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The room was pitch black. There was a damp scent of mildew in the air, and water dripped from the ceiling, startling her. The muggy air was made worse by the presence of five other men, cramped into the small bunker with her. It was difficult to breathe. The bunker was a part of a broader underground tunnel system. It was clear that they were very crudely built, rocks jutting out and cutting into her skin if she leaned too far to one side. To top it all off, they carried the same damp and slimy feeling that featured across the bunker. Her hands were tied behind her back, and the pain of the rope had long since numbed. They had been travelling through these underground tunnels for a few hours, stopping briefly in the bunkers that connected them. Ahead, she could hear the click of metal tumblers as her captors worked to open the door to the tunnel ahead.
“Keep moving.”
A rough hand shoved at her shoulder, and she stumbled forward, barely managing to catch herself. She was pressed in on all four sides; two men behind her, three ahead of her, and the walls of the tunnel scraping into her skin. All of this manpower for one girl. It had taken all five of them to subdue her. They’d only succeeded once they managed to clamp a fluorite gauntlet around her wrist. It dampened her powers, neutralizing all of her energy surges, leaving her vulnerable. If she weren't on the verge of collapse, she would've smirked. Even now, with her life in peril, she couldn't help but take stock of the resources diverted towards her kidnapping. Fluorite gauntlets were expensive, difficult to come by, and certainly, there were no legal methods of purchase. Given their fragile nature and the scarcity of the mineral, it must have taken them months to procure it. They would not have been able to overpower her without it. So much money, so much effort, and the royal palace would exert even more to try and get her back, she was sure of it. She wondered if she should be feeling more panicked than she did. Surely, most other people would. But this is what set her apart from the riffraff. While other girls would, panic, plead, and make fools of themselves, Diaspro had been raised to be critical, calculating. She was well-trained and had lived her life with threats hanging over her head. So what if someone finally managed to succeed? She knew what she was worth. She knew that as long as she held value in the eyes of the kidnappers and the royal palace, she would be fine. No sense putting this much effort into someone who couldn’t be exchanged for ransom, and certainly not someone you didn't intend to keep alive.
So, onward she trudged.
She didn’t want to focus too much on the journey. The most discomfort she’d ever been in before this was when she was twelve, and some errant prince had pulled her hair during a royal summit.
She’d made sure he never returned.
Now, with her arms bruised and scratched, her heels bleeding, and a jabbing pain in her left eye, she had never felt more distant from herself.
They finally reached the last bunker door. She couldn't see very far ahead of her, only realizing that they had stopped when she bumped into someone's shoulder in front of her. Once the door was opened, hands were on her, pushing her forward, uncaring that she was stumbling over her own feet. She fell to the floor with a grunt, a noise she hoped she would never make again. No doubt her knees had been scraped up. It would take countless hours to restore her skin to its unblemished state. She should remind Maria to prep an oatmeal and milk bath for her, otherwise the scarring would be a nightmare.
A sudden flicker, someone had managed to light a torch. The room was not large, featuring a single bench, a sink, and a bucket. She shuddered to think what the bucket was used for. Finally, she came face-to-face with her captors. Rough, stubbled skin, greeted her. The man had one deep scar running from his forehead down across his top lip, cutting his left eye. He pressed something sharp at her throat, and her whole body froze. Someone behind her grabbed her hair, pulling to expose more of her throat. She could feel her heartbeat pulsing against the cold blade. The man, not breaking eye contact with her, called out to someone behind her.
“Did the palace receive word?”
Good, thought Diaspro, privately. The sooner the negotiations started, the sooner she’d get out of here. Maybe Daddy’s car would be sent to pick her up; she always did appreciate the simplicity of the velvet interior, much nicer than the ostentatious royal car that she would sometimes be forced to ride in. Really, Sky’s parents had no taste. That wasn’t surprising, though. They’d done little else well in their life, why start with interior decoration? Maybe Maria would be sent with the car. If she had a brain, she’d remember to bring the facial kit with her. Ignis knows Diaspro needed it. You can never trust these infernal servants to have forethought, though. Maybe Diaspro would be able to send word before the car got here. At the very least, there would be a change of clothes for her, and thank Ignis. The grip on her hair hadn’t loosened. She hoped she didn't lose too much on top of all this. Her neck was starting to feel sore from being pulled, and her muscles were straining. She needed a hot bath. The thought of that made her feel a little better. She tried to focus on the warm water, the scented bubbles, the steam rising up…
“They don’t believe us.”
Hang on. What.
“The king is demanding proof of her capture; they won’t pay unless we can prove we have her.”
Well, that broke her reverie. Curse Sky’s dad and his cheapness. Would it kill the fool to just pay the fucking ransom so she could get out of here? Diaspro decided to speak up, her voice rasping from dehydration.
“Are you certain it was the king you spoke to?” You can never trust these criminal types to do anything correctly. Ignis help her, maybe she’d end up having to negotiate her own release.
A slow smile stretched across the scarred man's face. Calling it a smile was generous, actually; it was more like a contortion. Diaspro shivered.
“Sure thing, princess. Seems they don’t believe we were capable of kidnapping you.”
He handed the blade at her throat to someone else and signalled for the man behind her to release her hair. She let her head fall forward with a gasp, her scalp burning. Her shoulder ached as the scarred man pulled her arms to the side, and began inspecting the rings on her fingers. Three of them, she had bought herself on various shopping trips in Magix. Two were gifted to her, set with stones from her family's mines. One, a thick bronze band set with an engraved gem, was the seal of her family, House of Thraecius. It was incredibly rare to have a ring like this. Her family hoarded the craft of engraving gemstones, training artisans from only a few select institutions. The scarred man seemed particularly interested in that one. She tried to pull her hands away to hide the ring from view, but between the rope around her wrist and her shoulder being twisted, she didn’t have much mobility left.
He looked at her again, that same grin stretching across his face. “How to send proof, I wonder,” he mused. His hands came up to tease the hair near her temple, running his disgusting fingers through it. “Maybe a lock of hair?” His hands slid down to her shoulders, lightly brushing over the fabric of her dress. She tensed up. “Maybe a scrap of fabric?”
If Diaspro were the religious type, she would’ve started praying.
“ No, none of that will do. There are countless blondes, countless dresses of red lace. The king wants proof. Who am I to deny my sovereign?” His grin, if possible, stretched wider. Again, his hands found that ring.
Diaspro was mute. She wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but she was certain that opening her mouth would just make it worse. The ring was given to her by her father after her engagement to Sky. It was a symbol of her family's power, of her power, a confirmation of her position next to Sky. Maybe they would just send the ring to the King. That would be simple enough, and certainly less distressing than having her hair or dress cut.
The scarred man stood, signalling for the knife that was held at her throat. Suddenly, she found her voice again.
“There’s no need to cut the ring; it slips off my finger easily.”
He didn’t respond, walking out of view. Two men she hadn’t seen before grabbed her at each shoulder, pushing her down to the ground. A third grabbed her hand and held it still, palm down against the floor. The pressure made the ring cut into her finger. Constrained, Diaspro found it hard to breathe. What was going on? Her heart raced, her breath came out unevenly. Didn’t they just want the ring?
The scarred man walked back into view, this time holding the knife.
“There’s nothing I hate more than having my time wasted. Especially by a king trying to buy himself time.”
Everything else in the room fell away, enveloped in a haze. Diaspro only had eyes for the knife and the man holding it.
Suddenly, all her calculations about her worth, her plans for a fucking bath, for new clothes, fell away. The awareness of her naivety felt like icy water on her skin. How could she ever assume she’d make it out, that her life would just continue uninterrupted, as if this were a mere detour? She saw herself the way these men probably saw her. An idiot who’d never stepped more than three feet away from her security, a spoiled brat who had never endured so much as a paper cut. Someone so protected, she had no idea what she was even being protected from. But she’d find out now.
The first press of the knife against her finger stung; a sharp taste flooded her mouth. She couldn’t process what she was feeling. Not at first. But then the pain slammed into her, waves of it rolling through her body. As the knife drove in deeper, she felt herself crack in half. There was no more Diaspro. There was Before, and there was After, but these parts of her would never be reconciled. The pain was unbearable. She could feel something inside her trying to leave this room, leave this body.
Diaspro screamed.
✦ ✦ ✦
In a distant palace, a courtier is tasked with delivering a box to the king. He isn’t aware of what’s going on, but there are plenty of whispers around the palace. The court has been closed for some time. Only the Royal Family and the House of Thraecius have been permitted inside. The box itself is made of a heavy wood, otherwise nondescript.
The courtier kneels before the king, holding the box aloft. The king seems bored, lazily waving a hand. The head of the House of Thraecius responds immediately, taking the box from the courtier with a few long strides. A woman, dripping in jewels, is wringing her hands together, barely holding her composure. The courtier stands up, bows, and turns to leave. He’s only made it a few steps when there’s a sudden thud.
A shrill voice screams.
He whirls around, reacting before he’s even aware of what he heard. The box is on the floor, lying open on its side. In the centre of the room is a single finger wearing a thick bronze ring. Blood has pooled around it, staining the ornate carpet. The head of the House of Thraecius has fallen to his knees, poised as if to get far away from the finger. The king, no longer reclining, is yelling for the guards. The blonde prince has paled, legs trembling.
The woman covered in jewels has fallen to the ground, unconscious.