Page 3

CHAPTER TWO

IRENE

I rene leaned against the warm stone of the tower’s balcony, her eyes closed, her face tilted up to the sun. One leg dangled lazily over the edge, while the other was tucked beneath her. Her fingers idly spun the hilt of her dagger, twisting it through strands of her dark curls. Her hair danced in the wind, as if it too was savoring its newfound freedom.

The salty air from the port filled her lungs, a gift she didn’t dare refuse. She inhaled deeply, and a smile—fragile, almost ironic—brushed her lips. The shrill cries of the gulls, the wind brushing her skin, the sun’s heat biting into her cheeks—it all felt too real. Too far from the darkness she had left behind.

Beneath the mountain, there had been none of this. Just stifling dampness. The acrid stench of sweat and fear. Endless days of digging, her arms screaming with exhaustion, her lungs choked by the white dust of the salted walls. Light had been a myth down there. Fresh air, a fairytale she had eventually forgotten. There was only the dull, steady echo of pickaxes striking rock, like a heartbeat pounding for the dead.

Her last memory of freedom was etched into her mind: a white bird. Perhaps a dove. Perhaps a pigeon. She wasn’t sure anymore. The memory was blurry, like a painting smeared with dirty hands. It had soared between two hills, its wings bathed in golden light. It seemed eternal, untouchable.

And then the shadow had swallowed her whole.

Beneath the mountain, there were no words. Only screams. Twisted echoes, like strangled voices looping endlessly in her mind. The cries of those who fell. The orders of the fanatics, spat with cold, mechanical cruelty. The metallic clink of chains, the ceaseless hammering of tools against stone. True words—real words—were a luxury no one could afford. To speak was to die.

She had understood that on her very first day. But, of course, proof had been required.

The boy. She couldn’t even remember his face. He had broken the silence, whispering to her in a trembling voice, begging for help with the gaping wound that stretched across his back. The salt rock had torn him open like a rotting fruit.

Irene had frozen. She knew what was coming. But he kept talking. Pleading.

He was executed not long after.

She could still see his body collapse to the ground, slowly, as if time had paused just long enough to burn the horror deeper into her memory.

They had forced her to clean the floor. Bent over, her knees sliding through the still-warm pool of blood. The hot, sticky liquid clinging to her fingers. She had tried to wipe it off on her trousers, but all it did was smear the color until her entire world turned red.

She had dragged his body by herself.

The boy was heavy. He was still warm, as if he could have been saved if only she'd acted faster. But she knew that wasn't the case. The mass grave reeked, its stench clawing at her throat.

A whimper pierced the haze of her thoughts. Irene opened her eyes. She drew in a deep breath, letting a smile stretch slowly across her lips, devouring her face like a shadow with a will of its own. Her teeth gleamed in the light.

Behind her, muffled cries. No, not cries. Choking, desperate gargles, strangled by gags. They wove into the charged air of the tower, like a dissonant melody played just for her.

Irene tilted her head slightly. She reached out and plucked a white flower from the vines that climbed the stone walls, curling around the balconies like living veins. She brought the bloom to her nose, inhaling slowly. The sweet, innocent fragrance filled her senses, a brutal contrast to what awaited her behind her back.

With a smooth motion, she slid her dagger back into its sheath at her belt. Then, without a word, she let herself fall backward, disappearing gracefully over the edge of the balcony. Her boots struck the stone floor below.

Two royal guards lay there, bound like animals on the cold floor of the tower. Their once-pristine golden uniforms were rumpled, damp with sweat. Their faces, now pale, lit up with raw terror as Irene stepped into their line of sight. Their muffled whimpers, already weak, grew sharper, strangling against their gags.

Irene raised her head, her sun-kissed cheeks exposed, that feral smile still firmly etched on her face. She moved slowly, almost lazily, but her piercing green eyes—sharp as shattered glass—were already dissecting them.

She stopped a step away from the two men, tilting her head slightly. Her expression was falsely concerned, almost tender.

“Tell me,” she began, twirling the white flower between her fingers, “which of you deserves my flower?” She lifted the bloom to her nose, inhaling its scent once more, before adding with a wider, more unsettling grin:

“Oh, don’t be shy.”

She knelt beside them, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous, almost childlike light. Then, without warning, she pressed the flower beneath the nose of one of the guards, inviting him to breathe in its fragrance. The man tried to pull away, but the ropes binding his wrists held him fast. Irene chuckled softly, a light, almost musical laugh, devoid of warmth.

She rose abruptly, the flower still in her hand, and took a few steps back, her boots ringing against the stone floor.

“I’ve got a little game for you,” Irene said, twirling the white flower between her fingers, her smile sharpening. “Answer my questions honestly, and you’ll win the rose.” She paused, tilting her head slightly, as if savoring their confusion. “And whoever holds my rose at the end… lives.”

She erupted into laughter, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. It was a laugh so full it felt as though something inside her might snap. The guards flinched, their bonds straining as they instinctively tried to pull back.

Abruptly, Irene stepped back. Her eyes sparkled with something wild.

“But first… let me find my box.”

Her voice was calm, almost sing-song, yet it pulsed with an undercurrent of threat. The two guards, still gagged, exchanged uncertain glances, their red, watery eyes betraying a growing despair. Irene, however, paid them no attention.

She began to spin in place. Slowly at first, like a child in the middle of a game only she understood. She started counting aloud, her syllables slipping into the air with cold precision:

“One… two… three…”

The guards stared at her, their haunted eyes narrowing in confusion. Her dark curls whipped around her face as her spinning picked up speed. At the count of ten, she stopped abruptly. The heavy silence that followed felt suffocating, as if the tower itself was holding its breath.

Irene shook her head, her eyes slightly unfocused. Then she took three deliberate steps to her right, pausing suddenly to whisper:

“One, two, three…”

The guards exchanged glances again, caught between panic and disbelief. What was she doing? Was this some kind of mockery? A trap? She seemed to be playing out a dissonant melody they couldn’t begin to understand.

Irene bounced twice on the spot, her boots slamming against the wooden floor. She closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her head, as though listening to a secret whisper no one else could hear. Then she took a single step forward.

Under her foot, the faintest groan of wood echoed—a low, muted creak, barely perceptible.

She froze, a sly, knowing smile curling across her lips.

“Found it!” Irene exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

A spark of excitement danced within her—violent, almost unbearable—a flame licking at the edges of her mind. This box… this damned box. Every night spent in the salt mines, every strangled scream in the darkness, every moan of agony had led her back to this thought: the box. She had imagined it, dreamed of it, worshiped it like a divine relic. A secret only she possessed.

And the melody…

Her father used to play it for her, back when everything was still light, before the world collapsed. She could still hear it sometimes.

She still had a chance to win.

The pendant hidden in the box wasn’t just any trinket. It was the first step in her quest. No matter how far ahead her enemies were, they all wanted the same thing.

An ancient treasure. The only one worth risking everything for.

A treasure whispered about for centuries. A divine sapphire. Something that inspired both desire and fear. And that necklace was the only way to find it.

The floor betrayed a flaw—a stone slightly raised. Irene drew her dagger, her smile sharper than the blade in her hand. In the corner of the room, the two guards whimpered through their gags. Their wide, terrified eyes clung to her, but she didn’t really see them.

Irene only ever saw the world through what she felt.

“A moment of your time, please?” she sang softly, her voice sweet, but her eyes gleamed with a wild, feverish light. She devoured them with her gaze, her lips pulling into a sharp smirk.

She crouched and began scraping at the stone with her dagger, ignoring the guards’ faint, writhing movements behind her. The steel grated against the rock, a sound as sharp as a scream. Finally, the stone gave way, and Irene blew gently into the dusty hollow. A fine mist rose, swirling like a ghost above the opening.

And there it was.

Her music box.

Deep blue, adorned with patterns of waves, lightning, and golden and silver stars that faintly glittered in the filtered light from the balcony. It was beautiful. Perfect. Untouched.

Her eyes widened, a mix of disbelief and such intense relief that her knees threatened to buckle.

Her hands trembled as she picked it up, her fingers tracing the edges, caressing the worn wood as though it might shatter beneath the slightest pressure. For a fleeting moment, her face softened, illuminated by a fragile, incredulous smile.

She could still win.

But when she opened it, she froze.

Empty.

The word echoed in her skull like a broken bell.

“Idiot!” a sharp voice screamed in her mind, jagged and vicious. "Leaving something so precious in a guarded tower!"

Irene flinched, the box nearly slipping from her grasp. She slammed a fist to the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her curls framed her face like a lion’s mane—wild, untamed, and brimming with an energy that matched the fierceness in her eyes.

“No…” she whispered, trembling.

“Stupid,” spat another voice, deeper, dripping with contempt. “You’ve always been a fool.”

Irene shook her head desperately, but the voices only grew louder, a grating cacophony overlapping her thoughts.

“ SHUT UP! ” Irene roared, her words breaking the silence like thunder. She panted, her chest heaving, her breath shallow and uneven.

The guards shrank back as much as their bindings allowed, their eyes fixed on this woman unraveling before them, her face contorted with fury and panic.

Irene’s smile had vanished, her features hardened, her eyes narrowed. The green and brown hues in her irises seemed to fade, leaving behind only a feral glint.

Slowly, she raised her head toward them, her wild hair tumbling in disarray over her face. Her lips quivered, but a bitter smile began to creep back into place.

“It was here…” she murmured, her voice hoarse, almost inaudible, her gaze flickering between reality and somewhere else entirely.

She massaged her temples roughly, then rolled her neck, a sharp crack breaking the tension in the air. With a careless motion, she flung the music box to the floor. It tumbled across the wooden planks and struck the wall, the impact jarring it open.

The melody began to play.

It was a gentle tune, soothing, almost comforting. But in Irene’s head, it sounded like a blade dragging across glass.

“There was something important in that box,” she growled, her voice low and trembling on the edge of madness.

She clicked her tongue, the sharp noise cutting through the room like a slap.

“And now it’s gone. So…” Her tone shifted, a chilling brightness creeping in. “Let’s start our little game, shall we?”

Irene dropped to her knees in one swift movement, her icy glare pinning the two men like prey. Without a word, she grabbed the red-haired guard’s jaw, her fingers digging into his skin like claws.

“You’ll be the first to answer my questions, little fox,” she growled, her voice low and rumbling, each word delivered with razor-sharp precision. “Where is it?”

The guard moved his lips, muffled sounds escaping that Irene couldn’t decipher. She sighed, annoyed, and yanked the gag away with a sharp tug.

He spat at her feet.

A grin spread across his face. “We don’t bargain with slum rats. Go back to The Wreck.” His voice, ragged but defiant, echoed through the room, filled with contempt.

Irene raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly to one side. Her sharp eyes studied him, tracing every line of his face.

“Too bad,” she whispered, almost with regret.

Her gaze, warm and sweet, didn’t falter. Not even as her hands slid to the guard’s head, her slender fingers threading through his hair to grip it tightly. His eyes fluttered shut under her touch, his shoulders relaxing despite himself. His breath hitched, muffled by the gag, his jaw slackening beneath her fingers.

Then she slammed his head against the stone wall with a sickening crack.

The guard’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless. Irene stayed still for a moment, her hands slowly loosening, her fingers trembling slightly. She inhaled deeply.

A high-pitched whimper broke the silence.

The second guard, still bound beside him, was shaking, his eyes wide with terror. His muffled cries grew sharper, desperate, like a cornered animal.

Irritated, Irene turned her head toward him, slowly, as if the act required effort. She rolled her neck, her hand kneading the tense muscles before cracking it with a sharp twist.

“Quiet,” she commanded, her voice almost bored, though her gaze burned with dangerous intensity. “He’s not dead. Now, are you going to answer me?”

The guard nodded frantically, and Irene tore the gag from his mouth with no gentleness. He coughed and sputtered, saliva dripping as he struggled to draw in the sudden rush of air.

Irene, her face twisting in disgust, wiped her hand on her pants.

The guard, his breath ragged, drenched in sweat, began to plead, his voice cracked with panic. “I… I don’t know what you’re looking for! Please, I swear I don’t know anything!”

Irene stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Think harder. Maybe… maybe you saw the one who stole it?”

The guard nodded frantically. “The Hive’s watch… we’ve only been assigned to it for a few weeks!” he stammered, his voice trembling with hope.

“Why?” Irene pressed her hand harder into his shoulder.

The guard writhed under her grip, coughing as if the weight of his words was suffocating him.

“Kids… kids from the slums!” he cried. “They broke into the tower and stole all the golden ornaments!”

Irene sighed, disappointed. Her features tightened, and without warning, she grabbed the guard by the collar and yanked him toward her.

“You’re not telling me anything new,” she growled, her face mere inches from his. “The slums are full of bastard kids who steal. That’s not a revelation.”

The guard struggled, yanking frantically at his bindings, whimpering with terror.

“Wait! Please, listen to me!” he screamed, his voice breaking with a despair so raw it sounded like a trapped animal’s cry.

Irene froze, her sharp eyes locking onto his.

“The kids…” He gasped for air, his words breaking apart in his throat. “The kids were part of a guild… They… they were branded.”

The words struck Irene like a blow. Her grip faltered, as though she had touched something scalding. Slowly, she straightened, letting the guard slide back against the wall as she stepped away. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her hands trembling just slightly.

She stared into the void, her gaze clouded by something distant, something old and raw with pain.

The guard gasped for air behind her.

Irene turned her head to him, her sharp focus snapping back like a blade.

“Which one?” Her voice was low, almost hoarse. “What symbol?”

The guard stammered, his panic rushing back in waves. “I… I don’t know… I didn’t see it, I swear!”

“Damn it…” Irene hissed venomously under her breath. Her jaw tightened. She didn’t waste any more time looking at him. Her hand gripped her dagger, and with precise, practiced ease, she sheathed it.

She grabbed the music box, adjusted her hat back onto her head, and leaned toward the guard again. He tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Irene ripped the gag she had removed earlier from the floor and shoved it roughly back into his mouth.

“You’ve said enough.”

She fixed the white flower to the pocket of his uniform.

Without another word, she turned away. Behind her, the guard panted into the gag, whimpering, his pants soaked. His wide, terrified eyes darted to the unconscious body of his companion, still sprawled lifelessly on the floor.

Irene left the tower.

She had to find her pendant, and she knew exactly where to go for answers.