It was raining.
Not the gentle drizzle that had so lightly kissed the soil yesterday – no, sheets of rigid water pelted the gravel, and ragged chunks of hail spattered around her with thunderous cracks. Where the ankle-deep mud had given way, sharp rocks wedged themselves between the rivets of her soles, piercing through to the balls of her feet. Fortunately, there were no trees dotting this forsaken trail – if it could be called a trail; it was simply solid ground in the wake of impenetrable wilderness – for the frequent gusts would surely have uprooted one and made the route unfathomable.
One week into the quest, and it was raining.
Two steps ahead of her, Adrian’s breath hitched as he very nearly misstepped off the makeshift path into a rushing stream of ink-black water. Above, the clouds swirled in menacing shades of grey, refusing to surrender even the slightest sight of the sickeningly pale sky. Alizé bowed her head as a shard of ice narrowly missed striking her in the eye, and stopped short of bumping into her travel companion – and best friend – who had stopped in his tracks, hands on hips, to squint ahead at the unyielding stretch of fog. She seized the opportunity to yank a map from her pocket, smoothing out the carefully, and thankfully, laminated parchment.
“Again with the map, Ali?”
She frowned up at Adrian, blinking through the sleet. “I think we’re lost.”
“I win,” he said immediately, lips quirking into a half-smile. “The bet. It hasn’t been anywhere near an hour since you last said that.” At her irked expression, he added, “But trust me. I know where we’re going.”
“How-”
“Plus, that map won’t help you. We can’t see half an inch in front of our faces anyway.”
With a resigned sigh, Alizé tucked the paper back into her jacket, falling into step alongside him. How could he be so sure of himself? The thunderstorms had made navigation impossible, and the Lair had always been so hidden, so covert, that it had never been found before.
Or maybe it had. No one had ever come back, though.
A blustering gale whipped her tight-knit curls into her eyes, and she stumbled, but Adrian seemed unfazed, humming softly to himself as he neatly dodged a large chunk of dirt that had been launched into the air. If the weather was worsening, she told herself, it must mean they we’re getting closer. All this havoc, this chaos was the work of the Villain, who, with their superhuman abilities, had thrown the nation into turmoil. Villages had been demolished, towns had been razed, and The Capital was on the verge of collapse. For days, weeks, then months, the city had been tormented by storm after storm, until Parliament declared they would no longer remain complicit. What that really meant was that, rather than taking government action, they would be forfeiting quester lives to the Villain’s wrath. Alizé and Adrian were the only senior questers, in their last year of training, but by no means were they qualified to confront the Villain.
Her train of thought shattered at the sound of a familiar voice. Startled, she realised she had fallen far, far behind, a misty profile recognisable some hundred metres in front of her. As she parted her lips to call out, though, her jaw dropped and words failed her.
A shadow loomed over Adrian, the dark silhouette of towers visible in the distance, enveloped by the fog.
By the time the doors sharpened to more than silvery smudges, Alizé’s legs crumbled. The stitch in her hamstring pained her more with every step, and thanks to the ceaseless rain, there had been no place to stop, to rest. Her vision blurred, and she stared, dumbfounded, at the intricately carved gates that had suddenly emerged. Even her companion seemed to have been struck speechless, for once, by the sharp lines and soft edges of the masterpiece etched into the doors to the Lair. It must have been several minutes – or perhaps even hours – before Adrian drew a breath to speak: or so she thought. His voice seemed to catch, and instead, he raised a hand to push open the gate.
Alizé’s reaction was instant. She shrieked, flinging herself into his shoulder and tackling him to the ground. It didn’t matter now that her calves were flaming with pain. He had been so close to getting them caught.
“Do you think,” she hissed before he could open his mouth, “that after all this work to hide and mask and disguise, that the Villain would simply leave their doors unguarded? Without troops? Or booby traps?”
Adrian’s words were tired, but there was undisguised hurt in his eyes when he spoke.
“And do you think, Ali, that I’m stupid?” He pushed himself to a sitting position and gave her a cutting stare, gesturing with his chin. “That door is ajar. And there’s nothing there; you can see behind it in the candlelight.” As an afterthought, he added, “Besides, what did you plan to do when we got here? Wait for someone to let us in?”
He stood up, brushing mud off his trousers, and disappeared inside without sparing her a second glance.
His retort still stung, the salt tearing at her gaping wounds, but Alizé’s tangle of guilt dissipated the moment she set foot in the Lair. For an everlasting moment, she could only gape, open-mouthed, at the softly glowing frescoes of the domed ceiling and the leather-bound books adorning the walls, arranged in gleaming metal shelves that reflected the firelight, just so, that the entire room gave the golden illusion of being filled with sparks. The facade of the decrepit exterior had prepared her for something far more unwelcoming and dangerous, but the warmth of this entryway almost made her feel cozy.
“Wow.” She broke the silence with a breathless voice and repeated, “wow.”
Adrian must have either forgotten about her outburst, or forgiven it, because he turned to her and remarked, “Looks like the Villain has great taste, at least.” He seemed more amused than impressed, but his eyes remained glued to the swirled skies painted across the roof. Only then did Alizé realise how bitterly cold it had been outside, and involuntarily thrust her hands out above the nearest wall sconce, where a torch roared ready to thaw her frostbitten fingers.
When she finally turned, Adrian had busied himself with inspecting one of the mahogany pillars dispersed through the hall. She couldn’t see what was so fascinating about it: there were at least thirty of them, stretching from floor to ceiling, and although they were thoroughly polished, there was nothing else of interest about them. She watched him run his fingers over the smooth wood wordlessly.
Wait.
“Adrian?”
His eyes narrowed, but remained focused on the pillar. He began tapping it, his nails clacking.
“Adrian,” she said more urgently. “Adrian.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“How are you dry?”
Herself still drenched and dripping, she reflexively stepped backwards as he tilted his head towards her, the hollow ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“Ali,” he said, maintaining a genial tone, “did you really think that Parliament would set two questers – two children – on a death mission? Did you think they’d be deemed capable of discovering the most clandestine location to date, where no one has ever been before, and lived to tell the tale?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “And did you think a hell-bent mastermind would leave their front door open, granting easy access to those two questers that would just so happen to come across this location, despite having been, for three days, so completely, and utterly lost?”
“Adrian.” Low and frantic, no more than a whisper.
“Alizé.” Her full name, one he never used. He looked her in the eye. “Meaning ‘noble.’ And you always have been.” He keyed a code into a keypad – since when had there been a keypad? – on the pillar. “Always so noble, and always so naïve.”
A rumble resounded as the wall behind him split into two, a jigsaw puzzle breaking apart. Jagged edges that had so discreetly fit together now separated, revealing a room more breathtaking than the last, with lights like fireflies strung across the mirrored walls, and a dripping diamond chandelier swaying from the high ceiling. A throne of the darkest obsidian sat, bejewelled, on a raised platform underneath it, so garishly beautiful.
Alizé’s heart dropped to her stomach.
Her once-friend wore a veil of indifference as he strode to the centre of the room with ease, having foregone his exhausted traveller’s guise, and draped himself across the throne, his features hardening from their typical lazy smile and sparkling eyes to an unrecognisable mask of stone.
“Alizé,” said the Villain, a grin spreading across his cold, unfriendly face. “Welcome to my Lair.”
