A large dark wooden desk carved with ornate designs took up an entire half of the office space. The craftsmanship of the beautiful piece of furniture was in sharp contrast to the rest of the room. Sure, the two matching high-backed chairs that faced the fire were of beautiful make, but the desk was still the most elegant and expensive-looking item in the room. Swirls of flowers and leafy vines crawled up its sides and were carved into the deep redwood surface. Despite the size and gaudy look of the desk, it was still, by far, Duke Peterson's favorite piece of furniture. The desk reminded him of Enarch, the capital city of Kilian, and the Duke's home.

On days when he particularly missed the grand parties and overcrowded streets of the city, Duke Peterson would sit behind his desk and close his eyes. The warm smell of wood was still the same as it had always been. He would imagine he was far away from this horrible place. The scent of the wood transporting him back to his old office in the capital city. His mother and sisters, who still lived in the city, would be readying for grand events and afternoon teas. Peterson missed them, but he needed to do well in this duty station to gain favor with the crown. The politics of it all often resulted in a splitting headache.

Sitting back in his leather desk chair, the Duke studied the inventory list in his hand. He had looked over the lines of letters and numbers several times already, and yet he still had not read a single word. Early that morning, a messenger had arrived with news that the Crowned Prince of Kilian would be arriving that evening. Peterson had already ordered an inspection of the prison, in preparation for the prince's arrival. It was one more headache that he did not need.

Peterson ran his fingers through the wiry brown hair of his beard. His hair had become lightly speckled with grey in the almost two years he had been here. The short cut he wore his hair in now only accentuated the grey in his hair more. This job had aged him. He sometimes wondered if it would be the death of him. Peterson still remembered receiving his assignment to oversee Arden Prison Camp. While it sounded as if it were an invitation, Peterson knew it was an order, one he could not refuse.

A sharp knock at his office door made Peterson look up from his desk. The Duke jumped to his feet as the Crowned Prince opened his office door. Peterson quickly bowed as Prince Thidal and four of the Prince’s personal guards, dressed in head-to-toe black, entered the room. Peterson tried not to bristle as he realized that not one but all four guards had slightly pointed ears. He had heard the rumors that the Prince had half-bloods serving as his personal guards. He just had not believed them until now.

Thidal was a tall slim man. While most wealthy members of the royal court took to wearing pixie gems to alter their features slightly, the Prince appeared to have over twenty of the tiny stones. Peterson himself only could pick out what a few of them did. One for youth, eye color, maybe that other was for hair color, all though he was not entirely sure.

"I hear we have a few new prisoners in custody from the last patrol," Prince Thidal spoke up. Peterson nodded, motioning to a seat in front of his desk for the Prince to take. Thidal ignored him as he lazily slinked across the room to one of the yellow high-backed chairs by the fire. Pinching his fingers, as if the book in the chair was little more than a piece of trash, Thidal picked it up. He glanced at it, making a face of disgust before dropping back in the chair and wiping his hands on his vest.

"Well?" Thidal asked, rather exasperatedly, waiting for the Duke to elaborate further on the new prisoners behind their iron walls.

Peterson nodded his head yes as he gathered his thoughts, "Yes, a nymph, a pixie, and a hollow are in custody, your grace," he answered.

"I see," Thidal crossed behind the high-backed chair, resting his arms on it as he stared into the fire.

Prince Thidal was the younger brother of King Karel Balric and was currently the heir to the throne of Kilian. While Peterson was loyal to his king, he could not help but pray that Karel would have a son, and heir, to block Thidal from taking the throne.

"Good," Thidal's voice sounded almost oily as he smiled at Peterson. As if looking at his next meal. Peterson gripped the back of his office chair and gave a tight-lipped smile.

"I want to see the nymph as soon as possible," he added. A cat-like grin stretched across his face. Peterson straightened to keep a chill from shaking his body. He could not help but wonder what happened to the Etherie prisoners that Thidal took from this place. It was always weaker ones he requested. Ones that looked more human but did not have vast amounts of magic. The Duke glanced at the guards who wore hard-black masks over their faces. Their eyes were the only part able to be seen. How many of them were once prisoners of Arden? The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"I can have one of my guards give you a tour of the facility if you would like," Peterson said, doing his best not to look Thidal in his too purple eyes.

A knock at the door saved Peterson from the growing look of disgust and disdain on the Prince's face. Another one of Prince Thidal's royal guards entered the small office space. He was a behemoth of a man, his shoulders almost touching either side of the doorframe as he walked through. Peterson marked the silver crest of the Captain of the royal guard on his all-black uniform. In the Captain's hand, held by the back of his collar, was one of the prison guards. Peterson quickly rounded his desk, stepping towards the frightened young guard. Peterson gave momentary pause as the man's amber eyes bore into him through the shadows of his black mask. It was as if the Captain could see into his very soul. Peterson suppressed the shudder that threatened to rack through his body under the half-breed's gaze.

Part of him wondered if the Etherie blood that ran through this man was giant blood, or worse, fae blood. The fae were the worst of the beings still in Dyron. They ruled over the rest of the Etherie; wearing crowns and dresses as they played at civility. Legends even said that these rulers could curse entire kingdoms with only a few spoken words. Peterson had yet to find one creature with that kind of magic. Out of the hundreds of species, he knew of, the fae were the most beautiful and the most deadly. They were monsters wearing a pretty face.

Duke Peterson looked at the Private, still in the half-blood Captain's grasp. His dark skin was pale as if he had seen a ghost. The Captain growled and shoved the boy forward. Prince Thidal let out a low chuckle before slinking around Peterson and towards the boy. The Prince's laugh was as oily as the man himself. The Captain bowed his head to the Prince.

"Master," his words were less of a growl. The boy caught himself before he fell forward. His oversized purple and gold uniform had shifted oddly on his frame.

"What have you brought us, Gidden?" Prince Thidal's voice grated on Peterson's nerves, but he kept his mouth shut. Sometimes Peterson was not sure who he liked less, nobles or the Etherie creatures he imprisoned. Thidal seemed to accomplish having both by bringing his host of half-breed guards along with him.

"Private, what is your name?" Peterson said, doing his best not to scare him any more than he already was. He cringed realizing the private had already soiled his clothes.

"Adams. Duke... Sir," The boy bowed his head in respect.

"What happened?" Peterson put more authority behind his voice.

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"Sh... she... she killed Corporal Bardon," The Private stumbled over his words, his fingers had gone white from wringing them so tightly.

Peterson blinked in surprise and disbelief. How could any prisoner kill a guard? It was impossible! Especially for a female. He could count on one hand how many prisoners had managed to kill or wound a guard. All of them were dead. All but… Peterson’s stomach twisted in a knot. That was impossible. She should be dead by now. Yet, he could not remember receiving news that she died.

"Who killed him, dear boy?" The Prince asked as he took a step towards the guard. Despite his calm mannerisms and easy smile, there was something like glee in the Prince's eyes at the news of a death in the prison. Even if it was a human who had died.

"It was..." Adams was trying not to cry now. He was too young to have been stationed here. Too young to be stationed anywhere, Peterson thought.

"513," the boy whispered as if saying even the number she had been assigned aloud would summon her to them.

Peterson felt his blood go cold as ice snaked down his spine. She was killing again. Peterson wiped his hand down his face before slamming his fist into the wooden wall beside him. The sudden sound made even the Prince jump in surprise and look at him. The startled look on Thidal’s face quickly turned to amusement.

Peterson squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath. There had been no word or gossip about her for so long, that Peterson had assumed she was dead. When Peterson finally opened his eyes only a second later, he launched into movement. The Duke wasted no time, grabbing his weapon off the back of his office chair. He shouldered past the Capitan of the Prince’s guard, the Private, and the Prince.

He did not wait to see if the others followed him. He knew exactly where to go. His boots clicking down the stone hall as he walked by cell door after cell door. The only indication that the others had bothered to follow him was the shuffling footsteps behind him, as the Private was dragged behind the Prince and the Captain.

Duke Peterson did not care how it happened. He did not even care that it had happened while the Crowned Prince was visiting. All that was important now was preventing her from killing anyone else. Or worse, escaping.

As they descended lower into the prison, the halls grew darker. Only the flickering light of the torches lit the way, giving the damp corridors an eerie glow. Peterson’s breath fogged in front of his face as he moved. His eyes scanning the door numbers as he walked. 507, 509, 511… Peterson froze in place as 513 came into view. The Private, now walking behind him, nearly slamming into him because of his sudden stop. The increasingly cold temperature had nothing to do with why Peterson froze in place at the sight of the cell door.

It was wide open.

For a moment, Peterson had the overwhelming desire to run. As if every instinct in his body was screaming of the danger ahead. But she was there, still chained, sitting just inside the threshold of the door.

The female looked almost peaceful sitting there with her eyes closed. Peaceful — and so incredibly beautiful. Even in the tattered clothes, and filthy state she was in, there was a haunting beauty to her. Her face was turned towards the torchlight, like a house cat sunning in the afternoon light streaming through a window. The longer he looked, the more he realized she looked almost like a normal girl, no older than his youngest sister. She was just a weak, frail, girl. Her lips twisted into a smirk as her ice-blue eyes lazily opened.

The facade fell.

Her peaceful face was quickly replaced with a cocky smile. This monster was no girl. She was a cold-blooded killer who needed to die, Peterson reminded himself. His lip curled up in disgust.

"I hear you lost another one of your humans," she rasped. It was in harsh contrast to the melodic voice she used when she first arrived at the prison.

Her taunt sent a flare of anger through him, anger quickly doused by the realization that she could still talk. With how long she had been here, it was impossible. He had just assumed she had gone mad as the other prisoners had. None of the mad ones could speak, or at least not coherently. Yet there was clarity in her eyes that no prisoner in this place had.

Peterson knew she had been imprisoned shortly after he arrived at Arden. He was still new when she was taken to her cell. It was his order to only send four guards with her. A mistake he would never forget. Nor would he forget the day she killed so many of his men in the pit.

But that was…

Peterson grabbed the chart by her door and began flipping through her records. His heart stopped as he read the information written before him. Three years. She had been here for over three years. Most prisoners in Arden lasted only a few months before the iron killed them, the strongest might make it a year. No wonder he had assumed she was dead.

She should be dead.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold temperature of the lower prison levels snaked down his back. He forced himself to look at where the iron chains rested on her skin…

It was impossible.

The Duke found himself taking a step back away from her as she cocked her head to the side and studied him. She looked at him, not as if she were eyeing her next meal, but in a way that made him wonder if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

At his retreat, the Prince stepped into the torchlight, ripping her attention away from him. A low growl guttered from her mouth as she looked at Thidal. The sound made Private Adams visibly wince and shrink back even further away from the cell door.

"My, my," Thidal chuckled lightly, "that is no way to greet your Prince," he smiled at her as if he was talking to a child and not a predator. Peterson could see the recognition and greed in the Prince’s eyes as he stared down at the prisoner. Thidal wanted her.

"You are not my Prince," she seethed as she slowly rose to her feet.

"But I could be," he said, taking a step closer to the female, "we are not so different you know,"

She laughed, actually laughed at the Prince. The sound was melodic yet harsh on Peterson’s ears. Her movements were so fluid, she looked like a shade floating across the floor, as she turned and walked away from them.

"We are as similar as a hawk and a snake," she purred. The comparison, Peterson had to admit, was almost poetic.

"Swear the blood oath to me, and you will be free," Prince Thidal said almost too casually.

It took every ounce of formal training Peterson had not to balk at his Prince's words. He was not entirely familiar with what a blood oath was, but it did not sound good. It sounded like magic, which was illegal to perform in Kilian. Even for the Crowned Prince.

"Never," she spat, her voice low and feral. For a moment, Peterson saw something in her face that he had not expected to see there. Fear. That was actual fear in her eyes.

"You will change your mind," Thidal held his chin high as he spoke. As if the words coming from his mouth were the absolute truth.

"I would rather die than be enslaved to a monster like you," the female snapped back. The truth in her words was like a physical weight falling into the room. It forced Peterson to look up from the file still gripped in his hands. He had known a lot about the prisoner, even before he looked at her chart, he had written most of the chart himself.

What he had realized now, from his few notes scribbled on the papers, brought him to only one conclusion. It was Prince Thidal himself who had staved off her execution thus far. Or at least someone in the royal family was protecting her. The Prince was the most likely reason that that Lady Death was still alive — when she should have been executed long ago for her crimes. But someone of her status required royal approval for execution, and each request that had been sent in had been quickly denied.

Prince Thidal just gave an amused laugh as he looked to Peterson. "Give her your worst," was all he said before disappearing down the dark corridor.

As far as his memory served, this was probably the most talkative he had ever seen 513. She had always been quick-tempered and usually expressed her opinions in growls, snarls, and violence in the past. Peterson had to admit, the female was far more intelligent than he had first given her credit for. Though he supposed her being a member of the royal family of Leona meant that she was far more educated than the typical prisoner of Arden.

That did not change the fact that she was a murderous beast. A monster who enjoyed killing his kind. Peterson carefully hung her records by her door. He said nothing as they pulled the dead body from her cell. The body dragged along the ground. Peterson's heart gripped at the sight of the dead man. A man who had a family. He had a wife and children. Peterson knew he would be writing that family a letter today. The cold reality of what exactly the fae were and could do ripped into him like a beast with fangs and claws.

"Take her to the pit," Peterson commanded the few guards gathered around him. He did not see the dead look in her eyes as they unchained her from the wall and placed iron bracelets on her wrists. He did not notice that there was no trace of fear on her too-perfect face. As if all of this, the pain and suffering, was just a minor inconvenience in her practically immortal life.

He was far too angry at the number of killed he had read on that chart by the door. This guard was just one of many she had murdered since her stay here. Most prisoners were executed if they even attempted to attack a guard.

He did not care if he had to write to the King himself. Lady Railynn Ashelin Tal was not some toy for the Prince to play with. She was a monster.