Scorned: The Rebirth of Kaidaira

THE DANCE OF SHAME

Kaidaira’s point of view.

The weeks dragged along, each day so much like every other that it was impossible to tell where one started and another ended. It was some sort of never-ending, grey twilight that refused to break into dawn. It was like the very walls were closing in on me, cold stone exhalations damp with chill leaching into my bones.

Memories of my time with him haunted me, always whispering in my head day and night. His touch, his voice, his gaze-things that clung and poisoned my mind.

That evening, the guards arrived at my door. Their faces were vacant; their eyes cold as the stone floors. "The king requests your presence," one growled out, like a roughly hewn door scraping across its floor.

I followed, my heart heavy with foreboding, my feet dragging as though weighted by invisible chains. The corridors stretched out before me, dark and foreboding, the torches that lighted them casting eerie shadows on the walls. The flames danced, flickering; demonic silhouettes cast a fleering glow.

The king's chambers were bright with firelight, thick with scents of incense and wine-heavier, sweeter, intoxicating. There was the murmur of guests milling about, their laughter and speech a cacophony that assaulted my sensitive ears. Jewels flashed; silk rustled.

The king's voice boomed out above it, ringing like a blacksmith's hammer. "Kaidaira, dance for us."

My stomach twisted into knots, my head spinning. It was not a wolf's art, any more than speaking was mine. Refusal was not an option.

"But, Your Majesty—"

I began, my voice shaking.

His eyes narrowed, cold and calculating. "Do not embarrass me."

I took a deep breath and went forward, the movements jerky, like a newborn fawn finding its legs. The music started, lilting notes almost mocking, their rhythm elusive.

I stumbled, my feet getting tangled in the intricate patterns. The laughter of the guests became louder, whispers getting sharp, piercing to my heart.

"Clumsy wolf," someone jeered, the words echoing in the hall.

My face burned, the color high on my cheeks with shame.

His face black as thunder, the king growled, "Enough!" and brought his fist down hard upon the arm of his chair. The sound reverberated around the room.

The music died on its last note, screaming like a mortally wounded animal.

"You embarrass me," he spat, his words venomous and sharp, poisonous barbed darts to the soul. "Take her away."

The guards dragged me, fighting, from the chambers, bruising with their grip. I fell against their hold, my feet scraping on the stone floor.

"Lock her in the dungeon," the king snarled, now distant. "No food, no water. Let her rot."

It enveloped me, this darkness-a living thing embracing cold arms around me.

Why had I failed?

Tears coursed down my face, hot and salt, mingling with the sweat oozing from my brow.

"I will escape," I whispered-the vow echoing off cold stone, a promise to myself.

But how?

The silence of that place was crushing, disturbed only by the sound of water falling somewhere-each drop a steady heartbeat that mocked mine.

Days passed, or at least I think they did. Time is an amorphous thing sometimes stretches and at other times contracts.

My stomach growled with the emptiness gnawing at my soul.

Thirst parched my throat, and my tongue was dry and cracked.

I weakened, crumbled; the walls closed in.

In the darkness, a spark.

A spark of defiance.

It flared, growing, a flame to light the blackness.

I will get away.

And I will make him pay.

The eternity of darkness finally gave way to the scorching glare of the sun as the guards dragged me out. The town square was chock-full of onlookers. The faces of the people all were a blur of curiosity and morbid fascination, the air reeked of sweat, smoke, and freshly baked bread-a jarring contrast to the brute violence that lay in store.

The king's voice boomed, echoing off the stone buildings. "Kaidaira, wolf of shame, you have embarrassed me for the last time." His words were dripping with venom, each syllable a poisonous dart.

"And just so you do not forget," He added with his eyes cruising down my body with an intensity that caused a prickle in my skin. "You will have some marks on your back, one that reminds you not to embarrass me every time you try to take a rest."

My heart sank, weighted down with anchors of despair. The lash, some coiled serpent, was an evil thing that lay coiled on the executioner's table, its leather thongs glinting in the sun.

The first stroke struck deep, a firebrand searing the skin. Pain erupted in a supernova of agony that filled my being. I screamed; my voice shattered the air.

The world spun, colors bleeding one into another, like watercolors. Then the darkness claimed me, a merciful shroud that wrapped around my shattered soul.

Coming to, I lay in the clinic of the pack, smelling the antiseptic scents of medicines and soft whispers of healers. The light of candles and lanterns set the room aglow, like liquid gold in the darkness.

A figure loomed; features resolved into the pack's healer, Elara. Eyes warm and compassionate met mine. "Welcome back, Kaidaira," she said softly, voice a soothing balm.

I winced, my back aflame, with the pain a raging inferno that threatened to consume me. Elara's hands were gentle yet skilled as she tended to my wounds.

"You are lucky to be alive," she continued, her voice measured. "The mercy of the king is. fickle." Her words hung in the air like a grim reminder.

I struggled to sit up, but a searing pain washed over me, a lance of fire across my chest. Elara's insistent hands pressed me back into the bed.

"Rest," she insisted. "You've got to stay away from the king's anger." Her eyes were serious, her gaze locked on mine. "You're with child, Kaidaira."

My world imploded like fine glass hurled onto a granite floor. Words pounded through my mind like a chorus of shock and dismay.

"Pregnant?" I echoed, disbelieving-my voice barely audible above a whisper.

Elara nodded solemnly. "The king's seed takes root." And with the words, it was as if a series of stones had been hurled into a pond, disturbing a reality in silent ripples.

My reality.