‹ Prequel: The Pauper Princess
Status: Currently undergoing renovations.
The Game
Thirty
"What are you doing?” Mehta asks incredulously. I glance at her but continue shoving blankets and books off the bench and onto the floor around my feet. “He said to stay here,” she continues. I turn to face her now, pausing in my rearranging.
“Who?” She gives me a look, like she’s worried I’ve gone crazy.
“Ekohl,” she says slowly. “He said that no matter what we heard, we needed to stay in here.” As if on cue, something hits the side of the carriage hard enough to knock me into Mehta’s lap.
“I don’t care,” I say, shoving the rest of the stuff off the bench and forcing it open, revealing the bags underneath. I reach into the closest one and pull out the blades my brother had hidden there.
“You can’t be serious,” Mehta whispers harshly as I work the sheath of one of the blades onto my belt. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish?”
“I’m going to help,” I say, looping the end of my belt back through the sheath on my right hip to keep it out of the way. I reach for the other blade and swing the strap over my head and right arm. She tried once again to plead with me, but I ignored her.
“We don’t know how many there are, they’ll need any help they can get.”
“They wouldn’t even let you help with the tents!” she shouts.
Her final argument may have convinced me if not for what happened next. As we were arguing, the door was yanked open. I turn quickly and see one of the fur-covered bandits, covered in my country-men’s blood, and any hesitation left me.
“Who?” She gives me a look, like she’s worried I’ve gone crazy.
“Ekohl,” she says slowly. “He said that no matter what we heard, we needed to stay in here.” As if on cue, something hits the side of the carriage hard enough to knock me into Mehta’s lap.
“I don’t care,” I say, shoving the rest of the stuff off the bench and forcing it open, revealing the bags underneath. I reach into the closest one and pull out the blades my brother had hidden there.
“You can’t be serious,” Mehta whispers harshly as I work the sheath of one of the blades onto my belt. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish?”
“I’m going to help,” I say, looping the end of my belt back through the sheath on my right hip to keep it out of the way. I reach for the other blade and swing the strap over my head and right arm. She tried once again to plead with me, but I ignored her.
“We don’t know how many there are, they’ll need any help they can get.”
“They wouldn’t even let you help with the tents!” she shouts.
Her final argument may have convinced me if not for what happened next. As we were arguing, the door was yanked open. I turn quickly and see one of the fur-covered bandits, covered in my country-men’s blood, and any hesitation left me.