The Quiet Killer
The carriage stopped with a heavy hiss of brass brakes.
I sat in the darkness for a long minute before the lock clicked. When the door swung open, the wet, fish-heavy air of the Lower Ward was gone. In its place lingered the scent of crushed pine needles, cold stone, and expensive wax.
"Out," the Captain said.
I climbed out of the carriage, my legs stiff from the ride. My wrists were still bound behind my back, the hemp rope stiff with dried blood.
I stood in a massive courtyard paved with white marble scrubbed so clean it reflected the gray sky like ice. High stone walls shut out the rest of the world, and above them rose the palace, a jagged mountain of dark granite and pointed spires that watched me like a bird of prey.
There were no guards shouting, no merchants hawking goods, and no dogs barking. The silence was heavy enough to make my chest tighten.
"Keep your eyes down," the guard behind me muttered, shoving me toward a set of double iron doors.
They took me through narrow, spiraling corridors that wound deep into the heart of the palace. Tapestries lined the walls, muffling our footsteps until they sounded like ghosts moving through stone.
Finally, the Captain stopped before a heavy oak door reinforced with black iron bands. He unlocked it and pushed it open.
"Get inside."
I stepped over the threshold. The room was large, dominated by a massive canopy bed draped in dark green velvet. A fire crackled in a black brick hearth. In the center of the room stood a low wooden table covered with silver platters.
The scent hit me like a blow to the chest. Roasted chicken, freshly baked bread, and sweet winter apples.
My stomach growled loudly. I hadn't eaten anything except watery turnip broth in two days.
The Captain stepped behind me and sliced through the hemp rope with a small, sharp knife.
I gasped as blood rushed back into my hands. I rubbed my raw wrists, then looked from the table to the Captain.
"Is this my last meal?" I asked.
"Eat," the Captain replied. His face remained blank. "Someone will collect you when the time comes."
The heavy oak door closed with a deep thud, and the brass key turned firmly in the lock, sealing me inside.
I slowly looked around the room. Tall, narrow windows were covered with thick iron grates. There was no escape.
Then a shadow moved near the cold fireplace.
I spun, my hand reaching automatically for the waistband where my gutting knife should have been. My fingers closed on empty air.
A man stepped out of the darkness.
He was tall, wearing a high-collared black tunic beneath a dark leather brigandine. A long, straight sword rested at his hip.
His eyes were a pale amber, like dead grass beneath frost. His face was angular and expressionless. He looked more like a statue than a living man.
"Who are you?" I demanded, backing up until my calves struck the edge of the table.
The man didn't answer. He walked toward me without a sound and stopped a few feet away.
"Sit," he said. His voice was low and completely without warmth.
"I asked who you are."
"It doesn't matter who I am. Sit and eat."
Hunger finally overcame fear.
I sat on the floor beside the table and grabbed a roasted chicken leg with trembling hands.
He stood perfectly still, following every bite I took.
His eyes tracked every movement of my bruised fingers.
"You look at me like you're measuring me for a coffin," I said around a mouthful of bread.
The corner of his mouth twitched before the expression disappeared.
"I am," he said quietly.
I froze. The bread turned to ash in my mouth.
"The three who sat in that chair before you," he said, leaning forward until his shadow swallowed mine, "all ate the same bread. They all drank the same wine."
He pointed to the silver goblet beside my plate.
"And they are all in the ground."
