The Thief and the Skull

~Six - Corridor of Beasts~

The corridor was an oppressive descent into the unknown. Each passing door triggered the oil lamps above, their flames erupting with a life of their own, casting grotesque and dancing shadows that seemed to mock Amber’s growing fear.

“The room’s not much further,” Olive said, her voice a soft reassurance that did little to soothe Amber’s growing unease.

They passed two closed doors and then a brass boar statue, a detail jarringly out of place, a stern reminder that this wasn’t her world. More animal statues lurked in the corners, their bronze surfaces catching the dim light in unsettling ways. Horns? Antlers? The features were familiar, yet subtly twisted and in the wrong places.

“I guess this is the west wing,” Amber muttered, trying to ground herself in something tangible.

“Yes,” Olive answered softly. “It’s one of our more… colourful wings.”

Finally, they reached their destination, the last room at the end of the corridor. Olive faced her. The light of the flickering lamp above the door made her delicate features seem almost sharp. “This will be your room, Amber. You should find it comfortable, but if you say you’re from a world unlike ours, it might seem a little different.”

“Will I be able to leave in the morning?” Amber asked, the question a desperate plea masked as a polite inquiry. Olive seemed gentle, a stark contrast to her brother, Ordin, “I need to fix Lucile…”

Olive hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Then she pushed the door open, revealing a cozy room bathed in the golden light of a large oil lamp hanging from the centre of the ceiling.

“We’ll see how my brother is in the morning,” she declared, stepping aside and ushering Amber through.

The room was stunning, a rustic scene ripped straight out of a glossy magazine. Wooden dressing tables, a kingsize bed draped with a thick comforter, side tables adorned with oil lamps that sprang to life as she entered. Rustic paintings adorned the stone walls, and a small window, sealed shut with wooden shutters, offered no glimpse of the outside world, no path to escape. An ensuite bathroom beckoned, awakening Amber’s sudden need for relief, but Olive’s soft voice drew her attention back.

“Feel free to bathe. The bath fills with warm water, so you no longer need to boil water and wait like we used to,” she explained with a gentle chuckle. “We outgrew that the moment we learned that magic heats the water quicker.”

“Magic!” Amber half-laughed, a cynical disbelief etched on her face. “Magic doesn’t exist in my world.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “But our worlds are very different.”

“So they seem,” Olive agreed, walking to a counter and retrieving a folded stack of clothing. “These should fit you.” She placed them on the bed. “I will return with your food. There is a vial of potion beside the bath; add that to your water, and it will clean your wounds. It has a very distinctive medicinal smell, so you’ll know. The other vial is for hair… it smells as sweet as roses.”

She turned to leave.

“Olive, wait,” Amber called, unable to suppress the budding fear that prickled her skin. She rushed forward and, acting on instinct, reached out to take Olive’s hands, halting her. But the touch of her skin was unsettling. Her hands were unnaturally cold.

It was Olive who flinched this time, withdrawing her hand as if burned. She examined them, her brow furrowed in concern, before clutching them to her chest. “Forgive me, I’m not a fan of cold. My body is… always cold at night.” She turned away, her face a puzzle of fear and sorrow.

Then, with a telltale click, the door closed between them.

Panic seized Amber. She raced to the door, desperate to open it, but it was locked. Had Olive lied? Was this all a trap? The room seemed to shrink around her, the rustic charm transforming into a suffocating cage.

“I need to get out!” she sniffled, her anger dissolving into helpless tears. “I need to get home!”

Amber collapsed onto the soft carpet floor, burying her face in her lap. How had her life spiralled? Just days ago, the Amerist crown, the very symbol of fortune and freedom, had been within her grasp. Oakley Weathersby had promised her everything, and she had believed him. Now, the crown was gone, snatched away by the infuriating Lord Ordin, that angry, stubborn, and downright pompous Lord of Earth! What made him the Lord of Earth, anyway? He shared the same smug sense of entitlement that she and Loralie expected from men.

It was the thought of Loralie that stilled her tears and reignited the embers of anger. Loralie had succumbed to this fear, this helplessness, and it had destroyed her. But Amber was different. Despite the challenges, Amber remained unyielding. She needed to pull herself together.

This ordeal was only for one night, she reminded herself. And besides, her stomach was screaming for food, and her body needed relief.

“I can get through this,” Amber whispered, wiping the last tears from her face.

With a groan, she struggled to her feet and stiffly made her way to the bathroom. A claw-footed bath greeted her, its taps and fixtures the colour of dark stone. Across from it stood a stone toilet, similar to the archaic models she remembered from the history books—the kind you flushed with a pull cord.

“At least they have something I can understand,” she sighed, hurrying to relieve herself.

As she yanked the cord, sending a loud rush of water through the ancient plumbing, an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling sprang to life. The taps above the bath roared, and water gushed into the tub.

Amber inwardly swore, stumbling back and knocking a row of stone jugs from a granite vanity.

“Oh no,” she muttered, frantically gathering the jugs before their contents could spill across the stone floor.

By the time she had replaced the jugs, the bath was full. Steam billowed through the room. She glanced down at her bloodied jacket, her jeans in no better shape, and exhaled heavily. She couldn’t stay like this. The metallic tang of blood clung to her skin, and the crusted grime felt unbearable.

Relenting, Amber removed her clothes carefully, wincing at the pain, until only her underwear remained. Then, in a mirror she had only just noticed, etched into the stone bathroom wall, she saw them: the scars on her back—her only visible link to Loralie. They were pink and faded, but still present. The fresh cuts from today’s ordeal were there too, but those would heal with time. But her scares were forever.

Tears threatened to resurface, but this wasn’t the time or the place. She wiped them away, removed her underwear and lowered herself into the bath. The water was perfect, a comforting warmth that embraced her like a hug. Slowly, agonisingly so, her muscles relaxed.

Beside her, she noticed the vials Olive had mentioned. She held them to her nose and sniffed. One did smell of the rose garden, and the other had a strong medicinal tang.

It was a simple choice. She placed the floral vial back and tipped a few drops of the medicinal one into the water. She was thankful she had only used a little. The liquid, a mustard yellow colour, spread through the water and created a white foam that rose around her. The relief was instant as the pain from her cuts and scrapes vanished.

“This is some potent medicine,” Amber said, running her hands through the foam. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could find a moment of peace amidst the chaos. A moment to gather her strength and plan her next move. Because she wasn’t Loralie. She was Amber, and she wouldn’t be broken. She would get that crown back, even if she had to steal it—again!

The subtle click of the bedroom door sent a jolt of panic through Amber. She scrambled to hide herself under the foamy bubbles of the bath, her heart hammering against her ribs.

A moment later, Olive’s sweet voice drifted in, but something was off. It was hoarse, tinged with a sadness that sent a shiver down Amber’s spine. “Amber, I have placed food beside the bed for you. I must leave you now, it’s late and the moon…” The words halted, the door clicked shut, and an unsettling silence descended.

“Olive?” Amber called out tentatively from the bathroom. Only silence answered her.

She grabbed a plush grey towel from the vanity and stepped out of the now-lukewarm water. Almost immediately, she noticed something strange—the water in the tub started to drain, swirling down the plughole as if being pulled by an unseen force.

Her brows furrowed. “Maybe there is magic here?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Wrapped in the towel, she hurried into the bedroom. The scene that greeted her only deepened the mystery. The door was locked. Olive was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s strange,” she murmured, testing the handle again. Locked tight. Amber was sure it hadn’t been her imagination.

Turning back to the room, she noticed the outfit laid out on the bed. Green linen pyjamas, a comfortable top paired with ankle-length pants. Beside them, a pristine pair of white underwear lay folded. Next to the bed, a tray laden with food beckoned, sending a rumble through her empty stomach. Meat, eggs, bread, rice, carrots, and peas—a complete and nourishing meal, the kind she hadn’t enjoyed since her days with Mrs. Zimmermann.

She hurried to dress, surprised by how comfortable the clothes fit, and perched on the edge of the bed with the tray on her lap.

“Mrs. Zimmermann would have enjoyed this place,” she mused, picking up the dark metal cutlery and poking at the food. “It’s kind of like I’ve fallen into one of her stories.”

She devoured the meal, savouring each bite, until the tray was empty. Replacing it back on the bedside table, she sat staring into the noiseless room. The silence was almost oppressive, a stark contrast to the constant hum of the city she was used to. She wished Olive had stayed.

Her stomach full and content, she tried the door one more time, but it remained locked. Her gaze drifted to the window. Escape might be possible, but she would need to break through the sturdy shutters.

A yawn eluded her lips, the first actual sign that exhaustion was finally catching up to her. “I guess I’ll figure it out in the morning,” she sighed.

She pulled back the thick, inviting comforter and climbed into the bed. Her body sank into the plush mattress, embracing her in a soft, comforting embrace. All the tension in her muscles seemed to melt away, her thoughts and worries dissolving into nothingness. This was a far cry from the hard, lumpy bed she had endured for the past few years. This was a cloud, and she was floating.

Suddenly, the healing magic that had been working on her injuries came to the forefront of her mind. She held her arms out before her, examining them. The medicinal liquid had worked wonders, erasing almost every wound and scrape, leaving behind only visible faint lines.

“This stuff would sell well in my world,” she said with a yawn. “Maybe I would be better dealing with that than the stupid crown.”

She slid her arms under the covers and sunk further into comfort. Sleep, that relentless tide, finally pulled her under. Her eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, drooped and succumbed, allowing the welcoming darkness to envelop her.

As consciousness slipped away, the world fractured, and a vivid scene emerged. It was a replay of her earlier encounter with Lord Ordin. But the dream was a distorted reflection of reality. The accusation never materialised. Instead, Lord Ordin simply stared. His expression was unreadable, a mask of intense observation. There was none of the harsh judgment, none of the condescension. He watched her, his eyes boring into her soul, searching for something she couldn’t quite decipher. Then the image dissolved, and sleep claimed her.