Chapter One - Valerie

I stare at the walls of my prison. By now, they’re covered in scratches from what I’ve done with my nails, and from the splinters I’ve managed to prise off the bed. My clothes are filthy and rank, and I’ve been wearing the same ones for a long time. The guards don’t bother washing their prisoners, so it’s up to them to not die from disease. It does mean sacrificing the water rations obtained for a meagre way to keep clean, but I find I can will away the hours by gradually daubing the water over my skin.

The smells in these dungeons no longer bother me. They used to make me retch, because the conditions here are abysmal. I still remember the sneers and moans from the other prisoners, including the raucous noise from the men, who had gone for months without woman, banging against their cell bars, sometimes screaming for me to show my face so they can masturbate to it.

I'm still damp with sweat from the last dream I had. It woke me up, never screaming, but with my heart thundering, pumping a sick, dizzy sensation through my body, and it has me checking my hands, to make sure they're no longer burnt from flames.

There's blood there, though, that doesn't wash away. I'm always drowning in it, along with misery and depravity when I dream. It's a ritual, and even though I should be used to them, the memory is relived fresh, with all five senses cranked up, living in that cesspit of piss, shit and empty, sunken eyes. Seeing his face through the groggy blur of the drug-induced stupor.

Seeing them die, over and over again, pounding guilt into my body.

I’ve no idea how much time has passed, but it feels like forever, and the boredom eats away at my mind and sanity. There’s nothing to do here, no fresh air to breathe, no one to provide warmth or to give a smile. Most prisoners are trapped in their heads, unwilling to venture out of them. Most are thieves are murderers, awaiting execution or exoneration. About the one thing I've kept to myself and not whispered to any others is my name. Valerie. No last name. Not since the continents have been hunting fire mages. Otherwise it would have been Fireheart.

I watch as a fly buzzes around my cell, drawing my attention. I scratch at the damned collar locked around my neck – the one that prevents me from casting any kind of spell. I’ve tried many times to take it off, but it’s impossible. The magic, once a huge part of me, is removed and destroyed, and as long as I have this infernal thing on, it’s forbidden to me.

It would have been nice to feel the warmth of fire in my hands for one last time before they come for me.

It gets harder to picture my former life, the more the days drag, and everything blurs into routine, rituals, things to stave off the madness.

The guards eventually come, obliterating the routine of prison life.

This is it, I think, fear and relief mingling. This is where I die.

No last requests, it seems. Nothing for a criminal. They walk into my cell, and they force me to plant my hands against the wall, in case I have a weapon.

“Filthy fucker, aren't you,” one of the guards spits “Suns, I hate doing this. I always feel like retching.”

“Not their fault,” another crisp voice soothes, though I can't see the talkers, facing the dank gray wall as I am, hands pressed onto the cold, “They don't get baths. This one's cleaner than the rest.”

“Womanly touch,” the previous guard laughs, before my hands are twisted behind me, and cuffs are snapped onto them. I'm sandwiched between the guards, trying to stare out of the snarls of my matted hair. I left it long and loose deliberately, just so I could run my fingers through to de-tangle, or have something to tug. The men sneer at me from their cells, and I notice the only other woman there is huddled up in her bed, her dark hair poking out. I lick my cracked lips, considering attempting to speak to the guards about my fate for a second, before declining, because I'm not sure if I still retain the ability. It's been so long since I've last exchanged words with anyone.

Out of the dark dungeon, illuminated only by the high barred window slits lining the top walls, I'm forced up a narrow stairwell, my bare feet freezing on the stone, the guard's boots clattering with vigor. They continue their nonchalant conversation around me, and I listen in apathy, hating them for the way they treat me, as subhuman, one of your common slaves, but also expecting it. I know I smell and look like some kind of alien being, with only a rattling hiss escaping from me, from being in a mildewed, mold choked dungeon.

I cough as we walk through a cleaner section of the keep, and my eyes feast upon the lakes of green outside, the distant mountains, the yellow flowers. I imagine what they must smell like, and my heart twitches slightly. At least I got a glimpse of this. At least I saw something beautiful, before I die.

I'm escorted into a large room, which doesn't resemble the executioner's chamber I'm anticipating, and more of a office, an area to check people through. Through the mass of paper work, the shelves filled with books and the blood red carpet, is a desk where a man with glasses is seated, scribbling on a scroll with a eagle feather quill.

Another man stands next to the older, authoritative figure with the quill, and when his eyes latch on me, they burn with hate.

I vaguely recognize his features, though I can't sift through my memory to discover how and why. I do notice, however, he has the intense blue burn in his eyes that denotes a shifter.

Is this shifter my executioner?

The older man clears his throat. “Thank you, guards.” His voice is flowing and cold, the onerous kind that could lull you to sleep on a restless night. His glasses are pristine and oval shaped, lodged on the tip of his nose as he peers at me. “Prisoner. I have a few questions for you, before we send you off to your fate. Can you understand me?”

My legs tremble from weakness, from having walked so far from my cell than the exercise I manage to pull off within it. I sway on the spot, and one of the guards grunts in disgust as he catches me from stumbling, and yanks me viciously upright.

“Prisoner? Speak.”

The shifter continues to stare at me with that violent intensity in his eyes. I can almost smell the hatred and disgust. I tilt my head up, resist the urge to cough, and say, through my dry lips, my cobwebbed mouth, “Y-yes.” It rasps out like sandpaper, and already the word burns my throat, and I finally give into a bout of coughs.

“Excellent. First question, prisoner known as Valerie. You know what you're in jail for, yes?

I lock my jaw for a moment. “Yes.”

“Do you confess to what you've done?”

I don't like the way the questioning is going, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”

The official shakes his head. “At least you're honest, unlike some who swear they didn't do it, even when they're caught red handed.” He then scowls at me, noticing my slightly puffed chest.

Do you feel any regret for what you've done?”

I squint at him. If he expects me to repent, he's sorely mistaken. “No,” I say. My voice is stronger this time. It doesn't shake. The shifter by the side of the official narrows his eyes, turning them to dagger points.

The official clears his throat again. “The crime we have you here for is for killing a prince of the Bear Kingdom. He was first in line to inherit the throne, when he was found dead, charred to a crisp, and you were found next to him.”

My mind flashes back for an instant, and cold sweat lathering my skin. The dark chamber. The eyes. The smell. The guilt.

“You killed the heir. But something puzzles me.” He examines the document in front of him. “You didn't resist when the guards came to take you in. With your power, you could have easily burned them. Why?”

I glance at the ground for a moment. Now I recognize who the shifter is on the side. He's a bear shifter, with some identifying features with the former prince. A relative. “I wanted to die.”

The official raises an eyebrow. The shifter curls his lips into an awful sneer.

“Interesting. We had you lined for a public execution. The kingdom went into mourning for their lost prince. However... we've been given a less... conventional proposal.”

The shifter's storm blue eyes glint in savage triumph. I fixate on his jet black hair, his handsome yet somehow cruel features, noting the broad, muscular build with a growing sense of dread.

“Our prince here wants to buy you from us.” The official nods towards the shifter.

Damn. He's a sibling. This can't be good. The fear knifes me. I'd rather be publicly executed then face whatever intent lurks behind his hard face.

“Normally we would proceed with the execution... but it's quite the sum of money being offered. You appear to be popular with him.”

Popular is an understatement. His eyes burn with malice.

“Aren't...” I wheeze, “aren't any of you even going to bother asking why I did it?”

“It will be lies, anyway,” the shifter snaps, his voice a guttural growl. “Justifications to make yourself look better for the crime you've done.”

“He deserved it,” I say, even as one of the guards slaps me about the mouth with a mailed fist.

“Quiet, whore,” the guard says.

I stand up, defiant. I sense I need to be executed, and now. “Better not let me out of here, or I might just do the same to you.”

I'm hit again, but I don't care. The pain rings through me, almost making me gasp, but my thoughts are fixated on one thing. Please let them kill me. Anything but to be sold off to this bastard.

“Take her away,” the official says. “Get her cleaned and ready to be given to the prince in two hours. And,” he adds, scratching his gray beard, a bored expression in his face as he drawls, “Don't accidentally remove the collar. She'll need it for where she's going.”

The bear prince grins at me with seething hate.

My heart drops into my stomach, even as my mouth and head throb. I'm taken away, and I'm shivering the whole time.