"What?" Mika asked wearily. Apparently, they must have had a long night. Kurda shrugged his shoulders and listened as the Generals reported their findings. As he listened on, his eyes grew rounder and rounder. He was not the only one surprised. Darren was staring at them, jaws open, while Vancha was glassy eyed. Paris was scratching his ear.

"That's it? A couple of twigs and stones for fire is enough for someone to be reported for assassination?" Mika asked incredulously. The Generals started arguing with the Princes about what Kurda could do with that and the noise level grew higher and higher. Finally, Kurda lost his cool

"Shut up!" he yelled and immediately, every vampire fell silent.

"I. do. Not. Mean. To. Assassinate. The. Princes," he spoke clearly, word by word. "Vancha blooded me. I studied under Vanez Blane. One is a Prince while the other respects the Princes. I tried to – that's a fact – for the sake of my plan, but apart from that, I have absolutely no reason to kill them. All of you present here have either luminous lichen or flame torches in your rooms. Me? Nothing. I don't think our laws state that trying to create fire independently is something taboo."

"I agree," unexpectedly, the person who agreed was not Vancha, but Larten Crepsley. "He may be the worst person in the universe, but he is still a person. He has a right to survive. He needs food, air, water, blood and everything that we need. Therefore I think that it is right to give him this bit of light." Kurda smiled lightly. It was nice to know that at least there was someone who stood by his side. The Generals that brought up the complaint were looking so mad that they looked ready to kill. One of the Generals in attendance requested for a check.

"Fine," Kurda shrugged and allowed the guards to strip him.

Halfway through, a deafening clang echoed around in the room. Those at the back craned their necks to see what had happened, while those in front were stunned – a dagger fell out from Kurda's robes! The guards picked it up for examination and certified that it was deadly, whether for stabbing or throwing. The Princes turned to Kurda, disbelief in their eyes.

"It's not mine!" Kurda protested hotly.

"Oh? Then why was it in your robes?" the General who had requested the search asked. Now, the Generals who had charged Kurda were looking very smug. Confused, Kurda shook his head.

"I don't know." Now, everyone was discussing it at length among themselves. It was until when a senior General call upon the judgment of the Princes did they quieten down.

The Princes discussed it at length before Paris spoke.

"Execution," he said somberly.

As the guards approached the platform to escort Kurda to the Hall of Death, Kurda drew himself tall.

"I did not do it," he spoke word by word, very clearly, locking eyes with the vampires present. "All of you here believe it, I'm sure. Clearly, this is a plot. Its purposes are obvious. But I repeated. I. Did. Not. Do. It." He turned to the Princes. "Don't try to fish out the culprit or anything. I forgive the vampire who did it, and may our gods forgive him too."

Head held high, he made the death touch's sign then walked out.

At the Hall of Death……

Kurda stared at the ceiling of the Hall as the Guardians of the Blood bound him tightly to the bars of the wooden cage. In a few moments, the cage will be hoisted up, and then it will plummet onto the pointed stakes below, ending his life after a few times.

The sound of the wooden cage door slamming aroused him from his reverie.

"Ah well, this is it," Kurda muttered. Looking back up at the ceiling, now drawing nearer, he shut his eyes, mentally blocking out all senses. Accordingly to his 'philosophy', no one can fight their destiny, so now, if he was to die this way, he would rather accept it quietly than to fight it.

The cage dropped on to the stakes with a sickening sound of a tire puncture. The crowd of vampires stared on as the cage went up towards the ceiling again. Although Kurda's back now looked like a pincushion, none of the stakes had gone straight through, which was considered lucky for as the cage was dropped for the second time, the Princes burst in.

"Stop!" Mika yelled, as Vancha and Darren rushed to Kurda with a team of medics.

"We know what happened, and we are not planning on telling anyone," Paris announced, before going to check on Kurda.

"Is he alright?"

"What do you think? Would you be alright after being impaled on stakes for two times?" Darren exploded angrily.

Four nights later……

Kurda struggled to open his eyes. Other than the constant throb of pain in his back, he was hardly aware of what had happened. He also had been vaguely aware of vampires bustling around, but the few faces which appeared most – Larten, Vancha, Darren and the medics – seemed very distant, like a passing dream. He felt like scratching himself, yet he realized that he was chained. The rattling of the chains aroused Darren and Vancha, who were sleeping beside his bed.

"You're awake! I thought… the medics…" Vancha sputtered, too happy for words.

"Don't worry…. I'm not… dead yet," Kurda croaked, then tried to take in his surroundings. However, all was a blur. "Where am I?"

"Your previous room," Darren informed him. "Except we took out your coffin and put in a bed instead." Kurda smiled, and then grimaced from the pain. Vancha immediately rushed out from the cell to get the medics. Darren stared at Kurda with a hard-to-read expression.

"Guess you… all still… don't… really… trust me," Kurda stared down at the chains again. Unexpectedly, Darren burst into tears. Kurda stared at him, astonished, and then squeezed his hand comfortingly. In between the two good friends, no words were exchanged, yet they knew somehow what each other were thinking.

Just then, Paris came into the room.

"You OK?" Arrow asked.

"Funny… you should… ask. I'm… fine," Kurda replied.

"That's good," Paris grinned.

"Not that …good, actually," Kurda contradicted him. "If you don't …mind, can you …release me? The chains …are killing me." Paris looked at Mika uncertainly. Mika and Arrow nodded before Vancha simply broke through the metal. Rubbing his freed flesh, Kurda smiled gratefully.

"Thanks!"

"I have not seen you laugh since you were caught," Larten noted, while Darren nodded vigorously. Kurda's smile grew wider.

"I thought I …told you not to …check?" Kurda asked.

"We didn't; the culprit admitted it himself," Vancha replied. Kurda nodded then chewed on his lower lip, trying to work out the pain. Vancha patted his shoulder then left with the rest of the Princes.

In the next few weeks, Kurda spent his time trying to stand. Every other night the medics would come in to change his bandages. Even though Kurda did not see the real state that his back was in, he knew that it was very serious. There was also the problem with his eyesight.

"I'm sorry, but you hit your head hard against a stake so part of the brain had been damaged," the medic told Kurda. "You can see colors and lights, but you will not be able to make out anything- everything will be a blur to you." Kurda nodded and controlled himself until Darren and Larten came in.

"The medics said I cannot see anything," he told Darren dejectedly, tears threatening to come. He blinked a few times, looking away. Larten stared at Darren, tongue-tied. Both of them knew how important it was to Kurda. If he cannot see clearly, how can he do mapping? How can he write? At that moment, everyone, even the usually chattering Vancha - who had come in after Darren did - was at a loss for words.

"You'll learn to manage it," Darren said half-heartedly.

"True. Kurda, you have a long way ahead of you. Just treat this as a setback and work harder to beat it!" Larten encouraged him, even though he himself did not really believe it. Kurda heaved a sigh.

Fate – he would just have to accept it.

Five months later…

"Here," Kurda handed an essay to Paris. "The essay you wanted." As soon as Paris got hold of it, everyone crowed around to see it.

"Oh my god!" Kurda heard Darren gasp.

"Anything the matter?" Kurda asked anxiously, afraid that there might be some error. Darren shook his head mutely and continued to stuffy the piece of paper Paris was holding as though it was an ancient artifact. He was not looking at the content, but at the handwriting. The medics' hard work had not been in vain. Despite his eyesight, Kurda had regained his confidence. His handwriting, for an example, had improved vastly. From the crooked, untidy scribble it was a few months ago, it was now a smooth flow of words, every letter beautifully slanted as Kurda was a left-hander.

"Not bad," Paris commented, after skimming through it. "If that is all, Kurda, then we will be taking our leave." Kurda nodded and accompanied them to the door.