Casimir

I used to have dreams.

When I was a child, living in the deserter's hideout underground, I dreamt of what it would be like to one day go to the surface. My mother never indulged my fantasies, brushing me off for more important issues when I begged to go above ground. So I trained from the day I learnt what an informant did.

When I became an informant at merely 10 years of age, dumped in that orphanage and left to fend for myself, the dreams stopped. It was only nightmares after that. They started off juvenile--nightmares of being caught, found out.

As I matured, so did the nightmares. And in the dark, cold cell, deep beneath the Palace, the nightmares chase me still. I fight with all that I can to keep my eyes open, keep my attention focused on the man across from me.

The hatred is less toxic than the nightmares.

I stand, muscles weak as I wrap my hands around the metal grates trapping me in this small, stone corner. It groans in resistance as I tug, but does not relent.

Winter whistles through the cracked stone underfoot, sending a chill through my bones. It's not the first time I find myself envying Killian, leaning peacefully against his cell, seemingly unphased by the ice in these walls.

As if feeling my gaze, his eyes flutter open.

He raises a brow. "Still no luck?"

His words are innocent but eyes taunting. Since we've been down here, 6 full days, Killian hasn't even tried to break his cell. He's remained frustratingly nonchalant. Sleeping and eating the sloppy poor excuse for food that's delivered once a day.

"At least I'm doing something to try and get us out of here."

"I'm doing something too."

"And what's that?"

"Sleeping. Thinking. Planning."

I fight the urge to scoff. "Well maybe if you spent less time doing all that and instead trying to break out of the cell, you wouldn't need to plan."

Killian lazily rises to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and revealing a slither of his toned stomach. It seems lack of adequate nutrition hasn't harmed his muscle definition. I avert my gaze to his face, scowling at his raised eyebrow.

"Alright then," he says, moving forward to his cell bars. "Let's give this a go."

He reaches forward, wrapping his left hand around one of the metal bars. Almost instantaneously, a sizzling sound carries through the underground cells. Killian meets my gaze, expression stoic. "Oh no," he deadpans, "my hand is burning."

The putrid scent of burnt flesh wafts towards me. I wrinkle my nose and step back as Killian releases the bar, holding his hand out to face me. His flesh is red angry, sizzling like it's been struck with lightning.

"Silver laced bars," he says. "You didn't really think Ereon's cells would just be stone, did you?"

I clench my teeth, trying not to give away that his comment irritates me. He's right. I know silver is lethal to shifters. As deserters, it's one of our main weapons against them. I just hadn't realised they'd use it against each other.

Killian's hand, still stretched towards me, starts to heal over. I shove down the envy working its way into my throat. "You're healed. Can't you bear the pain long enough to break the bars?"

Using his good hand, he tugs at the collar of his dirtied shirt, revealing his left chest. Deep, red scars mark his skin. "Not all silver wounds heal. Prolonged contact can kill us." He pauses, a mocking grin tugging at his lips. "They don't teach you that at deserter school?"

I ignore him, turning back to tug at the metal bars. In the corner of my eye, Killian slumps back down, stretching his legs out and resting his head in his hands behind his head as if we're lazing around the river and not trapped in silver cells six feet underground.

"Care to share with me these plans you're thinking about?" I ask.

He sighs contentedly. "The plan right now is to conserve energy. You should too, by the way, if you want to make it out of here in one piece."

"Go back to sleep, Killian," I say through gritted teeth, trying once more.

He shrugs. "If you insist."

In the distance, metal grates against metal. I stand upright, backing away from the bars. Killian doesn't so much as flinch. My stomach growls at the indication of the impending meal delivery, signaling day 7. The footsteps grow closer. They used to instill a slither of fear inside of me, but now, the desperation for something to eat overpowers the anticipation.

And when the guard arrives at the entryway to our cell's hands filled with chains instead of trays, my stomach groans. This, however, piques Killian's interest so much that he sits upright.

"Get up," the guard grunts.

Killian does so, frustratingly slow, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The guard moves in front of his cell, gesturing for him to come forward. Killian does so without resistance, offering his wrists to the guard to secure. The guard hesitates before unlocking Killian's cell and wrapping the chains around his wrists.

I watch curiously as Killian cooperates. Despite my distaste for him, I can't deny his stellar strength and agility. If he wanted to avert capture in the small slot of time between the cell being opened and the chains being placed upon him, he could.

Yet he doesn't.

His skin sizzles against the chains, but Killian doesn't flinch. The guard hooks the chains to his belt before turning to my cell. I reluctantly offer my hands, secretly grateful that my flesh does not burn in contact with the chains.

"Where are you taking us?" I ask as the guard tightens his grip on my chains.

He does not respond.

I grit my teeth, keeping my head tall despite the tendril of anticipation unfurling in my stomach. Since we've been here, we haven't left the cells once. We haven't even seen the King since that day in Portson when he chased Freya on the wharf. The idea of him brings a bitter taste in my mouth.

The guard leads us up the staircase, reaching a lantern strung up on the wall and taking a second to ignite it. My eyes adjusted to the darkness long ago, so much so that the shift in atmosphere causes me to squint.

The damp air is thick to breathe. The torchlight casts eerie, dancing shadows on the rough stone walls. A metal door greets us. The guard taps three times, and it slides open with an echoing creak revealing another guard on the other side standing in the way of a dimly lit corridor.

The guard stares at us, her gaze shifting from Killian to me and back to Killian. The clinking of our chains fill the air as the guard pulls us forward into the corridor, a chilling symphony. The other guard walks behind. My eyes are drawn to the elaborate paintings strung up on the walls, gold-trimmed frames aged with dust.

The corridor winds around a corner, halting at a spiraling staircase leading downwards into a dark passageway. My insides clench.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?"

Killian and I ignore the guard's taunting voice.

Unlike most children in the villages of Elel, the castle was never known to be a place of beauty and wonder for me. It was always a symbol of the evil dictatorship that ruled Elel. Their riches I despised, it's beauty I loathed. It is not my first time in the Palace, but it is my first time as a prisoner here. And I can't help but feel it now stands as a backdrop for our impending fates.

Killian takes the staircase first. The guards follow behind, tugging my chains to ensure I follow, too. The wooden stairs creak beneath our feet, frighteningly unstable. As we spiral lower, the light from above abandons us, the lantern in the guard's hand our only source of guidance. The staircase finally comes to a stop, signaling a long, twisted hallway before us.

The guard signals forward. We walk for several more minutes, the passage twisting and winding around many corners. A chill crawls down my spine. In our first journey to the castle, Killian managed to source a map of their entire castle. But this underground labyrinth was nowhere on the scroll. I glance at him from the corner of my eyes. Despite his relaxed stance, the scent of his burning flesh fills the air.

"In here," the guard grunts, nodding to a small doorway. I exchange a glance with Killian before stepping through. Once again, my eyes take several seconds to adjust to the shift in light. Though still dimly lit, several lanterns secure to the walls, highlighting the peeling red wallpaper.

But it's the figure in the center who draws my attention.

He stands with his shoulders hunched over, a cane supporting his left side. Behind him, a lantern with a purple tinge peeks through the gaps created by his frail body. The sight of him sends a flurry of rage through my chest. His wrinkled face, frail body, it's an image of deception as I remember the way he grappled Freya on that wharf in Portson.

My stomach churns with fury.

"Ah," the King greets us warmly, "a deserter and a rebel shifter. What an unlikely pairing." I fight the urge to scowl. "Nothing to say?" When neither of us responds, the King reaches forward to tug on Killian's chains, tightening their hold on his wrists. "How about now?"

"Thank you for your wonderful hospitality," Killian says, voice strained. "Is that what you'd like to hear?"

I tense at the sarcasm in his voice, waiting for the impending strike of the King. It does not come. Only the tightening of his smile as the light behind him flickers. "Perhaps a thank you for saving you from death."

"I do not believe it was out of the goodness of your heart. If you didn't need us, we'd be dead."

Ereon's smile drops and he tightens the chains once more. "Careful, duirt." The last word, foreign to my ears, makes Killian go rigid, but he does not respond.

"Why are we here?" I croak.

Ereon shifts his gaze to me, eyeing me from head to toe as if dissecting the carcass of a dead animal. "You will fix what you broke."

Killian and I exchange a glance. But the King answers our question by taking a step to the side.

The glow emanating behind him is not from a lantern.