IV

"the crowds"

ANNABETH

ANNABETH'S concerned thoughts startled her. But what about Piper?

A minuscule portion of her wanted to struggle against Jorah's grip on her chains, but she managed to ignore it by placing her faith in logic, just as her mother had always taught her. She was a Minerva just as much as she was a Karstagne, an owl as much as she was a wolf. But as they headed back in the direction from which they came, still her vision swam.

Multifaceted notions bubbled to the surface of her mind, confusing her and disallowing her from thinking rationally. What was going on?

Through it all, Jorah's pace did not slow.

He continued to pull her around corners and turns, never once glancing back. And from the barely noticeable sheen of sweat that emerged on the back of his neck, she realized that he was scared. His body language screamed anxiety, apprehension, and alarm. That fact alone was enough to force her to reevaluate the situation for the umpteenth time.

What exactly was she missing?

The wound on her tongue smarted when the faintly glowing walls tremored with the sounding of the horn yet again. All coherent thought lost significance as Annabeth winced, clenching her jaw, and forced herself to keep from tripping over her own feet. But that proved to be difficult as Jorah audibly swore ahead of her. His pace quickened, much to her chagrin. When he rounded the next bend, her elbow barely skimmed the sharp corner of the abalone walls. Her sharp intake of breath must have elicited his apology.

"Sorry," he tossed a quiet mumble over his shoulder before continuing with his hasty gait. His grip on her chains loosened, stretching the space between them by a few centimeters.

Shock triggered by his actions rose within her, but Annabeth had no time to further react as he pushed through a set of double doors and dragged her into a significantly darker hallway. If she had closed her eyes and continued walking, it would have made no difference. Macabre obscurity swallowed her whole as Jorah pressed forward, his sandals slapping against the smooth ironstone floors.

"Watch your head," his warning fluttered to her ears in the tone of a wary whisper. There was a specific strain underlying his words that told her to heed the advice.

Immediately, Annabeth ducked. The crown of her head scraped against an unknown object not a full moment afterward. Again, confusion bubbled within her chest. But Annabeth couldn't bring herself to voice her concerns. In this moment, where tension clearly rang behind his every motion, she supposed that it didn't matter.

She couldn't, however, keep from worrying over the fact that he was taking a route that she was not familiar with. Now, more than ever, she was at the complete mercy of a man she did not know- a man whose position of power was notorious for unspeakable acts. She ignored her fears. She had to. And instead, the escaped princess settled with pressing her chin to her sternum and following silently.

Somehow, Annabeth brought herself to ignore the shame that simmered in her gut. Her mother, her father, her brothers, Eplonia— they would all be sickened by her complacency. She was sure of it. And as much as she attempted to utilize wisdom as the justification for her actions, the darkest corners of her mind whispered ill-nothings. They spoke of her truth: that her excuse for prudence was, in reality, cowardice thinly veiled. She found no valid reason to combat that notion but tried to push it from the forefront of her conscience nonetheless.

Jorah persisted with his mission. As he hauled her back into the dim light of Triton's Hold, pushing through another set of thick iron doors, Annabeth noticed that his muscles were aligned tightly. He was stiff. Her gaze lifted momentarily, falling to the recognizable sight of the abalone walls and thoughtful murals on the ceilings. Their familiarity was only lightly heartwarming in the midst of the sudden chaos.

But that thin warmth was short-lived as Annabeth came to the realization that they were nearing the holding chamber. She was being dragged right back to the beginning... without Piper.

In spite of herself, she feared for the younger girl's demise. In spite of the fact that it was Piper's fault that she was being dragged around on bruised feet, Annabeth couldn't help but let her thoughts travel to the Algreni. Piper was already so disenfranchised... but now to be left at the complete mercy of whatever it was that Jorah feared? To be left alone in the cells, wherever they were, while seasoned guards hurried for their lives?

Her heart thrummed with more strength at the idea.

This was wrong. Annabeth was sure that it was, but then her ankles throbbed once more beneath their iron grip and the sound of rattling chains reached her ears. She was again reminded why and how she was powerless in this situation. Annabeth was a princess, and yet she could do nothing for the friend of her traveling companion.

Uncounted time passed, leaving Annabeth's mind numb. Every step she took only solidified her fears and Jorah's quickened breaths confirmed them. When the doors of the holding chamber loomed into view, however, her heart rate intensified. Jorah tugged her closer the minute the soldiers who were guarding the doors noticed them. Annabeth, remembering her place, sank her canines into the skin lining the inside of her cheek and pressed her chin further against her sternum.

The pair of them finally came to a stop. The rhythm of her heart drummed in her ears, each beat pumping another dose of smoke and fire conceived through confusion and apprehension beneath her skin.

"State your business." A gravelly voice sounded from Annabeth's left. It was soon followed by the unmistakable intonation of danger as the piercing sound of a sword being pulled from its scabbard sliced the air in two.

Jorah scoffed, tugging Annabeth forwards, before replying. "What does it look like, Pentos? I'm bringing one of the prisoners back." His tone bordered on exasperation, and from what she could see, his foot tapped against the ironstone floors and his free fist clenched and unclenched. The guard in charge of her was either extremely irritated or extremely anxious, but based on what she had just witnessed, Annabeth figured that his emotions were more likely a mixture of both.

The walls shook again before the soldiers guarding the doors to the holding chamber could respond. All parties tensed when the horn emitted another oscillating wave of vibrations that rumbled in their bones. A high-pitched screech echoed through the air—as if a beast were unleashing its fury. Annabeth had never heard anything like it before, and the fear that sparked in her chest and turned her thoughts to sand reflected as such.

When the noise finally subsided, Jorah's words were frantic. "Pentos," he began. "I have duties to fulfill, but before I can do that, this prisoner must be returned to Prisoner's Hall. Keeping her out here isn't a good look for anyone, and you know how the Baroness reacts when her halls are untidy." The rest of what Jorah had to make clear hung in the air, unspoken but clearly addressed.

There was a long stretch of silence before Pentos grunted and sheathed his sword nonetheless. "As far as we're all concerned, these halls belong to the High Lord, High Lady, and the Heir Apparent." A breathy pause, before, "But you're right. Hand her over and do what you have to do."

Jorah released a breath of relief, his anxiety seemingly fading away, before he resumed his stoic stance. He loosened his grip on Annabeth's chains and dipped into a low bow, pressing his fist against his heart. "The Brother's blessings to you, Pentos. I always knew you were a graceful man." Then, he fully pulled Annabeth in front of him and handed the iron length of her shackles to the other guard who had yet to speak.

Annabeth kept her chin aligned with her chest as she listened to him hurry away down the hall. Confusion still hummed in her bones, but there was another sentiment picking at the back of her mind that told her something else.

As the doors opened and the escaped princess was led back to her own personal prison alongside the other conquests, she couldn't help but think that she had witnessed something profound.

For some reason, Jorah appeared to be more afraid of the horn than the other guards...

Why?

What was it that he feared so earnestly?

Ω

She needed something to obsess over, something to keep her mind away from her fear. It was a horrible habit of hers, but it was all she had. So she found herself going through each of his past movements, through the entire experience. While the other guards had just tensed when the horn sounded, Jorah had wholly flinched. He had become disillusioned to his surroundings. He had-

"Asteria!"

Annabeth's chin didn't stray from its position, but after spending several weeks traveling with it, she could identify the voice anywhere. But her recognition only strengthened her confusion. What was Piper doing out of the cells?

The soldiers closed the door behind her and Annabeth lifted her gaze to see Hazel and Piper across the room, still in the corner that they had claimed hours before. Hazel was waving her over shyly, but it was the figure beside her that snared Annabeth's focus. Annabeth's breath caught in her throat for a moment as her attention zeroed in on the wounds that marred Piper's face. There were too many to count.

She took a tender step forward, wincing when she planted the soles of her bruised feet against the stone floors. As Annabeth slowly made her way closer to the pair of prisoners, she recognized that the image only grew more grotesque. The Algreni's hands and feet were tied together completely with a thick rope that no doubt bit into her skin (as proven by the vivid crimson that stained her skin beneath its grip). Her iron shackles had been removed from her hands and feet only to make its reappearance around her neck. Blood dripped from her busted lip, and one of her versicolored irises had disappeared behind a nasty purple bruise that forced her eye to close entirely.

"They beat you." Annabeth still managed to keep her words balanced as ever when she sank into position beside Hazel, pressing her back into the smooth stone walls. She forced herself to look into her face.

Piper hummed a bit before releasing a grin. Her teeth were stained red. "They did. But I lived..." She tugged her chin upwards as best as she could without the neck chain's interference, her slight arrogance shining through clearer than sunlight. "They can't kill me." And then her smile took a wicked turn. "And the other bitch's nose is broken, so this is all a win for me, honestly."

Hazel huffed in annoyance. "I already told you, Piper. They were going to kill you. The Baroness said it herself." Her tone grew a bit fearful as she recounted the noblewoman's words. "She practically declared you an enemy of the royal house, Piper. The royal house. The only reason why you're sitting here is because some noblewoman named Lady Vene told the Baroness to have compassion." A paused sanctioned by a frown, then, "Don't be so cocky."

If she cared enough, Annabeth would have applauded the younger of the two Algreni's for being the voice of reason in her stead. But she didn't. In fact, she was barely tuned into the conversation. Instead, her thoughts kept traveling back to Jorah and his questionable actions. More specifically, his fear and his apology.

She couldn't get over it. Just what was it that he feared so much?

Annabeth turned to them, furrowing her brows as she attempted to make conversation in hopes that they would have answers. "What was that horn that kept going off? It made the soldiers uneasy." She angled her neck to cast a few glances at the new guards that lined the walls, all of whom were staring the conquests down in the same manner Eplonians regarded snow rats. She forced down the contemptuous growl that threatened to rise in her throat at the sight of that.

Hazel shrugged with a small frown tugging on the corners of her pillowy lips. "I'm not sure, to be honest." She then glanced around, biting her lip and lowering her tone. "But I've heard rumors that they're a signal."

Annabeth's eyebrows lifted just barely. "A signal? For what?"

The young girl before her leaned in, her ichorous eyes darkening as if she were passing on a secret with treacherous content. "For the Heir Apparent... the Darksnake's return."

She found herself leaning away while holding back a shattered breath. Her mother's words rang loud and clear in her ears. Triesstine royalty will forever be tainted with impudence and have a barbaric nature. They may be savage folk, but they warrant fear. But even so, Annabeth was doubtful. Annabeth tugged on the ends of her hair before shifting away. "Surely he isn't that bad for the soldiers to be in such a panic over his return... right?"

Both Hazel and Piper hummed in unison, the vibrations evidently disagreeing with Annabeth's words.

Piper sank her canines into her lower lip before replying, fiddling with her own fingers and peering at them intently. "I don't know, Asteria. I've heard some stuff about the Heir... and they aren't pretty. Not in the slightest."

"Is that so?" Annabeth could barely hide the curiosity from filtering her words as she fixed her clasped hands over her lap. "Enlighten me then, Piper. Why is it that the Heir Apparent is so commonly referred to as the Darksnake? By his own people, no less." Which, in all manners of honesty to Annabeth, said so much about Triesso in itself. But she decided not to elucidate further or put a voice to her thoughts.

There was a time and place for everything, and she knew that it wasn't right then and there. Not with so many enemies surrounding her.

Piper shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't know why he's called that, but I've heard that he leaves-"

Another one of the prisoners leaned over Piper's shoulder, her hair pitch black and her eyes a strange mixture of blue and grey. In another world, Annabeth would have pegged her as a girl born of the Mount. "I hear that you're talking about the Darksnake?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively and angled her body in a way that forced her into their tiny circle.

All three parties were silent as they stared at her.

The new prisoner either didn't care or refused to acknowledge their lack of response as she continued, fiddling with her chains. "My name's Valeria. And I've been all over the room and apparently that's all anyone can talk about. I've heard plenty of stories about the prince." Her thick eyebrows lifted as she turned to glance at them each in turn, a playful glint in her eyes. "Would you like to hear it?"

The smallest of chills tiptoed up the bones of Annabeth's spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps and unease in its wake. Something told her that this was taboo, but before she could wisely bow out, Piper nodded, solidifying their fates with one movement.

"Please," she croaked.

Valeria made a humming sound at the back of her throat, the noise riddled with an inflection that stated she had been expecting such an answer. But before her lips could poise in response, the walls shook again once more.

Hazel's hand came flying down to grip Annabeth's wrist as the horn ripped through the quiet bustle of the holding chamber, her breath audibly catching in her throat. Around them, prisoners hurried to the windows and peered out, an unforeseen maniacal energy flowing through the room as the conquests tripped over each other to get a glance at something or someone. The chills that filmed Annabeth's breaths and skin grew colder and she found herself inching towards the windows to see what the commotion was about.

There was an empty one a few feet away, and so she shuffled towards it, hauling Hazel in her wake. Said girl hissed in her direction as Annabeth stood up with aching bones and shaking knees. She was tired. "Asteria, what are you doing?"

Annabeth didn't respond. And perhaps she couldn't even if she tried. Her father had always told her that her curiosity and her pride would one day be her downfall, and the fact that she stood on bruised feet, scouring the dew-slick streets of Triesso for something she didn't know to look for only bolstered his claim. But then a flash of black appeared in her peripherals and the escaped princess followed it without a second thought, angling her head in its direction.

Her breath caught in her throat as she registered the rapidly increasing throngs of Triesstine citizens that seemed to be pushing each other for a closer look at... what was that?

There was a masculine figure riding on a black horse, flanked by burly guards in thick, fur-lined cloaks. The guards carried spears with jagged edges. But it was the man that drew Annabeth's attention. He sat rigidly upon his stallion, his hair a deep shade of midnight that seemingly inhaled what little of the scarce light that broke through the thick clouds smothering the sun. He too was clothed in dark furs, with a stretch of fabric pulled over the bottom half of his face.

Valeria's voice startled Annabeth. "Ah, there's the man of the hour."

Annabeth's eyebrows furrowed. "That's the Heir Apparent?" She studied him closer... or as close as she could from her view hundreds of yards away. Her focus landed on the sinister swords strapped to his back. "Why would the Prince of Triesso be dressed like..." She trailed off, realizing that finishing the sentence could very well lead to her demise.

He was dressed like an Eplonian.

But she, Asteria, wasn't supposed to know what Eplonians looked or dressed like.

Hazel cocked her head a bit to the side. "Wait... I've seen those guards," she murmured mostly to herself. But Annabeth heard her. She always heard her. "Those are warriors from the Southern... Ice Tribes of Yza."

The Southern Ice Tribes. Yza.

The name was familiar to Annabeth, one she had heard mentioned in passing when she was younger, back when war between Eplonia and Triesso appeared to be inevitable in spite of the peace treaties that kept them away from each other's necks. Little facts were known about the people group: just that they were Triesso's fiercest allies—more so than the Western Isles—and bred some of the most sadistic, inherently cruel men to walk the earth south of the Eplon mountains. For months, it seemed, all anyone could speak of were the rumors of bloodsoaked rituals and forsaken practices that could churn a stable mind towards insanity if inadequately prepared for.

The thought of it made Annabeth's skin scrawl, reminding her the tales that Hestia told her and her brothers at the hearth, the firelight always making the woman's words ever more ominous. Their isles were surrounded by ice, much like the North and its mountains, but the Tribesmen of Yza did not have Khione—Mother of Winter—to guide them. Tribesmen were a godless people, Hestia used to say. Rumors said that they consorted with monsters of many heads and giants of many hands, stole little girls in the dead of night, and drank blood straight from the veins of the slain. Hestia said that their chosen women, all warriors, would lay with the Titans in the peak of the Bitter Winter to sire mongrel half-demon children with blood that ran as gold as the metals hidden in the base of the Ore Mounts in the Valley.

Taking that fact into account, Annabeth studied the crowds with more intent. With a speed that stopped her heart, she registered the unadulterated fear that screamed through their body language. The Triesstine all parted around their Prince in the same manner that water did oil, flinching away when he drew near and casting their eyes in what seemed to be opposite directions.

They feared him. His own people feared him.

Past memories consumed Annabeth's thoughts, and her mind wandered to her brothers, the princes of Eplonia. It wandered to the many Wednesday evenings, the highest point of the week, when all those who dwelled within the vaulting walls of the Torch would gather at the Blest Mount of Kryfort and pray to the Nine Mothers. The gentle hum of the prayers filled her ears, and she could almost smell the burning incense, the sound of stone cracking against stone. Kissed by fire, the mountainfolk would say in regard to Malcolm's red-golden gleaming hair in between murmurs. Blest by Thoena—Mother of the Night—they would say about Luke as they approached the carving of the Seventh Muse. The princes of Eplonia, her dear brothers, were far from feared. They were adored.

As for the people of Triesso, however…

Turning her thoughts back towards their original track, Annabeth refocused on the situation at hand. She noticed that the Heir Apparent had disappeared from view, and no matter how much she craned her neck, she wasn't able to see more of him through the thin window that aided her in the first place.

A warm hand descended on her shoulder, and Annabeth found herself tearing her gaze away to meet Valeria's blue-grey eyes. In turn, Hazel gripped the faux-brunette's forearms and the pair of girls began to tug her away from the window, back towards Piper who dejectedly remained in the same position due to her bound hands and feet.

"You're shaking, Asteria," Hazel explained. Her tone came in hushed whispers, her eyes sympathetic for reasons unknown.

Annabeth reeled as she sank back to her former spot. Around her, the prisoners hobbled back to their positions as the rumors were confirmed. The Darksnake had returned to Triesso and judging by the body language of the citizens that surrounded them, many were apprehensive of that fact.

The four of them were silent for an eight beat count before Hazel's words shattered it, cracking the tangible air between them into a million pieces. "Why... why didn't they seem happy to see him?" Her ichorous irises were trained on the smooth floors underfoot, her question seemingly aimed at no one in particular.

Valeria jumped at the opportunity to speak. "Well, he is called the Darksnake for a reason. I think it's safe to say that the title is warranted in some sense or the other."

Annabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead glaring down at the grotesque bruises that littered her ankles. After drawing in several breaths, Annabeth forced herself to look at the new addition in the face with a passive expression and a balanced tone. "Well then, elucidate, Valeria. We're all curious."

Said prisoner regarded her for a moment with narrowed eyes. Her next words shook Annabeth to her very core, chilling the escaped princess to the bone. "Elucidate..." Valeria made a face. "You're pretty well-spoken for an Algreni commoner." Her pearly irises disappeared further behind her tightened eyelids. She gave her a glance over. "Where are you from?"

Annabeth had to fight the urge to stutter that was typically born from anxiety. She responded with as much brevity that she could muster. "The Burilese district." She half-lied straight through her clenched teeth. "My family worked for a minor noble family, so I grew up around well-spoken folk."

Piper snorted. "Rich folk."

Annabeth feigned a low chuckle and forced her shoulders through the motion of a shrug. "That... is very true." Then, taking the opportunity to shift the topic of conversation back to Valeria and her alleged knowledge of rumors, she turned to the girl in question. "Anyways, you said that you know stories about the prince." Another shrug. "We might as well kill time."

Valeria hummed and tucked her feet beneath her, her legs folding and her chains noisily moving across the stone. "As I was saying earlier..."

Ω

She couldn't believe her ears.

The rumors had long since begun to blend together, fiction mixing with more fiction until it was impossible to tell which sliver of untruth was in the wrong place. Valeria recounted a plethora of stories that seemed too supernatural to be true. She spoke of the Prince's mysterious disappearance when he was a child, how he was beloved and viewed as a gift from the Triesstine god of the sea, Aegeon, up until he vanished. She spoke of his sudden return and the changes he brought with it; how everyone hailed him as the Young Leviathan to his face and whispered Darksnake behind his back.

The Heir Apparent, by rumor, was blessed (or cursed, as considered by many) with certain abilities that made him more dangerous than the average man. Valeria claimed that he had the ability to conjure up storms, to twist the very water that ran through one's blood as he so desired, to sink entire fleets within minutes. She claimed that the Darksnake was a descendant of Aegeon himself—that his eyes glowed green as the Deep with power, that he could breathe beneath the onslaught of the fiercest waves, that he shook the earth itself in bouts of vicious anger, that his tantrums left entire chambers flooded and furniture destroyed.

And as her stories continued, each one more infernal than the last, reality slowly began to settle in for Annabeth. With each breath that she took, she was reminded of the crowd's reaction as the prince rode through the streets. She was reminded of Jorah's actions when the horn signaling the heir's return sounded again and again. She recognized the pure terror that had been instilled in every being that was affiliated with Triesso.

With a jolt, Annabeth realized her true enemy, her true danger.

Ever since she had come to realize that her next destination was Triesso, the escaped princess of Eplonia had been submerged in pools of apprehension regarding the High Lord. She had been worried that he would somehow become aware of her existence and put an end to her bloodline.

But as she sat in the holding chamber, shackles against shackles, chains to chains, her back pressed into the walls that comprised her cage, Annabeth realized that she had plenty more to fear in the future High Lord of Triesso than in the current one.

For if a country had reason to openly fear its own leader, she couldn't help but wonder what damage a banned outsider such as herself would suffer if forsakenly discovered.

And it was that unhinging rationale that elicited her breath to leave her lungs without a second thought as the doors of the holding chamber were slammed open, and more soldiers came pouring in.