The knife Oliver was forced to wield had obviously never been used for anything but small cuts; the blade was anything but dull. Instead of a simple pressure against my throat, every time I simply swallowed, I felt my skin open slightly.
Though I remained strong. I refused to let them see me break any longer.
I was tired of being used, abused, then tossed aside. My parents, my friends, everyone that ever mattered to me was gone; I was going to stay strong for them.
I was going to show the recluse royals that, despite everything they had done to me, I would not die broken.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Oliver?" His sister asked with a scathing hiss; I refused to open my eyes, but I could feel her glaring at me as she impatiently awaited her next drink.
She was sitting with her back against the wall of blood, next to her mother, the Queen; Mary Ambrose.
