Chapter Text
Gasping for air, nearly blind from pain, thirteen-year-old Hilda stumbled out of her bedroom and into the darkened hall.
Moonlight pierced through the windows and unlit lamps watched indifferently as she slid her shoulder along the wall for balance. Crimson oozed through the sleeve of her nightgown as she pressed her bleeding arm, staining her hand. Her breath squeaked, her head throbbed, and her wounds stung, but she never slowed her pace. Only the shadows accompanied her as she searched for help.
She coughed roughly but stared straight ahead. Even breathing was an ordeal; she had woken up unable to breathe, as well as numb from some phantom blow to the head. Before she knew it, a large gash split her right arm open. After a gasp of pain she ripped off the covers and stumbled out of her room.
I hate this! Hilda’s eyes watered, her throat thick with pain. And it’s been years since the last big incident too…
Turning the corner, she made it to Holst’s bedroom, the nearest place for help. Her vision clearing, she left the wall and made straight for his door when—
An abrupt jolt shot up her ankle, surging through every bone as she fell in a heap with a shout. Whimpering, gritting her teeth, she balled her bloody hands into fists on the carpet. White-hot pain pulsed through her leg in a steady, rhythmic waves. She looked back. The place she fell was nothing but empty air.
She pushed herself up and walked on her knees to the door. “Holst…!” She called in a desperate squeak, hitting the door with two echoing thumps. “Wake up…! Please!”
Coughing, she kept pounding the door, harder and harder until she was sure the wood would splinter under her fist. Pain still buzzed from the fall, but relief flooded when the door flew open.
“Hilda…? Oh Goddess, no!” Holst scooped her into his strong arms and carried her into his room, setting her on a chair. He dropped to his knees and cupped her cheek, checking her injuries with an intense gaze. His eyes softened when they met hers. “It’s happened again?”
“Again,” whimpered Hilda. Then her dam of tears broke, and she sobbed, too upset to save her ruined voice. She was miserable. Wholly, honestly, miserable. And if she could use her full voice, she’d cry loud enough for all of Goneril to know it.
When Holst sprang out the door to get healers, she stayed put and let fat tears roll down her cheeks. She felt she looked pathetic enough without rubbing the blood from her hands over her face; this was no time to play up the pain.
Growing up, Hilda was plagued with various injuries and ailments, with scars marking the worst of it. Some instances were minor, but others near fatal. Once she was bedridden for a week, sick with a frigid, awful fever that no one else caught. Another time, her arms and back lit up with pain in the middle of breakfast, scratched up as if she was dragged through the dirt. Bruises across her cheek like she had been slapped, mysterious burns on her fingers; but she had never been slapped and never tried to touch fire.
Her family did everything to keep her from getting hurt, but injuries still sprang up unexpectedly, so they employed many healers. Their over-zealous caution made it easy for Hilda to fake an injury to get out of something; knowing pain so intimately, she might as well get use out of it. Worked like a charm until after calling about every minor thing, her father set the healers away for now. It had been several years since a huge incident like this, with blood and gasping sobs. She would have felt vindicated with her family pulling away her healers if her body wasn’t shaking with pain.
People often prayed for the Goddess to take her pity on her, to protect her from future tragedy. But shouldn’t one of those prayers have done something by now? It’s not like she’d done anything to deserve this…
Rumors swirled that the lone daughter of Goneril was cursed. Some days, she believed it.
Soon, healers thundered in, followed closely by Holst and their parents. Hilda closed her eyes and let them work, holding out her arm, lifting her head, sticking out her leg. Silver light shimmered through her eyelids. Cool healing enveloped her, easing every ache, drowning out her pain.
“Are those… bruises on her neck?! Goddess!” Her mother gasped. “She looks like she’s been strangled!”
Hilda winced, shock sending another tear down her cheek. She kept her eyes shut.
“Why was no one on watch!?” Her father shouted at the healers, his face as pink as his hair. “I don’t care if I sent you away, why was no one watching her?!”
Her parents continued bickering with the staff. Holst stayed by Hilda’s side, letting her squeeze his hand for comfort. “Calm breaths,” he told her while his deep voice shook. “You’re safe. Nothing else will hurt you…”
Hilda nodded, ready to crawl back into her bed and sleep forever. His words were kind, but they were empty promises. After everything they tried, what could her family do to stop this? What could the Goddess do? Healers had saved her time and time again, but what if they one day couldn’t? What if she died?
She didn’t want to think about it; a future unpromised, a life she could never enjoy. Instead she kept her eyes shut, wishing she knew why this all began. If she had a single clue as to how it started, she would do anything to make it stop.
Khalid dashed blindly into the night-shadowed hall, bare feet pattering against ice cold tiles.
“Gah…! Get him!”
Four sets of muffled steps and angry whispers followed him in the dark. He could barely see ahead, sharp pain and groggy sleep dulling his thoughts, but waking up to shadowed faces shocked him into action. He had squirmed free and made a break for it, but he hadn’t escaped unscathed.
Ignoring his throbbing head and bleeding arm, he sprinted forward until he got his bearings. The wyvern mosaic, the gurgling fountain, the slick smell of wet plants: he was still on palace grounds. Nowhere near his bedroom, but close to the servant’s exit in the east wing. He knew of only one possible hiding spot there. Maybe. But maybe was his only shot.
He ran and ran through the shadowed halls, trying to breathe silently despite his raw throat. Any noise would put him back into danger, and the silence of his would-be kidnappers made them hard to track.
Just keep low and keep running, he told himself coldly, focusing on tactics to quell his anxiety. Can’t catch what they can’t see.
The hallway ahead split into a fork. The right had moonlight-soaked plants and ferns over the balcony, leading down into the garden a floor below. He recognized the darkened hall to the left as the way back to his rooms but—
Voices.
They circled around to stop you. Surprise them.
Khalid slid to a halt, aiming for the balcony. The dark wasn’t safe anymore, so he hopped up and pulled himself on top of the railing. Greenery greeted him below, with the ornate marble fountain in its center. The drop would be steep, but with all these plants he could climb down to safety. He reached out for an anchor, trying not to slip.
Hands snatched at him from the darkness. Gasping, he kicked out his leg and went falling over the rail. By instinct he grabbed at any green he could, but his descent barely slowed. Smacking feet first to the ground, his foot buckled and then raged with pain. He cried out, gritting his teeth to silence himself as he crumpled up in pain.
Noises from above. He couldn’t stop yet.
Aching everywhere, he peeled himself off the floor and limped into the shadowed hall, pain shooting up his leg with every step. But then he saw it; stones in the wall splitting open thanks to the roots of the nearby tree—there! He raced forward and pushed himself through the gap, one just small enough to let him through.
The makeshift hideout looked different from last time, with blankets draped about and spoiled food laying around, but he ignored the mess and pushed himself into the corner wall, throwing a blanket over himself. Pulse thudding in his ears, he gingerly propped up his sore foot and rubbed his stinging throat. The skin smarted under his touch as a pool of phlegm and blood rattled in his throat.
Silence hung him, making anxious thoughts swirl. Weren’t there supposed to be guards around here? Empty halls in the middle of the night were a sign that this attack was planned. By whom, he could only guess—
A hand thrust itself through the opening. It whipped itself from side to side, searching. Khalid froze and pulled back into the dark, swallowing his breath even as it threatened to burst from his throat. The walls were high. There was no way to vault over, even for these men. As long as he stayed quiet, as long as they didn’t try to pry open the stones—
He heard a man’s disappointed grunt. The hand retreated, then muffled steps raced away.
Khalid didn’t allow himself a relieved breath. Not yet. The men chasing him had lost him now, but he couldn’t tell when they’d come back. Was this a good spot? Was he safe?
Was he ever safe?
Ignoring the creeping dread, he shut his eyes. Adrenaline masked the sting of his bleeding arm, and experience taught him how to disappear, but any escape plan he could think of required a working foot. He forced himself still, lest his rattling breath would reveal him.
Then, silver light shimmered from his wounds.
The dull heat in his head cooled, and the throbbing pain eased from his leg until it faded completely. His throat tickled, then breathing became easy. Even the gash on his arm healed rapidly, stitching itself back together with glowing threads.
There it is… Khalid finally breathed in silent relief, shifting the blanket so it covered the light. Almost thought the little lights had forgotten me.
His mother made him swear this healing trick—this honest to gods miracle—to secrecy. She said it came from something called a “crest,” which was unique to Fodlani blood; unpredictable, but never unwelcome, especially in a time like this. He kept this trump card close to his heart with a quiet pride. If people knew, they’d say he relied on it too much, that it proved his cowardice, that he couldn’t stand and fight like a full-blooded Almyran. He told himself what they thought didn’t matter. He had to. Because the same blood flowing in his veins saved his life from those who hated it.
Of course, it had its disadvantages too. If one way of killing him didn’t work, people who hated him got more… creative. That forced him to get creative too, poring over banned apothecary books and setting traps in his old hiding places. Burning his fingers on tiny flames to make stomach poisons were small pains compared to what could happen otherwise. Yet despite his efforts, he still wasn’t prepared this time…
Finally the last vestiges of pain were soothed away. The lights faded, their healing complete.
He listened without moving, finding only darkness and silence. Not his favorite things, but they could provide protection, too. With restored breathing, he laid his head against the cold stone wall, stretching out his tired legs. Specks of the night sky spread out above his head, the stars he loved to watch twinkling like the healing light.
He turned to look around the hideout he was borrowing – well, technically it was stolen from him. Some visiting ministers and magistrates had brought their families to the palace, including their rude, nosy, accusatory children. Khalid was trying to avoid them when he first found this spot. He even brought in some of his stuff to claim it, since it wasn't the first time he needed a place to escape it all. But they ambushed him, outnumbered just like tonight, and he had to leave his stuff behind, including his favorite dagger.
Would it be here now…?
He scanned the hideout, eyes vigilant, when a glint of moonlit steel caught his eye. Suddenly full of frantic energy, he scrambled forward to snatch the dagger’s handle and pulled back to his position. Not like the blade was anything special, but it was enough for a lonely kid to feel better protected.
Frowning and shivering, he pulled the blanket higher under his chin, the dagger clutched in his grip. He would be here a while, so he could start planning what to do next; stay low, find his parents in the morning, then report what happened. But his spirits soured just picturing their tired, stern faces. They’d be more furious at the perpetrators than at him, but they could do little to stop it. Even in their position in the royal family, alliances and agreements and bribes didn’t work for long, and reporting any incidents led to later retaliation. An endless cycle.
It’s been so long since last time, too… What will they say…?
Khalid stopped that thought there, wiping his palm against watering eyes. Sticky remains of blood smeared across his cheeks. Grumbling, he spat in his hand to wipe off as much gunk as he could before pulling the blanket higher. Exhaustion hit him like a wave, overpowering his anxious thoughts.
He would keep fighting for his place in the world, no matter how alone he felt. At the very least, the little lights wouldn’t leave him. Somehow, he could rely on those when he was hurt, even when no one else could help. He gripped that comfort as tightly as he did the knife, until sleep finally took him.