Tw: this book will deal with triggering topics. If you are easily triggered this is not the story for you, thank you.
(Book three in the Starlight series)
─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Danika Archeron was a damn god.
No longer would she be broken, no...
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"I won't just be a puppet on a string."
─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
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THE THUNDERING steps seemed to echo in my mind. A resounding drum defining me with each pound against the hard, polished floors.
Eight guards surrounded me on all sides, hands plastered to their swords as though I could jump out and snatch them up at any moment. I could. And I wanted to, of course.
But I wouldn't.
Sadly.
At least they were smart enough to look a little irked by my presence. Their backs straight as rods, their muscles tense as granite. They were scared. Fearful.
They should be.
Dagdan and Brannagh stood at my back, their eyes honed into weapons as they studied me with the cruelty only an immortal could possess. As they sneered, and whispered, and giggled at my expense.
Out of all that I had encountered in this castle, I hated them the most.
Branagh, and her terrible vanity. The female was the most vain person I had ever known. Certainly saying something, granted I was just a wee bit vain myself.
But her...Gods I wondered how long she looked in the mirror each day. How often she studied her hewn, sharp features and wished she could marry herself.
Dagdan was no much better. His twin's foot soldier. That was all he was. All he would be. At her mercy. At her command.
They laughed silently, Branch making some remark about my figure while Dagdan chuckled his agreement.
I did nothing. Even as the very marrow of my bones screamed at me to at least turn around and punch them both. And yet...that would reflect poorly on me in the end. And would certainly earn me some sort of trouble with the wretched King.
