Sally Arnott was walking home from her workplace Ringwald's Grocery, a small independent grocery. Her shift just ended thirty minutes ago. It was past midnight by the time she was walking to her home which was just five minutes away from Ringwald's. The attractive and blonde thirty-three year old was clad in her beanie, red sweater, jacket and jeans to withstand the autumn coldness of Michigan climate. Her bagpack contained her Ringwald's uniform and some basic necessities like snacks and a thermos. Despite past midnight, the empty country roads were still well lit."I can't wait for payday this Friday. Ringwald's is the best place to work in. Just five minutes away from my apartment, the customers are always nice, the boss is a wonderful man and the pay is good. With the money, I can eat a lot of snacks and binge-watch on Netflix this coming Halloween night." Sally thought as she trekked on the lonely country road to her apartment building.All o

The room was cold, bare, windowless, uncompromising: perfect for interrogation. An unshaded bulb hung from the ceiling, struggling and failing to cast away the bleak shadows in the corners, and the furnishings consisted of a simple metal table and a simple metal chair, both bolted to the floor. The heavy iron door behind the chair had locked with a unnerving sound of finality as it closed shut, leaving the air in the room stale and fetid, and the single inhabitant of the room alone with her thoughts.She was a woman in her early thirties, with long, shoulder-length chestnut hair and matching eyes that stared forward, as if genuinely interested in the random cracks in the brick wall opposite her. She sat in the chair, her wrists bound by leather straps to the arms of it, her ankles bound in identical fashion to the front legs of it. She swallowed, long past panic, more accepting that her current predicament wasn't some terrible nightmare, that it was painfully real.A s

"Camilla, bring the rope, and the satchel of chalks and oils!""Yes, Father," said Camilla. The maiden, raven-dark hair haloing creamy skin, leapt from the wagon's seat. She ran to the back, threw back its protective oilskin, and rummaged through bags and baskets. A gust blew a wisp that had escaped her braid into her face. She shook it from her gray eyes even while she shivered.Meanwhile, her father Theophobus stiffly climbed down and tethered their horse to a stunted tree. He looked backward, ignoring his long whiskers blowing under the wind's grasp, over the overgrown track they had followed across the moor. Nothing moved but the wind thrashing the scrub and the first clouds darkening the sky.Then he turned forward and looked at the knoll, at whose foot their wagon stayed, and above a storm newly brewing. From around the wagon came Camilla, who when she reached Theophobus, stopped. Wide-eyes she stared at the knoll and the lum

Camilla stepped unseen among the courtiers. Under fluted columns and arching, sky-painted ceilings, full threescore revelers and more danced and laughed within the Palace of Yaralet. Zithers, flutes, and drum played a rolling, hypnotic tune while dancing girls, nude but for scarves clung to round hips and bangles on wrist and breast, who writhed and whirled bone lessly. Slaves oiled and shaven bore silver platters full of sweetmeats, or ewers of thick ruby wine among the guests: silken-draped ministers and barons, chiseled knights with hard arms in sleeveless tunics, and noble ladies in gossamer gowns that hinted wickedness half-concealed.Camilla studied the panorama, of bodies strutting amid the candles and blazes, figures flitting among the shadows, pairs twisting on each other, and those seeking solace among the hall's nooks or benighted spaces, where the portico opened unto the palace gardens. She watched their stirrings away from the light, from the broad banquet tables

Camilla’s memoriesMorning broke with a thin red gash of light along the crests of the mountaintops. Owls finally dared to close their eyes, and bats cautiously folded their wings. The night horrors and prowling beasts of the forest abandoned their hunts to drag bloodied carcasses back to their lairs. In the west, a handful of lingering stars still shone.Krimeya and I sat atop her cottage roof, tense and watchful. The hood of her crimson cloak obscured her sleek black tresses while framing her ashen features. She held a whittled staff of red-stained wood in both hands, in the manner that a gladiator might wield a spear."I expect they will begin their march shortly," she said softly, "Have you given thought to how you wish to proceed?""I won't flee," I whispered, quiet, but firm, "They'll allow me to return to them as their daughter or..."Krimeya gave me a pitying look."They won't. You know that deep down. They will find us here, a