Wednesday Writing: Chapter 1(No More Choices)

This is part two of a story I posted a few week's ago. You can read the Prologue here .

 

My feet hit the marbled flooring, one step after another. My dress holds at my hips, and my hair is pinned up away from my face. My dad's advice. He wants me to be noticed. My dress is a burning fire, licking at my feet and embellishing me in flames. My dark hair is the perfect contrast as I greet the Guards at the main entrance to the Grand Hall - our designated arrival place - and make my way inside. It stretches out for what seems like miles in front of me, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and portraits with intricately drawn features. Drinks are scattered across the room, discarded when faced with a better option and three large dining tables are waiting. For each person there is a placemat, silver cutlery and clear-through glass. But, where my eyes land are the thrones at the end of the room, placed upon a risen platform. The symbol of our country is carved into the head, with a golden rime and velvet cushions. My father wraps his protective arm around my waist and steers me to where our names are on placecards. He, as the Kings Upper-Head Guard, is at the table in the centre and, as the lucky daughter of him, I'm seated beside him. The table is full of dignitaries, or wealthy men from the South, which I find myself pulled into conversation with. Father takes a different tone of voice, I notice, but all I can do is control the anger burning inside me. Why am I here? I mean, this is not the place for a rebel. Yes, I said rebel because that is what I am. Of course, father is yet to know. How could I tell him? Each night, he leaves for his duty at the Palace and I take the quick exit out of my bedroom window, onto my neighbours balcony and clamber down using the different connecting points to the ground.  From there, I run through the city streets, silent under the sheet of stars. Luckily, there is a passage I've found that leads me under the streets within minutes, what I think may have once been used by the Military. The cold, damp and taunting conditions are not one's I favour but how else can I make it to the Railways without being spotted.

 

The Railways - once called the Underground. The meeting place that has never been found. Even with the Queen making trips every few weeks they fail to find us. I sigh, trapped in the Palace indefinitely. I make a mental note to speak to Isabella when I can. There must be a route out of here, maybe a passage leading to an underground chamber?

 

Someone kicks me from under the table and I look up startled. Father glances in my direction, "What?" I blurt out before realising everyone at our table have their eyes trained on me, " I mean, pardon?"

"We were all wondering how exactly a sixteen year-old girl ended up here?" a Gentlemen that I briefly remember seeing before repeats his question.

"That part remains a mystery" I say, as I take a sip from my glass.

"Of course it would" he mutters, just loud enough so I can hear him. "So, tell me, how do you think you were chosen"
I glance around the rest of the room and just s expected, I am the youngest one here. I also notice there are only a handful of females so I choose my words carefully, "My latest testing results probably"

Testing results, one test that determines what you are capable of in just under two hours. Although, they may play a part in them, I'm sure my Father being so closely involved in this is the reason. I mean, leave his daughter just discover what he is doing. Safer to bring her along too. Make it a family trip - if only my mother wasn't dead.

 

Just as I lift my spoon to begin the soup that has been placed in front of me, the room enters a silence and everyone rises. I groan, throw my spoon into the soup bowl causing it to splatter on the tablecloth and also rise. Prince Skye, the King's Son enters first. He is my age, with deep blue eyes and a chiselled face. One thing I notice about him is how he always bits his bottom lip, and the way his blonde hair catches the light. He nods at us, and as he sits down, he glances my way. I give an awkward smile, and he gives an almost impeccable shrug of the shoulders. Something between "I'm sorry" and "It's not my fault". As the Queen enters, in a deep emerald gown, he gestures to me with his hands. At first, I give him a quizzed look back and then realised a lock of hair has come undone - which I quickly fix. Helping me. The Prince is helping me. I repeat it in my head a few times before it registers. And the only thing I can think of is what the Rebels are planning. What I am planning to stop his family. I almost run out of the room but, my father's stern hand on my shoulder keeps me in my place.

 

The next part will be posted in a week!