Page 9 of Nocturn

“Accept your fate, Vessel, you’ll just make it worse for yourself by the time Nocturn arrives.”

His voice was soft and low, insistent.

Not one of them cared. If they did, they would have tried to help. So easily, with just a few well-placed words, my will to fight wilted.

The officer guided me to the spear right in the middle. He crouched and attached the end of the long chain through the loop at the side and locked it. Without a word, he departed.

I stared at the moonlit floor, mesmerized by the polished black stone. Thin fissures caught the moonlight, causing a deep wine color to reflect. I’d never seen anything like it. Lowering onto the ground, I curled my legs close to my chest, placed my chin on my knees, and stared out into the spanning window. The moonlight took up much of the sky, and stars sprinkled around the waning moon. Such a beautiful sight. I best absorb it.

The Sycarious sky was beautiful, and it was even better closer to my homeland, Southern Sycarious. A clear image flashed in my memory. As always, with any thought of the countryside, a vision of my family torn apart flitted to the forefront.

Hopelessness snaked through my veins, poisoning every artery.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm my rampant pulse. Distracting myself was imperative. I let out a slow breath, clenching my hands. Harder and harder until the pinch dragged me out of my panic.

Nocturn arrived in four moon rotations. An eve where dawnlight never rose and it was pure moonlight twice the time as usual.

Many times I had heard the prophecy. Whispered about at dinner parties, balls, and powder rooms. With the whispers came their hope of being the one chosen by the Sigil. A possibility of serving the Warlord King was much too tempting for ladies from Elite families.

When word spread across the realm that the one to have the Sigil was a redblood? Nothing good could come from it.

A hissed sound ripped me out of my half doze, and I pushed onto my elbows, blinking the blur from my eyes. Figures approached me at an alarming speed. I dragged in a gust of air to scream, but a hand clamped over my mouth, cutting me off. Danger. Run. Hide. My heartbeats thundered those three words through my veins.

I lunged to get away, but an arm snaked around my stomach.

Unlike the Warlord’s oversized body, the one against me was small and struggled to contain my frantic writhing. The scent of earthy straw and damp grass filled my nose.

“Stop moving,” the low-pitched threat only spurred me on.

Another hand grabbed my wrist, and the original assailant grappled with my other hand. Together, they shoved me onto the floor, pinning my arms.

“We can make this pleasant if you stop writhing,” the damp-smelling one hissed. Terror escalated my struggles.

My eyes finally focused. A wiry man with strained features pinned my shoulders down. A dull pulse worked to my fingertips. His hips forced my thighs to spread, causing the bottom of my sleeping gown to pool at my midsection.

A hand shoved between his body and mine. Hard fingers pressed against my bare private flesh. An invasive, harsh sensation. Disgust gnawed through my veins. A pit yawned open in my gut, urging me to bury myself into my mind.

No!

No, no, no, no!

I sucked in a breath and let out a piercing scream.

The wiry man pinning me slapped his hand over my mouth. Panic made my movements disjointed. I curled my leg and thrust my knee between the bearded man’s legs with enough force that he was propelled back. His invasive fingers slid out of my flesh. I kicked again, and he toppled back, widened eyes meeting mine.

He had fallen on the spike behind him, the one I’d been chained to. They must have unlocked me from it while I’d been dozing. Shadows caused his blue blood to look black; the spread of liquid bloomed wider across his chest. My stomach lurched. I rolled to vomit, ending up splattering the wiry man in an officer’s uniform with foul, milky liquid.

He shouted, and his grip on my arm loosened, freeing me. I shoved to my hands and knees, crawling away. A pair of boots stepped into my path. In the time it took me to flinch back and sit, the third officer slapped me across the face.

I yelped, falling onto my side, the flash of gold embroidered on his uniform telling me of his higher rank in the Guard. A copper taste filled my mouth. He crouched and hit me again. Blood sprayed across the ground, and my vision blurred.

“Would you look at that,” he marveled. “A disgusting redblood. I will be doing His Highness a favor by breaking the little wench.” His face was shadowed, but it did nothing to hide the avarice in the curve of his mouth. “Boris, take him to the infirmary.” He had already unfastened his pantaloons.

He was in front of me. The wiry man, Boris, continued to glare at me, not moving to the other officer speared on the spike.

“He’s already dead.”

At that phrase, I whipped my head toward the injured man. He lay still, eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling.