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There's a saying: "The dogs are sounding like dogs," which implies that all is well, that everything is in order. When said in the negative, however, it means that things are in complete disarray. This fine morning, the birds chirped and sang sweetly, the trees swayed gently to their rhythm; throughout Easteford, the dogs were, indeed, sounding like dogs. People went about their day as usual. And yet, in the hidden depths of the King's own home, chaos had taken hold.

"Aargh! Let go of me!" A woman's cries echoed through the hall as she struggled against the guards holding her back. She fought fiercely, her eyes locked on the king with a look of utter contempt.

King Awin regarded her with a mix of disdain and mockery. "Marie," he began, voice as cold as steel, "you have no right to act this way, especially after the crimes you've committed."

She spat her words, dripping with defiance. "Awin, you are pure evil. I pity this nation under your ruthless reign."

The courtiers stood awkwardly around them, tense and silent. Many of them shared Marie's sentiments, but none would dare voice their agreement in the king's presence. They had seen enough to know the danger of disloyalty.

Despite his cruel reputation among those who knew him well, Awin's striking face, captivating stature, and carefully constructed image of a just ruler had most of the commoners fooled. To them, he was nearly godlike—a grossly inaccurate perception, but one Awin had fostered expertly.

As the guards dragged Marie away, the king's gaze shifted to the petite woman across the room. Her tan skin and wavy brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, combined with her calculating eyes and thin-rimmed glasses, gave her an air of shrewdness. She met his gaze, nodded subtly, and turned, heading toward his office.

Once Awin entered the office, he greeted her with a sudden hug. Qaya stiffened but hid her distaste, as she always did. "You're incredible, Qaya," he said, a rare softness in his tone. She noticed the emotion in his eyes, something he probably wasn't even aware of, but she knew that no part of her would ever reciprocate his feelings. Their dynamic, their history, wouldn't allow it.

Awin was her supposed savior, having freed her from a slave camp so brutal she'd lost her memories. He'd helped her regain her footing, or so he claimed. In truth, he'd always dangled her freedom like a carrot, knowing that her desperation to find her lost parents would make her do anything he asked. Like ruining Marie's life today. Marie was a principled woman, unwilling to bow to the king's corrupt whims. So Awin had orchestrated a scenario, painting Marie as a traitor to justify her expulsion.

Early on, after she'd left the slave camp and was struggling with amnesia, Awin had noticed her gift for language and writing. He'd set her up with a newspaper, the Harbinger, a publication that "exposed" nobles who happened, coincidentally, to be his enemies. Through it, Qaya had helped him destroy countless reputations, often based on fabricated evidence.

Awin snapped her out of her thoughts. "I'm talking to you. Why are you so distracted?"

She forced a smile. "Distracted? No, I'm just… speechless, Your Highness."

He arched an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but let it pass. He moved to his chair and twirled a pen between his fingers. "How did you turn an innocent image of Marie giving alms to a beggar into proof of her sponsoring an arms-trafficking ring?"

She shrugged, keeping her tone casual. "I had Denzel pose as a beggar and ask her for money. It's hardly my fault she didn't notice the Blood Stone watch on his wrist."

Awin laughed, a single tear collecting at the corner of his eye. "Marie isn't naive; the mention of a sick daughter softened her. You were close enough to know that her daughter has been in a coma for months. You used that against her."

Qaya shrugged and accepted the glass of rum he offered, nodding as she poured herself another. Awin watched in amusement.

"What I really want to know," he said, "is how you convinced Denzel to help. Half the police force is after him."

She smiled. "He owed me."

Awin looked thoughtful for a moment, which unsettled her. She knew him well enough to recognize when another sinister request was on the horizon.

"I owe you much, Qaya," he said slowly, and she cut in, unable to hide her frustration.

"Who got on your nerves now?" she snapped, immediately regretting the tone. But Awin seemed more surprised than angry, taken aback by her frankness.

He composed himself and continued, "I swear this will be the last time. Help me with this, and I'll give you the resources—ships, money—anything you need to find your parents. I'll even put it in writing." He began scrawling on a parchment, stamping it with his seal.

Qaya felt her stomach churn. She loathed this man, and yet here he was, dangling her deepest desire like bait on a hook. Still, she couldn't deny the thrill of finally leaving behind this life, of setting out on her own terms. She could have a chance at redemption, at leaving this shadowy existence.

Awin handed her the document. "Milton. He's grown too influential, and with his animosity toward me, he's becoming a threat. We need something substantial—treason, perhaps. He's meeting his allies at his residence tonight; gather proof of their conspiracy."

Qaya met his gaze, her voice calm. "Do I have free rein?"

Awin grinned. "Yes. Make it memorable."

As she exited the palace, Qaya felt the weight of this final task. This was her last job, her last act under Awin's thumb. Her carriage was late, adding to her frustration, and her mind drifted back to Marie. She'd ruined an innocent woman's life.

"But it's all for my parents," she muttered, though the words felt hollow. "Marie should have been more careful around the king." She tried to rationalize, but self-loathing clung to her.

"You're thinking aloud," a familiar voice chimed in, startling her.

She turned to see Melinda, Milton's close associate, eyeing her with disdain.

"Not surprised to see you," Qaya said, brushing off Melinda's glare. "Everyone knows you trail Sir Milton like a shadow."

Melinda scoffed. "Better a shadow to a noble man than the devil's errand girl."

Qaya started to walk away, but Melinda wasn't finished. "Yes, run along, slave."

Qaya froze, fury coursing through her. She turned slowly, her voice low and venomous. "I may not remember my time as a slave, but it's not my origin that makes me base. What's your excuse? A noble-born woman with no achievements beyond moral platitudes and a pathetic obsession with the king."

Her carriage finally arrived, and she dismissed Melinda with a sharp nod. "Have a good day, Miss Charmale."

---

When she arrived at Milton's estate, her nerves were on edge. Dressed as a maid to blend in, she gained entry and soon found a secluded place to change into a more appropriate disguise. She wandered through the halls, growing frustrated as she realized the meeting might not be happening.

As she turned to leave, a sound caught her attention—a soft footfall behind her. She spun around, but no one was there. Tension mounted, her heart pounding as she realized someone was following her.

Panicked, she quickened her pace, but the shadow kept pace, relentless. She finally reached a dim barn, the flickering light casting ominous shadows. When she turned, a hooded figure emerged from the darkness.

"What do you want? Stay away," she stammered, trying to steady her voice.

The figure remained silent, moving closer with lethal intent. Her attempts to escape were futile. The dagger plunged into her, a sharp, searing pain followed by a chilling numbness. Her vision blurred, and she slumped to the ground, blood pooling beneath her.

As she lay there, her life slipping away, her thoughts turned to regret. Her sole mission had been to find her parents, yet she'd compromised everything, even her soul, to pursue it.

"If I had a second chance…" she whispered, tears slipping from her eyes as darkness overtook her.

"If I could, I'd change everything. I swear, if I knew it would come to this, I'd have become a whole new person."

…

…

…

"My goodness," an elderly woman whispered in a surprisingly shrill tone.

"That's so annoying," Qaya thought to herself.

"Wait… I'm alive? I'm alive!!" She shot up from her bed in excitement, but her body was too weak and slumped back down.

"Take it easy, Lady Heris. I'll let Jaslin know." The woman scurried outside, while Qaya lay in awe, still grappling with the realization that she was alive.

"Wait… who is Lady Heris? Who's Jaslin? And who was that woman just now?"

It was at that moment she bothered to take a proper look at her surroundings. She was in a spacious room, but it wasn't the size that impressed her. After all, she was wealthy. It was the regality of everything—the furniture, the interior—that left her speechless. "This is a noble's house, no doubt. Was I rescued by these people?"

Just then, the elder woman returned, accompanied by a younger lady whom Qaya assumed to be Jaslin.

Jaslin rushed over and hugged her, tears at the corners of her eyes. "How are you?"

Qaya stared at the woman before her—a woman in her twenties with raven-black hair, a slender and tall figure, and an aura that just screamed meticulousness. But that wasn't why Qaya was staring. The person before her was oddly familiar.

Jaslin turned to the elder woman in alarm. "Nanny Summers, why isn't she speaking? Is she all right?"

"I've seen you before. I'm sure of it," Qaya finally spoke, meeting Jaslin's confused gaze.

"Of course, you've seen m—"

"A-ha! You're the girl I always see with Doyenne Marie."

For a moment, Jaslin looked flabbergasted. "Is this an after-effect of your sickness? Mahalia, you know me because I'm your cousin. And why would you refer to your mother like that?"

Qaya scowled. "What on earth are you on about? I'm Qaya! Enough with this nonsense…" She trailed off as she caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar reflection in a nearby mirror. She wasn't looking at her own reflection…

"Mahalia??"

---

To be continued