| Chapter One | Flames of War |

  "Adara, could you bring me the water pail from the garden," Exris' sing-song voice calls from the kitchen- not that Adara was complaining- because she would give anything to be able to take a break from scrubbing the floors.  Red-rubbed skin and pruning fingertips attest to her day's work.  She stands from her spot on the floor of her room, ignoring the protest of her aching knees, Adara grasps her apron and dries the thin layer of water from her skin-tight gloves.

  "You are out of water so soon?" Adara asks, huffing as she walks across the worn, wooden floor-boards into the kitchen.  She scrunches her nose as she kneels to the floor, picking up an old, forgotten rag and balling it tight in her fist, draining it of dirtied water.  Adara sighs, knowing her mother has become much more tired, weighed-down, and burdened since her father has resumed his work at the blacksmiths.  She glances up, frowning at the strained smile on her mothers face, but her green eyes still hold the playfulness that they usually do.

  "Am I cleaning too quickly for you to keep up?" Exris asks with her hands on her hips, raising a stern brow, knowing full-well that her daughter has never one for cleaning and cooking, but she still expects her to try. 

  Adara scoffs, rolling her eyes, letting her fingers wrap around a loose, frayed thread on her old white-linen robe that was beginning to become stained brown at the knees from her work in the garden.

  "Mind you, I have other things on my mind," Adara bites out halfheartedly, rising to her feet and dusting off her apron.

  She makes her way out the back-door, letting it swing shut behind her with a small thud as she enters their garden.  If she closes her eyes, she can hear the sound of cattle closer to town, bellowing and grunting as they are herded to the slaughterhouse.  Flies begin to swarm around her head, buzzing about as the sun beats down on her shoulders.  There seems to be no breeze, stale and stagnant, but she could see the ends of her dress flutter around her feet.

  Adara walks slowly through the growing lines of corn and beans, her eyes on the wooden pail left unattended.  She knows that her mother is oftentimes preoccupied, but to be not willing to walk outside and grab a single bucket was astounding to her.  Stooping down, she grabs the bucket only to find it empty.

  "Mother," she calls out, glancing back at the house before letting a frown tug at her lips.

  Looking around, Adara can see that the garden is empty- completely empty- with no one around, and she knows for a fact that the bucket was over half-full when she and Exris had come inside to work.  The breeze shifts, beginning to pick-up as it whips at her body and brushes stray strands of hair in her face.  Her body tenses as an unease settles in air, the hairs on the back of her neck rise as though she were being watched.

  "What are you wailing about?" Exris shouts from the door, holding it open with a firm hand.  "If you are just going to dally around, leave me to my cleaning."

  "The pail is empty, mother," Adara bites out, one hand on her hip while the other gestures towards the bucket.

  Exris casts a sharp glare, propping her free hand on her own hip, "I do not know what to tell you other than that I have not touched that water since we went inside."

  "Well, who took the water, then?" She asks, the flare of anger surprises her, and her heart thumps just a bit harder in her ribcage.  She pushes her hair out of her eyes, glaring at her mother who walks into the grass in front of her.

  Exris stalks forward like a predator hunts its prey, her green eyes burn like emeralds in the light, as she points a long finger at her daughter's chest.  "It could have been the village's children," she says with a jab of her finger; her daughter is stubborn, she always has been, but her temper has grown since she went away — she'd be a fool to ask why, she knows there are some things that should not be mentioned. 

  "Well, I'm sure no one would mind if I paid a visit to the village's children," Adara smirks as she takes the pail into her hand, "I'll give them a lesson on how to get their own water."

  She knows it's childish to be angry- to be frustrated at children- but they aren't the one's that have to hike into the forest at first light to fetch the water before nightfall; they don't have to listen to meaningless conversations about where the water went.

  Adara turns to walk towards the village, her hand tightening its grip on the handle of the bucket, only for her body to jolt to a stop as her upper-arm is captured in a firm hold.

  "Don't-" she starts, whirling around as she tugs her arm out of her mother's grip, only to cut herself off by biting her tongue.  Her eyes track her mother's hand, watching her hesitate before letting it settle against her shoulder.

  "I'm sorry, but they are just children," Exris says with a scowl, her eyes flittering between her hand and the cobbled path that leads to the heart of the village.  "How about you go gather water while I go pick berries to fix with supper?" She asks, offering a soft smile, but her eyes continue to dart behind her daughter, betraying her nerves.

  Adara presses her tongue roughly against her teeth one more time, "it would be in their best interest to not let this happen again," she says as her fingers flex where she grips the pail.

  "I will speak with them, now let us be on our way," Exris nods, her copper-colored hair bobs around her face as she gestures ahead of her.

  Adara nods in-return, and they walk together in silence through the grass; grass so tall and so plentiful that children-and-adults alike could spend hours inside and never cross paths with one-another.  It is a popular area for the village's children to run through, laughing and screaming until they are called home for the night.

  Their arms are but a hair's-breadth away as they walk, careful not to stray too-far from one another; past history of missing children can attest to the dangers of getting lost, though the majority were found, tearful and frightened in the grasses.

  "I do hope that your father would like a pie," Exris murmurs, her brow creased as she casts her gaze to the grass that bends beneath each step of their feet. 

  Adara hums in halfhearted acknowledgement as she tilts her head back, squinting against the sun as she watches a vulture fly circles in the sky; it's body dark against the white clouds behind it. 

  "He used to love my pies," Exris continues, a wistful look crosses her face, her eyes darken with an emotion her daughter could not place.

  "I'm sure that he did," Adara whispers, setting her jaw as the basket creaks in her grip; her mother and father's relationship has been strained for as long as she could remember, and it has always been because of her.

  The conversation lulls back into a quietness only disrupted by the sounds that she has grown used to; branches creak as they sway in the wind, the crinkle as a blade of grass rubs against another, the never-ceasing chirps of crickets and birds alike.

  As they follow the path that they have taken time-and-time again, they come upon a spear; it was sunk deep into the earth, the top pointing upwards towards the sun and sky.  Against her will, a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth as she looks at the decorations left behind on-and-around the spear, paints the colors of gems, various arrays of strings, and beads strung about, marking them as halfway through the grasses.

  "I do wonder if perhaps you might take the time to learn how to make these pies for your future husband?" Exris questions so quietly that Adara almost did not hear; once she comprehends, a laugh bursts from her chest. 

  "The heat must be getting to your head," Adara rolls her eyes, scoffing as she glances towards her mother; she cannot help but wonder, what has gotten into her today? 

She comes to a hesitant stop as her skirts become entangled in the briars; she bunches the fabric in her fists and yanks, the sharp sound of threads stretching and tearing is stark in the quiet, but it frees her from the sharp, teeth-like snare nonetheless.  Adara chews on the skin of her lip as she gathers the torn bits in her hands, plucking the thorns as she walks, pointedly ignoring the admonished look that her mother was giving her.

  "Adara," her mother murmurs, "have you ever wanted to return home, to Xarenth?"

  Adara flinches, her fingers spasm where they took ahold of a thorn, slicing through her glove and palm; the pain is insignificant in-comparison to the harsh beating of her heart.  The acrid taste of bile is harsh on her tongue as it rises in the back of her throat, the thought of that place making her physically ill.  She shakes her head 'no' as she fights the nausea that settles in her stomach.

  It's a ridiculous question; that place was never her home, a place she can never return.
 
  "We have a home here, mother," Adara musters, though the words taste like ash in her mouth as they reach the small clearing between the grasses and the forest ahead.
 
  To chase the foul taste from her mouth, she reaches forward, thrusting her hand into the thick bushels of berries that hang precariously on the vines.  She plucks a handful free, tossing several bright, blue berries into her mouth as she stuffs the rest into the pocket on the front of her dress.  The tart, sweetness of the berries explodes across her tongue; it does not completely erase the taste of the conversation they had just endured, but it does its duty well-enough.

  "If you turn these into a pie, then I am sure that the entire village will love you," Adara offers with a crooked, half-smile, "even father."

  Exris beams, her smile stretched wide and her eyes squinted-shut with it.  Her daughter cannot help but catalog each-and-every feature, every wrinkle; specifically those around her eyes and her mouth, as she cannot remember the last time that she truly saw her mother smile.

  "Adara, this flattery will get you nowhere," her mother laughs, popping a few berries into her own mouth; she said those same words a long time ago, when she first met her husband, but she hasn't thought of that in a very long time.

  Silence, once again, hushes them; it settles over them like a warm blanket, but silence can never last, not when there is so much to say.

  Adara glances down at her palm, at the tear across her glove, where red blood began to stain the fabric a sick, rusted color.

  "Even if I wanted to return to Xarenth, I can't," Adara says softly, her gaze on a hard-shelled beetle that crawls beside her foot.

  Exris merely sighs with a shake of her head, "it would be best for you to be on your way," she dismisses her daughter, stubborn as she averts her own eyes.

  "As you wish," Adara bites out, a familiar irritation stirs in her chest at the thought of being sent-away like a mere animal, "I do hope that you will tell father 'hello' for me, and that I hope his work went well," she says as she turns her back to her mother, holding aside low-hanging limbs and vines-alike to step across the threshold and into the forest.

  Fallen leaves, a sea of browns and yellows, curled-in at the ends, crunch beneath her weight as she steps over curled roots bigger than her; the trees loom above her, impressive in their height, if she squints she can see the tops of them sway gently in the wind.  It's an earthy smell inside the forest, like dirt and fresh air, nowhere near as stifling as it is under the hot sun in the sands.  She finds that she likes it, welcomes it, even.

  Adara shifts the pail to the crook of her elbow as she bends at the waist, taking ahold of the tattered ends of her dress and hiking it up into her arms in an attempt to keep it from getting snagged on the gnarled roots.  Warm air brushes against her bare legs up to her knees, and she cannot help but laugh at the thought that if her mother were there, she would scold her for it; unladylike and crude.  She supposes that it is a blessing, then, that her mother never much cared for going into the woods.

  That was a pleasure that she and her father shared, back when she was younger, a child.

  Her mother was a free-spirit, back when she was younger, and as-such believed in tall-tales and stories alike; stories were plentiful in their village, Juula, specifically stories regarding these forests.  A popular tale that she was told as a child, was that at night there are creatures that awake and any who find themselves the misfortune of being caught inside never make it out, never to be seen by the light of day.  Her mother, thankfully, was not the one to tell the stories.
 
  Adara always chose to believe that her mother, back then, would have been the kind of person who wanted to see it for herself; if these creatures truly existed.  Although, when she were younger, she used to believe in fairies and dragons living inside the woods.  Now, though, they are all just stories to keep the children inside their beds at night.

  It is one of the many characteristics that she shares with her mother; when she was a child, she also used to believe in the terror-tales.  It was the main reason that her father began to being her into the forests with him.  He was the one who taught her how to tell the difference between an edible berry and a poison berry.  He was the one who taught her how to bait a hook and catch fish within the streams.  He was the one who taught her how to shoot an arrow and to get around a blade.

The forests of truth; that is what they are known as to those who live close to the border.  Another tall-tale is that those trapped within the woods at night will be forced to tell only truths.  It is still a tale, a story, as no one who has gone inside at night has ever returned, but she wonders vaguely what truths she would be forced to spill?  What truths her mother and father would say?  She was never allowed out nearest to dusk, so she would never receive those answers.

  In her youth, she was never a child who would take the dares to run into the woods as it began to turn dark; she was dutiful, then.  She would remain inside and help her mother cook and clean.  It was easier to keep to herself, she preferred to be alone.  It suited her then, and it suits her now.  It prepared her for her future.

  As she takes another step, her body comes to a stop as the tip of her shoe began to sink into the dirt; she lifts her foot slowly, looking down at the damp and muddy imprint that it left behind.  Adara crouches down, pressing her fingertips gently into the soft ground.  The dirt was for the most-part dry, but some of it stuck to her skin and gloves.  A small smirk crosses her face as she realizes that while she was so lost in her thoughts, she wandered much closer to the water than she had anticipated.

  Adara rises to her feet, wiping her gloves on her already stained apron; she resumes her walking, taking care to step on the driest patches of grass that she could find.  She inhales deeply, the husky smell of wet dirt- an earthy smell- fills her nose as she continues on.  Idly, she digs a hand into her pocket, plucking a berry with her fingers and placing it between her teeth.  It reminds her of the first time she had attempted to pick berries under the watchful eyes of her father.

  She had gone into the forests confident in herself and her abilities, bouncing ahead of her father with small hands on her hips.  As soon as she had seen a berry, she had snatched it and placed it right into her mouth, without her father seeing it beforehand.  The following minutes were full of one-sided yelling and scolding, but they were both pleasantly surprised to find it non-poisonous.  When they had later gone home, they promised never to tell her mother of how she had discovered it to be edible.

  It was amusing to her, to think that so long ago she was so, very close with her father, but then again, things happen for a reason.

  She can hear the trickling sound of running water, the sound of water as it weaves and drops on pebbles and stones; she can see it as she nears, the glisten of sunlight reflecting off of its surface.  Reaching the riparian zone, she lets herself sink to her knees, dipping her hands into the bone-chilling water.  It lights-up a flare of stinging pain in her hand, but she ignores it as she cups her palms and splashes her face in an attempt at cleansing her face of some of the dirt and sweat that had accumulated there. 

  Adara hums softly to herself, a tune she cannot quite place, as she tilts the bucket, dunking it just under the water.

  It is just as the bucket fills-up, that a loud snort sounds from directly in-front of her; it is close enough, and hard enough, that the loose, red hairs that dangled before her eyes are forced backwards.  It is so close that she can feel the warm gust of air spread across her face.

  Adara's entire body grows rigid, freezing in place as she maintains her hold on the bucket with her left hand; her right hand shifts back slowly, the tips of her fingers brush against her dress as she draws the fabric up.  She rotates her wrist as she touches the metal-hilt of her dagger, warmed from its position, strapped to her thigh.  Tightening her hold, she slowly lifts her head, preparing herself for a fight.  Preparing herself to take a life — to kill.

  Her heart feels as though it skips a beat as she stares into large, green, oval-eyes; wide and doe-like, with long, curled lashes.  It's a horse, and even she can admit that it is beautiful.  It's entire body, from its elongated head to its lengthy tail, was pearly-white, whiter than anything that she had ever seen.

  She pulls herself backwards, releasing her hold on the blade as she tucks her legs beneath herself, watching the horse's ears twitch forward as it lowers its large head to the water; it's unblinking eyes never leave her own.

  Its ears twitch and flick as a swarm of flies make attempts to land on them, but it appears relatively unbothered, focusing on taking long sips of water.  Her eyes close as the horse releases another hearty snort, the force strong enough to splash the water; droplets landing on her face and neck.  She has never been this close to a horse, close enough to share breath.  Overcome with curiosity, her arm stretches out, her fingers ghosting over the velvety end of the horse's nose. 

  Another snort sounds out, followed by a soft nicker; it's head bobs in place, not used to the intrusion of space.  She hesitates, watching oval-shaped hooves stomp heavily in the mud.  It's a quick decision, to pull her hand back and hold it tightly against her chest as she stares questioningly into the animals all-seeing eyes.

  "Where might you belong?" Adara asks softly as she tilts her head back, looking at long, slender legs and a muscular torso.

  A leather saddle is strapped in-place atop the animal's back, saddlebags fastened with gold buckles and threads.  Her gaze settles on the hauberk thrown across its thick neck, and the helm settled at the divot of its forehead, both pieces are golden in color.  A cavernous pit settles in her gut as she glances around, the woods that once gave her comfort, now fill her with a suffocating dread.

  Her hands curl into fists, blunt nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms; the only reason for a horse of gold to reside in the forest would be if golden soldiers brought it there.  It strikes her, suddenly, that she has not noticed a rider.  She knows that they could have been killed, or worse, were thrown and the horse wandered off.  Where there is a horse, there is a rider, and she has to find the rider.

  Especially if they are of the golden kingdom.

  Adara rises to her feet, her eyes flitter from shadow-to-shadow, a cold-sweat breaking out across her body as she feels watched — seen.  Beside the stream, she's exposed, and she finds herself slipping her blade from its sheath.  If someone wanted her dead, there is no doubt in her mind that she would be dead by now, as out-in-the-open that she is, so that fact that she is still breathing bodes well for her.

  She moves to hoist the bucket from the stream and onto the bank, but before her hands reach the handle, she stops; the clear-blue water that was once flowing is now tinged with red.  It swirls sickeningly with the current. 

  "Damnit," she mutters under her breath, her molars ache as she clenches her teeth. 

  Adara follows the water, watching as the crimson color thickens-and-thickens until she can no longer tell that it was once the pure, untouched water.  It is nothing but blood and sorrow, now.  It could be a few seconds, a few minutes, or maybe even close to an hour- she isn't sure- but at last, the blinding shine of sunlight hitting metal reaches her eyes.

  It's a man- if someone barely of-age could be considered a man- his body still and unmoving with his legs strewn in the brook.  He was thrown from his horse, and as such, his body was thrust onto a sharp, jagged rock.  It speared through his upper-thigh, where it then severed an artery- his femoral artery- and he could no nothing but bleed.  He bled, and bled, and bled, until he took his last breath.

  She takes a moment, mere seconds, to look at him- to make sure that his chest no longer rises and falls, to make sure that the paper-white color of his skin is permanent- before she turns on her heels and walks back from where she came from. 

  It's a cruel death, to die alone, but it worked well in his favor; if she had found him alive, she could have either killed him herself or left him to the torture and pain that her people would have put him through.  It's a blessing, that he died before she discovered him. 

  Her people do not take well to outsiders, especially those that they consider to be their enemies, like him — a human.

  As she walks back, a shrill whinny pierces her ears, followed by the sound of hooves clopping against the stones.  Adara watches as the horse shakes it's head, jerking it from side-to-side, causing a frown to crease her forehead.  She read, once, that after battle, men would relieve their steeds of their armor- given that they weigh so much- but without an owner, this horse will continue on with that weight. 

  Her lips find themselves, again, being bitten as she considers that if she were paraded around in gold, trussed-up and treated like a mere creature, she would not mind taking it off every once-in-a-while.

  "It would be much appreciated if you would refrain from trampling me," Adara says softly under her breath as she lifts up onto her toes, reaching hesitant arms out so that she can curl her fingers beneath the heavy helm that was settled against the horse's face.  Hoisting it up, she lets it fall to the ground with a thump, followed by a gruff snort.

  She takes the chain-mail into her hands, unclasping the metal and letting it slide off of its thick neck, clinking against the rocks that it lands on.  Her eyes narrow at the bit nestled in the horse's mouth, the reins dangling loose; it takes her a moment, but she removes the headstall, tossing it to the ground alongside the rest of the tack.

  The horse neighs softly, and stuns her by pressing its large nose against her chest in an imitation of a hug — a 'thank you' she believes.

  "If you would be so kind," Adara hums as she stoops down, hefting the bucket- thankfully, full of clear, clean water- into one hand and taking ahold of the saddle with the other; she smiles gently at the horse as she fastens the pail into place.  It's shoddy work, it'll slosh and spill a bit, but it'll do.  At this point, she doesn't even care much about the water, her thoughts continue to go back to the soldier in the water.

  She turns her back to the creek, turning her back to the dead, and begins making her way back to the village; her mind races with a variety of questions, like where did the rider come from?  Why did he come?  Why now?  Above all else, how was she going to tell the village what she has seen? 

  Would they even believe what she has to say?

   Absentmindedly, she finds herself running her hand across the horse's flank, unable to mask the surprise that it chose to accompany her back.  Her fingers curl in the soft, long locks of the horse's mane as she steps carefully over a rotted, fallen tree.

A sigh falls from her lips as she begins to feel the familiar burn in her calves.  Her head tilts backwards, looking up at the hints of the darkening blue sky that remains obscured by an amalgamation of different trees.  It's later than she thought it would be, and her growling stomach can attest to that. 

  "If you are hungry, I suggest eating now," she says as she puffs her cheeks, blowing out an exaggerated huff; she strolls towards a large oak tree, leaning against the rough, jagged bark and sliding down to sit on a large patch of moss.  Digging her hand into her pocket, she fishes out the handful of berries she stashed earlier, chewing on them slowly just to make them last a bit longer.

  Adara watches as the horse's head swivels around, nickering as it lowers down to graze on the grass.  It's eyes continue to dark from space-to-space, ears flicking in what she would say, is nervousness, or annoyance even.  She does not know much about horses, given that she had never seen one up-close until now, but she knows enough to understand that when an animal is nervous, there has to be a reason; she just doesn't know it yet.

  A loud crash sounds in the underbrush, and if she didn't know any-better, she'd think it was a stampede; however, a small squirrel runs into the open, darting around them and scurrying up a tree, it's claws clatter against the wood.

  She laughs in relief as it was only a squirrel; it was just a squirrel, and nothing more.

  Another huff escapes her as she glances, again, at the sky, squinting as more shadows are cast as the night grows nearer.  If she does not get up now, she knows she'll not get up at all.  She rises to her feet, dusting her hands off on her already-dirtied apron, knowing it would be best for her to continue on.
 
  Nearing the exit of the forest- closer to the grasses- the smell of smoke wafts through the air, infiltrating her nose.  She frowns.  In Juula, once each month, the elders would hold a meeting where those who have grievances are allowed to air-them to the village; rules are then altered and shifted as they discuss them.  The sign of the gathering is always a fire, but she could have sworn that they had one already.  She wouldn't know, though, as she refuses to attend, seeing as how the village has never been privy to her residing there.

  Adara places a steady hand against the horse's side, stepping carefully around a cluster of roots; the sun continues to drop in the sky, quickly now, and although her sight was better than most, she still cannot see in the dark.  A small smile tugs at her lips as they reach the edge of the wood. 

  "I suppose that this is it," she says as she works to unfasten the rope holding the bucket in-place, hefting it from the animals back.  Using her free hand, she starts to loosen the saddle- to take it off, to urge the horse away from her village- when she is cut-off by a loud, blaring noise.  Her hand jolts where it had been hovering beside the animal, body flinching at the sharp sound that pierces her ears.

  She is not the only one that startles; the horse releases a shrill scream, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, hooves cracking the earth with a sound  akin to thunder.  Adara does not have time to think- let alone move- before she finds herself thrown into the dirt, an exploding, electric pain striking her left side.  She chokes on her next breath, her chest spasms as an ache quickly spreads across her torso, made worse by her pushing herself onto her hands and knees.

  A grimace settles across her face as she grits her teeth, holding a shaking hand to her side as she forces herself to her feet.  She casts a glance to the spilled water, taking a short and measured breath as her entire chest flares with a constricting pain.  Her heart pounds, it thuds so quickly that she could hear it, rushing in her ears and muffling the sound that caused this; a sound that forces ice through her veins.  It is the sound of the war horns.

  Horror washes over her as she stumbles into the bushes and vines, a wall of heat smacking her across the face and making her eyes water; tears pour down her cheeks as smoke fills the air.  Adara cannot contain her gasp, as she watches the house that she has begun to call home, erupt into flames.

  She finds herself frozen, watching as large bellows of black smoke streak across the sky; her brows and lashes feel as though they are being singed off of her face, and she isn't even close to the fire that rages so viciously.  Her throat stings, which is strange for her to think about at the time, all things considered, but then she realizes that it has to hurt for a reason.  She is screaming.  She did not realize that she had been. 

  Her voice had become lost in the screams of the village people and roaring fires.

  Clutching her side with a firm hand, groaning against the pain, Adara runs into the grasses which brighten as they catch flame before her eyes.  Her mind runs faster than she can, struggling to even begin to comprehend what is happening, tripping over her own feet as her thoughts are in a million different places at once.  She coughs, a hacking, painful cough as smoke swirls around her face.

  Adara scarcely feels the knife-sharp blades of grass as they tear into her clothes and skin; she loses her balance as she reaches the spear, grabbing it tight and leaning against it heavily as she catches her breath.  She takes short, ragged breaths as she grabs the end of her apron, tugging it over her nose and mouth, holding it in place as she pushes forwards.

  "Mother!"

  Again, her screams are muted by the raging fires, and the pain that accompanies each breath makes it harder and harder to speak.  Adara breaks through the grasses, which twist and writhe as they burn, curling into husks that crunch when she steps on them.  She blinks a fresh wave of tears from her eyes as she limps to the back-door of her home, hurling the door open and side-stepping to avoid the fresh wave of smoldering heat.

  The once-clean house is now covered in ash and charring wood, the old-wood popping and the fire still flaming; her mother is not in sight.
 
  "Mother!"

  Adara cries louder, fighting against her own lungs to make herself heard over the flames that deafen her, only for her throat to seize.  Her shout becomes a choked-out scream as a beam from the ceiling above her groans and collapses; her instinct is to run, to get out of the way, but her entire body throbs and her feet feel stuck to the floor, heavy.

  All she can do is throw herself to the side, letting herself fall; if it was not for this, she would have been struck by the debris, but her body falls hard and fast as she hits the floor.  Her vision darkens, black, fuzzy spots dot the empty space in-front of her, and in her ears is a faint ringing that's creeping louder-and-louder-and-louder. 

  Her knees curl inwards, up towards her chest as her entire torso throbs and aches and hurts.  She can feel ash and grit beneath her nails as her hands scrabble at the floorboards in an attempt to drag herself onto her side.  As she tucks her knees beneath herself, a wave of nausea rolls through her stomach; saliva gathers in the back of her throat, she chokes on it, gagging, spewing onto the floor.

  A loud crack sounds, another beam gives way and crashes to the floor, shattering the floorboards with it.  She coughs, grimacing at the taste of bile and iron on her tongue, but she does not have time to wait; the house will fall whether she is in it or not.  Adara heaves herself to her feet, letting the momentum guide her over newfound holes in the floor, leading her to the front-door.

  She grunts as she rams her shoulder into the wood, watching wide-eyed as the entire frame shutters before it, too, falls like the rest.  Her chest aches, but this time it feels different.  A curse slips from her lips as she nearly trips over her own two-feet; Adara knows that if she goes down again, she might not have the strength to get back up. 

  Adara cannot help but turn her head to the left- in the direction of the village- half-expecting a throng of villagers to be running, rushing to help her, to put out the fire.  She cannot see anyone, her sight blurred due to dust and tears.  No one comes.

  She rises to her toes in an attempt to look over the tall-grass that still remains, only to rock back onto her heels as another building erupts into flames.  Her free-hand instinctively covers her own mouth, keeping her from making a sound.  The once dark and eerie night is now illuminated with soaring fires that lick at everything it nears.  With the next fire, the horn suddenly cuts-out, silent, and the sound of hooves clopping against the ground is all she can hear, aside from the screams and cries from those closest to the village.

  The golden knights are attacking Juula.

  With a quick glance back at her home, she takes as slow and as deep of a breath that she can before jogging closer towards the village.  It hurts, but she doesn't have time to waste; she has to find her father and mother.  She just reaches the outskirts of the market when she hears a distinctive snort- that of a horse- much closer to her than she likes.  Her heart races, pushing against her ribs, as she lowers herself to her hands-and-knees, hiding herself beneath a table situated beneath one of the vendor's huts. 

  Discarded pots and pans and dishes litter the tabletops and ground, turned-over, spilled and left to waste; abandoned.

  Adara holds herself as still as possible, doing her best to ignore the way her hands tremble and her breaths sound loud in her own ears.  She watches with bated breath as two horses, their white hair spotted with red flecks of blood, trot by, whinnying as they go.  Adara waits until she can no longer hear them before she crawls out from under the table, and runs to a deserted hut instead, trying to keep herself from being exposed.

  With her hands on her knees, she catches her breath, her eyes roaming the meager contents of the hut.  It is a small, open area, with a cot on the floor to lie on, a small table to eat at, and a chest for their goods.  As she looks, she notices movement in her periphery, the flap at the entrance of the hut beginning to move.

  She moves quick, pressing her back against the thin wall; she takes her dagger into a lose hold, bringing it to her chest.  At the sound of armor shifting, clanking with movement, she tightens her grip.  A large figure ducks into the hut, a man with thick arms larger than her own head, but he hasn't noticed her yet so she'll take what she can get.

  Her gaze flickers to across his body; it takes mere seconds for her to spot a gap between his helm and his breastplate.  Adara takes a measured breath before she rushes forwards, silent as she leaps into the air. 

  She hisses through her teeth as her body collides with his, her blade plunging down into the cartilage of his throat.  His knees buckle beneath him, a gasp bursting from his lungs, but she silences it with a twist of her wrist.  As blood pours from the now gaping wound, his body careens forwards, hitting the ground with a thump, leaving her straddling his back.

  As she peers down at the sanguineous fluid coating her hands, it strikes her that she could die here if she is not careful; her gut twists at the thought of dying, so she supposes that she'll just have to do her damndest to survive.

  Even if the golden-men didn't discover who she was- if she were found- she would face the same death; Adara would be murdered, whether it be by hanging, stoning, or burning, she would be killed.  She could not let herself be captured, because if she was, she would have no choice but to put an end to it.  All she needs to do is find her father and her mother and leave, to find somewhere new.
 
  Rising to her feet, she swallows against the nausea that builds in the back of her throat, and the dizziness that threatens her.  She shuffles forward, peeking through the tarp; she counts two more huts situated between her and the blacksmiths, where her father works.  If she runs, she's sure she could make it, but she's slower now, she knows she is.  The constant pain in her side reminds her of that.

  Horses continue to stomp up and down the paths, the golden-men atop them scouring for more villagers.  She flinches back, her body jerking painfully, as arrows doused in oil and lit aflame soar through the air, landing in wood and ground indiscriminately.  Her throat burns with a cough that she refuses to release.  She worries that those arrows would find her too if she makes the slightest sound.

  As much as Adara would like to wait-out the danger, she doesn't have time for that.  She dashes as quickly as she can to the next hut, her chest twinges with a sharp, stabbing pain.  It's ignored, put into the back of her mind as she catches her breath, pressing her back against the wall as she narrows her gaze to the next hut.
 
  This hut has much thinner walls, so-much-so that she fan see the outline of two people inside; it's difficult to tell if they are villagers or golden-men, but she can see the outline of a large blade.  Adara doesn't hesitate to rush into the tent, her only thought is that it could be her mother or father hiding inside.  Her heart feels as though it stalls within her chest, her body coming to a hard, sudden stop.

  Adara watches as a sharp, two-edged sword is plunged into the soft, unprotected belly of a village-woman.   A village woman who used to sneak her fresh loaves of sweetbread, back when she was younger; a child.  The woman's eyes go wide, so wide that the whites of her eyes seem to shine in the darkness, but whether they widened at the sight of Adara, or the sword tearing through her innards, Adara isn't certain.
  
  Blood trickles from the woman's parted lips, a punched-out groan fills the air; her eyelids sink dangerously, but her still gaze meets Adara's over the man's armored shoulder.  The man turns quickly- having noticed that the woman had looked at something or someone- and rips the sword from the woman's stomach, sending forth a gush of crimson, and letting her body crumble to the ground in a heap.

  Adara doesn't give him a chance; she sweeps a foot out, hooking his ankle with her own, and she pulls.  It knocks him flat onto his back, his armor's weight working in her favor. 

  "I'll give you a chance to die with honor, you whelp of glass," the man growls, his voice deep and full of gravel; he staggers back onto his feet, fingers tightening on the hilt of his blade.

  "I'd much rather not die at all," Adara bites out, thrusting her arm- and, consequently, her dagger- forward, slicing a deep gash across his naked wrist.  It startles him into releasing his sword, letting it clatter onto the ground.

  He stares at her, body tense, like a predator watching its prey; she takes a startled step backwards, gritting her teeth so tightly that her jaw aches, as he grabs her with a bleeding hand.  His grip is strong, like a steel-band around her bicep, and he uses it to throw her onto the ground.

  Adara coughs, a ragged wheeze sounds from her throat as she struggles to catch the breath that was knocked out of her.  She glances down at the discarded sword, her stomach lurching as reaches over and grabs it- the soft metal warm to the touch- before rolling onto her back.  Her stare lands on the small gap between the man's cuirass and his cuisse, and she cannot help but smile as she rams the sword up-into that space. 

  He gapes down at her, like he cannot believe what she's just done, his hands hovering over the blade inside of him.  Instinct screams to pull it out- to be rid of what does not belong- but he stands frozen, his face paling rapidly as he falls to his knees.  She snatches her dagger from where it had fallen and stands on much-shakier legs as she forces herself away from the man, leaving the tent to stumble towards the back-entrance of the blacksmiths.

  Adara pulls the door open as softly as she can, wincing at the squeak of an old hinge; the smell of hot metal, fills her nose immediately and it's a much-more welcome scent than the one outside.  She closes the door quietly, her eyes adjusting slowly to the pitch-darkness.

  "Father?"

  Her whisper sounds like a shout to her; the sounds of brutality and savagery are almost diminished inside of the cobblestone walls.  It's a loud-silence, one that unsettles her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on-end.

  She thinks back to when she had first returned home, how her father used to worry about her; she think now that she understands a fraction of what he must have felt then.

Adara notices movement, but in the darkness, all she can discern is that it is a masculine figure; she tenses, her body prepared to either run forward or move backwards.  Her heart feels as though it sinks all the way down to her toes as she catches a glint in the dark, a gold-tinged shine.  It occurs to her- as a cold, metal gauntlet wraps around her throat- that there is no use in running, as he heard her come in, and knows that she is there.

  Her throat burns as she's tugged upwards, the tips of her toes scarcely touching the floor.  She grabs onto the arm that holds her, using it as leverage so that she might kick at him, but her feet meet nothing but ungiving armor. 

  "Let go of me," Adara chokes out, attempting again to kick him where it hurts, but the codpiece blocks her hit.  He ignores her- her actions, her curses- and walks her backwards, kicking the front-door open and pulling her outside where the thunderous sounds and the powerful smells are; where her enemies lie.

  She cannot contain the growl that rattles in her chest as she twirls the dagger around in her hand; Adara raises the blade into the air before pushing it down, right into the soft-spot beneath the man's eye.  He shrieks, a pain-filled scream that makes her ears ring, and he releases her.  She stumbles back, watching as one hand clutches at his face, while the other reaches out to grab her apron.

  "Let go," Adara spits, pulling against his hold, the cloth-straps pulling tight around her waist and neck.  In his pain-filled-fugue, the man knocked his helm off, which works well in her favor; she rears her arm back and rams her fist into his nose.  Her fist stings due to the force, and she finds herself shaking it out, but it was worth it to watch him topple onto the dirt.

  As much as she wishes that she could enjoy her accomplishment- knocking a grown man flat onto his ass- she finds that she can't. 

  Adara gasps as a blow strikes at the backs of her knees, sending her crashing-down onto her hands.  A boot connects with her bruised and battered side, a ragged cry tears at her throat as she's shoved onto her back.  Her vision is overtaken by a collection of black-spots, the ringing in her ears muffles the sound of talking and screaming and crying.

  Her eyes squeeze shut as she fights against the nausea rising in the back of her throat; her fingertips are numb, now, and she cannot feel her lips.  She does feel a heavy weight settle across her hips, and it startles her into prying her eyes open, a task that is quickly getting harder-and-harder to do.  Hands grab her by her upper-arms, pinning her to the ground, and she cannot muffle the sob that digs and claws out of her chest.

  "I just want to find my mother and father," she whispers, her throat tight and swollen, thick with tears and acid and blood.

  "I'll give you something better than parents," the man laughs, a jester-like grin stretches across his face.

  Adara's recoils, the base of her skull pushes against the hard ground, ash and dust clinging to her hair.  Her lips part in shock, her steely gaze meets his own; she cannot believe the words that just left his mouth.  She wants to find her parents, and the first thing in his mind is to lie with her.  It's disgusting, and a frown tugs at her brows.

  "You'll help me?" she asks quietly, tilting her head to the side as she spreads her bent knees apart, wrapping her legs around him.

  "I'll help you, alright," the man says with a smirk, seemingly pleased with the submission, and she listens to cruel laughter around them.

  "Thank you," she whispers and gives a small smile, moving slowly as she places a hesitant hand on the back of his helm.

  Jeers and whistles fill the air, drowning out the sounds of death and destruction; Adara sneers in contempt, but to the man above her, all he chooses to see is a smile.  She chooses to allow it, since it'll be the last one he sees.

  With her position, holding onto him as she is, she braces herself as she gives a harsh pull; the momentum pushes her body upwards, her back lifting off of the ground, as she brings her free hand- the one with the blade- up, sliding under his helmet and into the soft spot under the edge of his jaw.  It severs an artery, the hot blood trickles and then pours, dripping across her own face and neck. 

  Adara laughs at the surprise that slaps him across his face, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide open; his features stutter, as pain and reality crash into him.  His eyelids droop and his lips pull into a mean snarl, but the anger and aggression disappears as he coughs, sending a gush of scarlet, red blood out of his neck and his mouth, dripping down his chin.
 
  She moves her hand to his shoulder, shoving him off of her; he lands slumped over onto his side, his fingers twitch as though to reach for his throat- to staunch the bleeding- but he's lost enough blood that his arms feels like they are weighed down by boulders.  Her laughter settles into a pleased smile, as she watches his eyes turn wet and glassy.

  Hands wrench her upright, vertigo dazes her; she scarcely feels herself shoved down onto her knees, and she hardly notices as her arms are jerked harshly and held behind her.  Blood and sweat-soaked hair slides off of her neck and surrounds her face like a ghastly curtain as her head is forced downwards. 

  "It'll take but a single swipe to separate your head from your neck," a gruff voice chuckles, a battle-axe hangs loose in his grip, while others gather to watch.  "I can promise that it will be quick," the man smiles as his gauntleted hand grips her tight around the jaw, tilting her face upwards to face the one who would then be responsible for taking her life.

  The stench of yeast wafts around her as the men laugh and converse, their breaths tainted with the smell of beer; it sends a sharp twinge of anger through her belly, as she considers the children slain by drunkards and fools.

  Adara grunts, exhaling forcefully through her nose as the hand holding her face tightens its grip; her green-eyes narrow as she loosens her own hold on her dagger, allowing it to slice into one of the hands that held her.  She rears her head back as her arms are freed, and she spits blood and phlegm onto the face of the man that stood before her.

  "I tried to be nice," the battle-axe wielder's voice is grim as he sets his jaw, ignoring what she had done to him; ignoring the man cursing and stomping behind her, his only ailment a scratched hand and a wounded pride.  "I'm afraid that you're no more than a dead bitch, now," he sighs as the hand-injured-man forces her down onto her back, pinning her down by her shoulders as his knees dig into her legs.

  She tenses as the hold on her arms turns bruising, and the thought of death settles over her like a black cloud.  She isn't ready to die, not truly, not yet.  She still needs to find her parents, she still needs to live.  She's without thought, frozen, at the glint of fire on the axe that is hefted and held above her supine form.

  "You're all as good as dead when my king realizes what you have done here," she says, voice hardened and face stoney.  Instinct begs her to close her eyes, to look away from death, but the rage that rooted deep inside her belly forces her eyes open, glaring unblinkingly at the axe-wielder above her.

  A cleaving strike from the axe never comes.

  Adara's breath hitches in the back of her throat at the sight above her; a silver-and-gold plated gauntlet caught the axe in its descent, keeping the night-cooled blade from coming close to touching her skin.  A heavy-boot kicks out, toppling over the man who had her pinned to the ground like a moth on a board. 

  The hand that held the axe at bay shoves it to the side; a dismissal if she has ever seen one.  In a swift move, that same hand grasps at the front of her dress.  Threads stretch and rip and buttons pop as she is lifted to her feet.
 
  She finds herself staring into two different eyes; one is a deep blue, like the sky after rain, while the other is a dark yellow, like amber.  As she looks into them, she can see the contempt and the weariness inside of them.  She wonders if this is an act of mercy or of this is just prolonging the inevitability of her death.  She wonders if he just wishes to do it himself.

  "Your king," his voice is quiet, curt and cold, as he asks, "you speak our tongue?"

  The furrow between his brows and the gruff way he speaks gives her the impression that it truly brings him pain to debase himself so; to sink so low as to speak to the likes of her.  She offers a grin, though she's sure it looks like something akin to a grimace.  At this, he gives his own smirk, snatching her blade out of her hand and tossing it aside into the dust and dirt, discarded like trash.

  "It seems that we have found our prisoner," the man with the mismatched eyes says.

  Around them is nothing but cheers and laughter and merriment; meanwhile, charred bodies are still freshly steaming and Adara's stomach feels twisted inside.
 
  "I'd sooner die than be taken prisoner by you and your kind," she bites out, full of venom, but the words are weak to even her own two ears.

  Adara's words are ill-received- ignored- she is shoved backwards without a second glance.  She stumbles, her arms flail in the air, trying to find a semblance of balance before they are caught; hands clutch at her and they grab and tug and pull and shove until her arms are fastened down and pinned to her sides by thick iron chains. 

  Her side flares red-hot with pain as her body is forced to conform to their wishes, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. 

  "I'd sooner be free from your miserable company, but alas, here we are," the man with the mismatched eyes growls, giving the end of the chain a swift yank; it tightens around her, pushing her elbows into her sides, forcing a strangled, choking gasp out of her.  "I'd say you're lucky to still be alive, but the king will want to speak to you," the man shrugs, a smirk on his face that says he knows something that she does not.
 
  "It would be in your best interest to keep me as far away from your king as possible," she snarls, blood and soot stained hair dangled in front of her eyes as she glares the man down.

  "And why is that?" the mismatch-eyed man asks, raising a single dark brow, still smiling.

  "Because I'll kill him just as I killed the rest of these whoresons," she says through gritted teeth, pointedly glancing at the fresh-corpses wearing gold that litter the ground.

  The man with the mismatched eyes' face goes blank, the smile falls and his eyes narrow; it's difficult- impossible, even- to know what he might be thinking, or feeling, but what she does know is that she has clearly struck a nerve within him.  That makes her smile.

  "I think that it would be in your best interest to learn when to shut your mouth and watch your tongue," the man's attitude returns as though it had never left, smile plastered back on.  "If anything, you might just get your wish to die," he laughs, shifting his body to the side in order to face his men where a group of them had gathered, "isn't that right?" he shouts, a laugh in his chest as the men erupt into cheers.

  Adara cannot keep the sneer off of her face, a curse on her lips readied to be spat; she does not get the chance or the satisfaction to do so, as someone pulls at the chains that bind her.  She grunts as her body is dragged backwards until her back is pressed firmly against someone's chest, arms slung across her chest to hold her in place.

  "If we are to make it to the Keep by night on the morrow, we must move to camp now," the man's voice booms for all to hear, his eyes roam from body-to-body before placing his hand on the flank of an ash-colored horse that another had walked over.  "Let's move," he says with a wave of his hand, and she watches in horror as the men begin following him.

  Her breath seems to come short when the arms around her shift downwards to her hips.

  "If you want to keep them, then I suggest that you take your hands off of me," Adara growls, grimacing as she is hoisted upwards, settling her across the horse's back.  She is stomach-down, the horse's hairs tickling her face where her cheek rests.  A man settles into the saddle behind her, a hand sits at the small of her back, a warning for her not to move.

  A soft clicking sound makes the horse go into motion, and her body sways with each step that it takes; she gets lost in it, her mind miles away from her body.  She wonders what would have happened if she had stayed home.  If she had ignored the village children and stayed home and cleaned.  She wonders if she could have made a difference.  Those children are probably dead now, dead with the rest of the villagers, her mother and father included.  All of them slaughtered like cattle — like beasts.

  "I've never seen a live elf before," the man's voice slurs, raspy as he bends over to speak into her ear; her short and pointed ear.  Her fingers twitch, desperate for her dagger that remains strapped to her thigh, but she makes no move to grab it.  She puffs out a long and slow breath, frustration running through her veins at the knowledge that her best action now, for the time being, is inaction. 

  "I'll be the last that you ever see," Adara mutters, jerking her head to the side as fingers tug at the ends of her tangled and singed hair.

  "I'll hold you to that," the man laughs, and it is so full of fake pleasantness that she thought he might choke on it.  She watches as the village becomes smaller-and-smaller behind them, until all she can see in the dark is a hazy speck on the horizon.  It feels like hours pass- it was probably minutes, but how is she to know- before the horse is brought to a stop. 

  Her eyes widen at the sight of several, small camps set-up within the clearing; tents stand upright, ready for inhabitants, and fires glow brightly.  It strikes her, then, that these golden men have sat here and waited long enough for their encampment to resemble something akin to a second home, and she cannot be sure how long- hours, days, weeks- and her and the rest of the village had been unaware. 

  Adara scarcely has time to brace herself before she is hefted off of the horse, her knees are weak and her fingers are trembling as she realizes that there is no way out of this; she is surrounded by enemies on all sides, and at the moment, she is powerless.  Powerless; it is not something that she is used to feeling, and she finds herself loathing it, as the adrenaline rushes out of her from a trickle to a pour.

  "I want her taken to my quarters," the man with the mismatched-eyes says to the one holding the end of her chain; he doesn't even look her way, as she is led towards his tent.  "Indulge yourselves in this small victory, but be prepared to move-out at daybreak," the man addresses his followers, walking through a crowd of shoulder-slaps and emptied flasks.

  Her chains are handed over to him silently, and he wastes no time guiding her along.

  "Am I allowed to ask what you want with me?" Adara asks, an attempt to sound strong, but her voice betrays her; it is full of contempt, and exhaustion, and pain.

  "I suppose so," the man hums, as though they were discussing something as fickle as the weather.  He places a hand on her shoulder, giving a shove that makes her stumble back into a tree; the bark is smooth and perhaps the nicest thing to touch her all-day.  "Unless you wish to sleep standing, I suggest you sit," the man says as he dangles the chain in front of her, like they were playing some sort of game that only he could possibly win.

  She attempts to lower herself to the ground gently, but the lack of moveable arms quickly stunts her progress, and she lets herself fall.  A shock of pain thrums through her, and her eyes squeeze shut to fight against it, a tear slipping down her cheek.  Her entire body is a frayed nerve, full of constant, fiery pain that agitates at each move she makes.

  "To answer your question," the man says quietly, a strange look on his face that she cannot be bothered to decipher, "my king will explain everything to you."  He crouches down in-front of her, wrapping the chain tight around the tree, securing it out of her reach.  His head bows forward as he removes his helm, pushing sweat-slicked, black hair off of his face.

  Exhaustion keeps her from saying or doing anything that she shouldn't, but her mind runs rampant.  What does his king want with her?  What will his king do to her?  She chews on the split and bloodied skin of her lip as she considers the idea of a public execution; the death of a wicked and evil elf.

  "I'm curious about something," Adara rasps, brows pinched together at the taste of iron and soot in the back of her throat, "who are you?"

  She wiggles her fingers at her sides to chase away the numbness and tingling that threatens her fingertips, trying to keep her blood flowing where it belongs.  Her gaze never leaves the man crouched before her, his face twisted by a frown; it's intimidating, being the one with the least amount of information, and she hates it.  She watches him pick-up a flagon that must have been left behind from one of his men, bringing it straight to his lips and taking a swig.
  
  "And here I thought glass wenches might be a little bit brighter," the mismatch-eyed man mumbles as he huffs a laugh, and it's the first that sounds almost genuine, lighthearted.  If she had not been there, she would never have known that this man helped to kill an entire village of men, women, and children.

  She presses her lips together- a bit tighter than before- keeping any retorts sealed away.

  "These men will do anything that I tell them to do," the man says with a flick of his hand, the smile on his face morphs into something bitter.  "It isn't because I am a constable or marshal, but because I am their prince," he explains, his voice is a low rumble as he turns his gaze away from her.

  Adara freezes, for the first time she has felt true fear, a shiver running down her rigid spine.  It scares her, that she is sitting beside the golden prince, Leonidas, who is known for his blatant hatred of her kind — her people.

  "I'm the one that they call elf-slayer," he says as he rises to his feet, glancing down at her with a peculiar glint in his eye.  "It would be best for you to remember the difference between you and I," he hums, "if you don't, I'll probably have to kill you."  His eyes cut away from her just as quickly as they landed on her, and he walks away.

  She can feel blood crawl down her chin as sharp teeth nick sensitive flesh, but she pays it no mind.  Her eyes flicker from man-to-man, her heart beating quick and painfully as she realizes that she is truly trapped; she watches them amidst their celebration, and she wonders what's next.  She wonders what they might possibly want her for.  All that line of thinking does is leave a sinking feeling in her gut and make her head throb painfully.

  The hairs rise on the back of her neck, as if she were being watched, so she lets her head slump back against the tree, the effort of holding her head upright becoming too much; her eyes meet those of blue and gold that stare at her through the fire.  She isn't going to be able to get out of this, and he knows it.

  Adara cannot help but stare back at him, watching the flames flicker and twist, obscuring his face; it makes him look devious and wicked.  As the flames rise and fall, she finds herself studying the blank expression on his face.  She knows that if she can't escape, she will not make it out of this alive — the prince would make sure of it.