing thicker until it blotted blanketed the high cave ceiling. Even the promise of Havoc’s flesh and blood could not entice the cradlefiends to stay. At the time, he could not have resisted—one minute against the horde was all he could last. Yet as the dense mist began to descend, the monsters fled—for all the good it did them. None survived. The fog washed over them like a flood, gushing into their noses and mouths, and then departed, taking with it the breath of life.

Astonished by the scene as he was—neck craned skyward as the fog amassed above—what surprised him more was that the mist was no stranger. He recognised its essence and form; it was no different than the mist he could summon from his anchor. Though the swirling mist was by infinities denser, it was the same, he felt it clearly—the way it reached inside of him, joining joining what lay within him to something vast and boundless.

A shiver crept up his spine as he recalled the sensation. He could only guess at the connection between the Midnight Urn and that those life reaping vapours, but he knew they were linked. More over, as the clouds above flooded the ground, they did not retreat before refilling the urn, over-brimming. ‘

If you weren’t everything she said you’d be, I’d never believe it,’ Naereah whispered from behind, her voice trembling yet carrying a conviction Havoc hadn’t expected from someone who had seemed so hopeless when they first met. Now, as he met her gaze, the depths of hopeful longing directed at him, he felt himself shrink back. The heft of her faith—blind faith—pressed down on him, too heavy a burden to bear. His bones already creaked beneath the weight of his own survival; how could Naereah expect him to carry her hopes as well?

What does she even want from me? he asked himself. But he knew, immediately, it was the wrong question. He could not deny feeling unequal to whatever she saw in him, yet he recognised its usefulness. He had questions—and she could answer at least a few.

‘You swore you would tell me everything,’ Havoc began, his tone heavy and sharp as cutting steel. ‘So talk.’

****

Naereah looked into the eyes of the boy she was sure she loved and froze. What was she supposed to say?

You’re my promised hero. The man who will whisk me away from a life of slavery and keep me at your side always? Even in her own mind, it sounded crazy—how much more deranged would it seem aloud?

But it’s true, isn’t it? She asked herself, her mind spinning as her heart stirred. When the seer first came to her—kneeling down, whispering secrets into her ear—she told her that within the Cell, she would find what she had longed for. All she had ever longed for was for someone to find her—save her—cherish her forever.

Now here he was, just as she had been promised. He had saved her once from the clutches of the White Temptress; she knew he would do so again.

‘You’ll recognise his kindness,’ Annalise had said. ‘He won’t allow you to go hungry.’

It lacked the subtlety she had expected from prophesy, but when Havoc shared his stew with her, she knew it was him. Together with the seer, they would emerge from the nightmare of the Forest of Desire, shatter the chains that had bound them, and shake the foundations of the Dungeon. Forsaken by the world, they would venture deep into the vanguard territories and rise far above it.

I can’t tell him any of that! She determined, her mind reeling still.

In the moment, she could only bury her deepest hopes. She had promised to tell him everything, but she did not intend to reveal it all at once. He was not concerned with the distant future—not when weighed against the pressing now.

‘We’ll survive. The others won’t,’ Naereah finally said.

‘How could you possibly know that?’ Havoc shot back, his voice a sharp whisper.

‘You’ve met her, haven’t you? The seer,’ Naereah replied. ‘Who? Annalise? Yeah, I’ve met her.’ ‘Then you know. She planned all of this, and everything she’s said has come to pass…’ Hesitating, Naereah looked to the debris-laden ground of the bell-tower, her cheeks aflame and her heart aflutter. She raised her face to meet Havoc’s gaze with newfound resolve. ‘Everything,’ she repeated, emphasising the word.

Havoc flickered through several expressions, every morph of his face inspiring different emotions from Naereah. When he looked incredulous, her heart panged with doubt. When eyes soften, reflecting, not disbelief but mere uncertainty, her she swelled with longing. Moments passed with the two oscillating between conflicting emotions before finally, Havoc spoke.

‘Did she tell you how we get out of here?’ Havoc asked, his tone flat. Naereah could not deny the feeling of disappointment. Though it would not last long, they finally had the chance to talk, b, yet his focus remained on their immediate predicament. She had waited so long to meet him. Until he first saved her, she had not even believed it would happen. Now that they were together, she did not want to wait long to get to know the hero she had been promised.

Don’t be stupid. Of course that’s what he’d want to know—that’s who he is, Naereah chided herself. Beyond the parts of his character she had hastily studied, there was another reason he would be interested only in the moment. Though he had met the seer, he did not share her faith in the future she had been promised on the day Annalise had visited the Desmond estate.

She remembered how the seer had kept her lady waiting. On her hands and her knees, Annalise had found her, lathering the floor with a scrubbing brush. Annalise had promised her everything she had ever wanted: to be known, to be seen, and eventually, even loved. And she only asked for one thing in return—something Naereah would have happily done on her own accord.

When the time came—and she would know that time—her only task was to strike her tormentors dead.

As her mistress was fond of saying, love was sacrifice.