Page 2 of Secrets of the Six

You are nothing. You are no one. You are alone. And now you are —

"Stop!" A man shouts from the arched corridor, waving a piece of paper. "Don't execute her!"

My breathing hitches and a small gasp escapes my lips. Each step the newcomer takes threatens to dislodge my heart from my chest.

"What did you just say?" The warden frowns.

"She is to be released immediately."

"On whose authority?" The warden snatches the missive from the messenger's outstretched hand.

"His."

I'm partially amused and equally confused as to why the warden instantly pales. Tearing his eyes from the document I owe a debt of gratitude, he swallows hard, as if it physically pains him to say, "Unchain her."

I sit back on my haunches as the guard fumbles with the keys strapped to his waistband and breathe a sigh of relief as he unlocks the manacles pinning my arms behind my back. A single tear escapes and slips down my cheek as I wrap my fingers around my neck. I don't know if one of the Saints took pity on me and listened to my half-hearted plea or if I am already dead and I'm dreaming of freedom, but either way, my head is still attached to my person and for that I am immensely grateful.

Once freed from the shackles around my ankles, I rub my wrists before slowly standing. I can sense the warden's angry stare pinned on me and even though I shouldn't press my luck – especially since I have no earthly idea how I'm miraculously walking out of prison perfectly intact – I can't help but swivel to face him and offer him a bright grin.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he snarls.

"When you try but fail to sleep tonight, I want you to remember how you treated me over the last three months." I take a step toward him so only he can hear me whisper, "I suggest you watch your back, Señor."

His face turns an unnatural shade of red, but I backpedal toward the steps, not breaking eye contact with him for a moment. One day, our paths will cross again and there will be no guards to save him from my wrath when I repay his cruelty with my own sense of justice.

Within thirty minutes, I'm showered and given the clothes I was captured in before I'm ushered down the long stone hallway leading to the iron front door. I haven't been on this side of the prison since I was arrested, and I have to admit, the air seems sweeter.

Now that I'm free, I'll be sure to pay Señor Montenegro and his wife a long, overdue visit.

The guard motions for me to walk the length of the bridge connecting the island prison to the mainland. The gated entry is heavily patrolled, making escape virtually impossible. No one questions my sudden departure, and even though I've asked countless soldiers who ordered my release, none of them answer. Either they have no idea who signed my release paperwork, or they don't deem me worthy of a response.

"This is where I leave you," my escort says gruffly when we reach the gates. He tosses a cloth bag at my feet and when I rummage through it, I find my two pistols and three daggers of varying sizes.

Before I can inquire where I should go or if they will have a carriage take me home, the gates close with a bang that echoes down the street. Thanks to the downpour, my hair sticks to my cheeks and my clothes cling to my skin causing me to shiver when a cold breeze whips through. I would say freedom tasted sweet, but bitter is more fitting.

The questions of my unexpected release bubble in my mind again. Who was the "him" they were referring to? Prisoners are never offered second chances or pardons, even if they are found innocent after their trials. So, why me?

As curious as I am, I don't plan to stick around, just in case they realize they made a mistake and try to track me down.

I slip my knives and pistols into their sheaths on my waistband, thighs and boot before tugging the hood of my cape over my head and trekking down the street. From here, it will be at least an hour's walk to my apartment in the Brogratto. I suppose I should be grateful the weather took an ugly turn. The chances I run into any unsavory characters spearing through the district will be slim.

Forced to trek through the Judicial District, I keep my head tucked to avoid unwanted attention. The Black Guard runs rampant through these streets and will rough up anyone they deem an easy target.

A loud thud followed by a muffled groan draws my gaze. Two soldiers pin a man against a wall and demand he empty his coin purse to avoid them causing him further delay. The frightened man is one I recognize from the Brogratto and when his pleading eyes dart to mine, I turn my face and keep marching forward. I just left prison. I have no intention of returning by pretending to be a hero.

Curfew will be in effect in a couple of hours, and I better not be on this side of the river when that happens. The Black Guard arrests anyone on the street, no questions asked, once it’s passed curfew. That was one of the first things the Soberano enforced once he assumed King Armando Montero’s throne after his assassination fifteen years ago, fearing potential rebellions and resistance to him claiming the crown.

The Palace of Justice comes into view as I round the corner, and my palms become clammy. The courthouse might appear majestic and holy from the façade but inside it’s dark and menacing. Anyone arrested is thrown into the damp dungeons and forced to await their trial before Don Severo Murrieta – the Hound of Orlencia. He fancies himself not only the judge but the executioner as well.

An unwelcome shiver tickles my spine remembering my trial. I wasn’t granted the opportunity to defend myself – in fact, Don Murrieta barely spared me a second glance, rushing to sign my execution papers without hesitation. I don’t intend to put my thieving ways behind me but there’s no way in hell I’ll be dragged back inside those front doors again. I’ll die before that happens.

I tug my hood tighter around my face and don’t stop walking until I reach the bridge leading to the Brogratto District. Although the Black Guard doesn’t patrol this district, there are plenty of other dangers that lurk the streets. All of which I plan to circumvent. The Brogratto is simply put, overrun. There are no houses, only claustrophobic apartment buildings erected so close together you can barely squeeze between them. Avenues are narrow, lighting is poor, and the markets don't have much to sell so vendors can hike their prices up as high as they want with no one to regulate them. To be born in the Brogratto District is a death sentence. The executioner was denied my head today, but it doesn't guarantee me a life worth living.

I come to the mouth of the dead-end alley I used to call home. Although I should press onward, I can’t help but stop. Enduring daily beatings and measly food rations at the orphanage down by Sinner’s Way took its toll on me. I decided to escape and take my chances living on the streets than wait for death to claim me, or worse, to be sold to one of the Masters or Madams of the whore houses so the Headmistress of the Orphanage could buy herself fancy trinkets.

But I wasn’t alone. There was once a time I had a friend.

Carmen’s dirt-stained face pops into my mind and I swallow the lump forming in my throat. She and I had such lofty dreams of one day escaping the Brogratto District and living on the mainland of Orlencia where no one would shoo us away or refuse us service because of where we were born.