Kapitel 8: . A Bad Dream, A Bad Day
"Who was I in love with?"
"I don't know. He'll be dead now."
He noticed her silhouette shrinking as her shoulders slumped.
Clearing his throat, he turned back.
"This should be the last time you come here; it's very dangerous for you to loiter around."
Nurna's eyes narrowed into a slit as she watched his figure retreat.
He had always been cautious about anything that concerns her. Was it just devotion or was there something else?
She walked back to her room. Laying on her bed, she drifted off to sleep.
•••
Nurna jolted awake, a cold sweat clinging to her skin. The dream lingered, vivid and horrifying. The silence of her room morphed into the hushed whispers and muffled cries that had filled the dark hallway of her nightmare. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she remembered.
Torches of flame, flickering and inconstant, cast long wobbling shadows on the stone walls. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood.
Each flicker of the torches revealed more of the endless, inky black hallway stretching before her.
Then, a shape. A single, chilling silhouette framed in the flickering torchlight at the far end of the corridor. As she walked closer, her breath catching in her throat, the figure came into sharper focus. It was a robed figure, tall and gaunt, its face obscured by the hood.
The crown atop its head. Jagged golden prongs held aloft various precious stones, each glistening in the torchlight. But the most terrifying detail was the wet sheen on the crown – not rainwater, but blood, dripping down the figure's black robes.
A cruel smile, devoid of warmth or humor, stretched across the figure's unseen face. A voice, raspy and dripping with malice, echoed down the hallway, pronouncing her name, "Nurna..." It stretched the syllables out, each one a barb that pierced her very soul.
That was when she woke up. Her chest went up at down at a high tempo, she went out of the bed and rushed to open up the curtains. It was morning already. She called for water after going back to her bed.
After freshening up, she went out of the room to the dining room. Filo was seated, beaming with a smile that reached her eyes. Nurna's cheeks were drawn downward in a scowl, not expecting much from the breakfast.
Filo made an outline of a smile with her fingers, trying to tell Nurna to behave.
"Where's he?" She turned to the butler, with her hands on her hips and her head high.
"Mr. Canaan went on a trip, he won't be back till next month. Till then, you'll be here learning to adapt to our current world and practices," Mr. D, the butler, relayed to her in Lestkan.
That didn't sit well with little Miss fireball, but before she could launch her verbal attack or an outburst, a strong aroma hit her nose, drawing her back to the present.
She only had porridge and nuts the previous day; her bowels were as good as empty.
She nodded her head as if mentally noting to attack Butler D later before going to take a seat at the table.
She plunged into the deep calming waters of nostalgia as she scanned the dishes before her. For the first time in a very long time, she ate with relish.
"The world we are in is a very dangerous place, but within these walls, you're safe, under my master's benevolence," Butler D said meaningfully with his signature unfaltering smile.
She scoffed at his words, knowing fully well what he meant.
Weeks passed, and there was no glimpse of Mr. Canaan. Nurna, who was a swift and voracious learner, could now communicate basic Kiran Language.
You would find her either sprawled on a couch reading a book or reciting things as she walked across the garden. She had done a complete tour of the whole villa. Aside from the language barrier, she couldn't communicate with her; she was always sashaying past the workers like a haughty, unfriendly royalty, and the workers stayed clear from her path, not to attract her wrath.
Filo usually left the villa to tend to her plants and do other things. So, Nurna was all alone and was soon bored of learning. She yearned to play around in the garden but people were watching her, everytime.
One cool evening, she walked towards the stable. With the help of some of the workers, she got on the horse. At first, she galloped the horse around slowly, then her sores increased, till it turned ferocious.
Anyone who tried to stop her got thrown over. She ran across the open fields, laughing and screaming at the top of her voice; she was having a blast.
She saw a familiar figure standing far across the field, standing with his hands folded behind him. It was Canaan.
She fumbled on the ropes, causing the speeding horse to come to a screech, throwing her off its back.
She landed unceremoniously on the plush grass, whimpering as she tried to sit up.
She had broken her right arm and sprained her ankle.
Soon, Canaan was hovering over her. Swiftly, he carried her on the horse, and they rode back to the front of the villa.
Soon, Canaan was hovering over her. With a gentle scoop, his touch sending a shiver down her spine, he carried her onto the horse. As he settled her in front of him, his gaze lingered a beat too long, and a blush of embarrassment crept up her neck. The ride back to the villa was quick and silent, with Nurna biting hard on her lips.
Just like the allergy incident, things got chaotic.
In less than an hour, half of Nurna's body was now encased in POP. She was left with the maids who were shaking in fear of what will befall them.
Nurna gripped the arm of the chair with her left arm, her knuckles turning white. Her posture was rigid, back ramrod straight, neck taut. Every muscle seemed to vibrate with restrained fury. Her eyes narrowed, fixed on some unseen point in the distance. Her legs shook in their restraint.
"Spare your lips," Canaan said from behind her. His words weren't far-fetched as Nurna's bottom lip was now held tightly between her teeth, a tiny droplet of blood now seeping out of the cut she made.
Canaan took a cutting bud and ointment. He wiped her lower lips and she hissed like a snake whose tail was stepped on.
"I have to find someone," she growled, her throat working in restrained anger.
"Who is that?"
"I have to find my father; he's alive."
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein