*
On her way to the dungeons, Fayr wondered what she had gotten herself into.
She had never been to the dungeons before. She knew they existed. Occasionally, she saw people go into them. She didn’t always know why. There weren’t many criminals in Dearen. People didn’t tend to commit crimes when they were happy, and the Haze kept them all happy. But she knew that every once in awhile, the king sent people down here. It was one of those things she wasn’t supposed to talk about.
The strangest part was that she never saw people come back out.
The king himself was the only one with the key. This she knew also, for whenever people entered the dungeons, her father went with them. Because of this unfortunate fact, their newly-acquired prisoner would have to enter tonight beside the king and his family. Now, he sat with hands bound beside the large stone door with a guard on either side of him. The royal family found him thus, slumped against the wall with his horrible suit hanging in tatters from his waist, his bare torso scraped and bruised, probably from contact with his own cruel weaponry.
The king stood over the prisoner, his cloak billowing outward as if to swallow him whole. “You’re a Wolven, aren’t you?”
The man did not reply. Once again, Fayr was surprised by his age; he was so fit that she would never have guessed how old he was from afar. Wrinkles and scars criss-crossed across his expressionless face.
“Show me the mask!” cried the king.
One of the guards handed it over.
It was a ceramic thing, rather simple in design and crude in creation. Here in the smoky light of the palace, it hardly looked threatening at all. It was no longer the face of a ghoulish monster that had pushed her to the forest floor and pressed sharp metal to her neck. It was just a mask, and a cheap one, at that.
Then she looked at her father and saw the terror deep within his wide-open eyes. She had never seen him so horrified in all her life. The color drained from his skin. His hands shook as they held the flimsy frame. He was silent for such a long time she wondered if he would ever speak again.
King Joyhan flung the mask to the ground and broke it to pieces.
Next he dove towards the assassin, gripping the man’s chin with his bare fingers. He forced the captive to stare at him, and when he did, Fayr looked once more upon the red irises she had glimpsed in the Shadowed Forest. Fear crawled through her belly, and her fingernails dug into her palms just as her father’s squeezed into the captive’s.
“You are a Wolven!” gasped the king.
The man with red eyes smiled.
“You fucking bastard.” Joyhan’s voice was so low and guttural, Fayr could barely hear it. “I am going to slice you into a hundred pieces. And I’m going to keep you alive while I’m doing it, so you can watch yourself burn, piece by piece, into hell.”
The Wolven laughed.
The king drew back, mortified. He took one step back after another, nearly tripping over himself, until he backed into the opposite wall.
Fayr felt a little hand clasp hers. Her brother drew close to her, clutching her with fear.
“Get that shit out of my sight,” snapped the king.
The guards looked dumbly from the king, to the dungeon door, then back again.
“Not that. Not tonight,” said Joyhan. “I can’t … I can’t tonight. Just take him away, cover him with chains, and keep him under constant watch.”
The guards moved to obey.
“Wait.” The king looked suddenly to his daughter. Now Fayr was the one clutching her brother for support. “You said you saw him wearing a kerchief.”
“Y-yes.”
“Do you have it?”
Fayr wished that she didn’t. But for some ridiculous reason, after she had recovered from the attack, she picked up the kerchief and stashed it in her dress. Then she made the second mistake of mentioning it to her father when she described the encounter. Like her father, she must have sensed the importance of the object, somewhere in her mind. And like many other things that day, part of her wanted to forget about, to toss it away and pretend it never existed. Yet her damnable curiosity revealed itself as she pulled out the kerchief and held it aloft.
Joyhan snatched it from her hand. Then he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. His breath caught and his eyes opened wide.
“I knew it. Anti-safra!”
Fayr shared a puzzled look with her brother. “Anti-safra? What does that mean?”
“What do you think?” Then he turned to his guards. “Get him up. On his knees!”
The guards complied. The assassin did nothing to fight back. He merely hung limp in their arms, that horrible smile on his face. Fayr knew that the expression was probably a result of the safra in the Haze, which was especially thick here next to the dungeon. Even so, something about his expression sent chills through her body.
With no preamble, King Joyhan lifted the handkerchief and tied it tightly around the Wolven’s mouth and nose. “Breathe your anti-safra now, you son of a whore,” hissed the king. Then he pulled a knife from his tunic.
“Father—!”
The blade sank into flesh. It seemed to go in so easily, like sticking a needle into a pin-cushion. At least her father made it look that way. Then the blood trickled out. A sound came out of the assassin’s mouth. His red eyes opened wide—so wide—all the Haze vanished from them completely. Now that he wore the kerchief again, he no longer breathed the joy of the Haze.
Joyhan pulled out the blade and stepped back, letting the blood run free. The Wolven sagged once more in his captors’ arms. His wound was in the shoulder. He would bleed all night, and he would feel much pain, but he would live to see tomorrow. But Fayr heard his ragged breathing, his nearly-silent whimper. She saw the veins bulging along his neck and forehead, his muscles rippling. She saw his fingers curl into fists, and knew that he had felt everything her father had done to him.
“Get him out of here.”
The guards dragged the prisoner away, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
Fayr’s arm ached from how fiercely Kyne clutched it. She realized that she wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor, but the only reason she didn’t was because if she fell, Kyne would fall, too. “Father,” she gasped at last, her voice barely audible.
He pulled a small flask from the depths of his sleeve, unscrewed it, and tossed back a gulp. Afterward, he took a deep breath. “Liquor,” he sighed. “It’s not safra, but at least it works on us. Would you like some?”
Fayr glared back at him. Her nails dug into her brother’s shoulder, but the emotion she felt now was not fear. It was anger. “Father, what’s in the dungeon?”
“Let’s talk somewhere else.” He coughed. “The Haze is so thick here.”
“What’s in the dungeon?”
“Well.” The gaze Joyhan fixed his daughter was filled with annoyance more than anything else. “It’s where I make safra.”