Chapter 2 The Assignment
Ivanca Mace returned to the warden’s hall with the echo of the square still ringing in her mind. The morning sun was pale against the stone walls, and the corridors smelled of wax and cold mortar. Every step she took felt heavier than the last, each echo a reminder that duty had a new weight now—one that came with questions she was not trained to ask. The trial had ended, but something in her chest would not let her forget the witch’s defiance.
The captain of the wardens awaited her in the council chamber, his expression unreadable. “Ivanca,” he said, voice low, “the crown has assigned you a special duty.” He handed her a sealed parchment. The wax bore the king’s insignia, sharp and cold, as if pressed with a hand that would brook no argument.
She broke the seal with deliberate care, her fingers brushing the stiff parchment. The words were precise, unavoidable: she was to be the warden of Ayra Veil until her execution was carried out. She read it twice, then thrice, though the meaning was inescapable. She would guard the witch personally, overseeing every movement, every breath, ensuring that the condemned remained confined until the end.
Ivanca felt a chill. Her life had always been defined by order, law, and adherence to duty. She had trained her entire being to uphold justice without question, to carry the weight of the kingdom’s trust as naturally as breathing. But this—this assignment carried an edge she had not anticipated. It was not just a prisoner. It was a woman who had looked at her, straight into her eyes, and sparked something Ivanca had spent her life burying.
Her training told her to suppress it, to ignore it entirely. Yet, as she stepped through the hallways toward the holding cells, she could not deny the lingering warmth of curiosity, the subtle pull she felt toward Ayra Veil’s presence. She had seen many prisoners, many condemned for crimes real and imagined, but none had stirred her mind, body, and instincts in the way this woman did.
The holding cells were a stark contrast to the ceremonial grandeur of the hall. Iron bars, cold stone floors, and narrow corridors confined the condemned like animals. Yet Ayra Veil, even within this prison, carried herself as if the walls could not hold her, as if her spirit remained untouchable. When Ivanca entered, Ayra’s gaze lifted, sharp and calculating, meeting hers with a quiet audacity that left the warden momentarily unsteady.
“You are mine to watch,” Ivanca said, keeping her voice measured, practiced. She stepped closer, the chain-link clinking lightly as she moved. “Your life is under my responsibility until the crown sees fit to end it.”
Ayra’s lips curled in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Responsible for keeping me alive?” she asked, voice smooth. “Or responsible for making sure I die?”
Ivanca felt her jaw tighten. The question was not just rhetorical; it carried a weight that pried at her sense of purpose. She had been trained to obey commands, to enforce the king’s will without hesitation, yet something about Ayra’s defiance challenged her at the root.
“You will answer only when necessary,” Ivanca said, stepping back to maintain the distance her duty demanded. Yet her eyes could not leave Ayra, noting the subtle movements, the tension in her posture, the faint trembling of her hands restrained by shackles. Every detail mattered. Every nuance could be a warning, a threat, or a plea.
Ayra tilted her head, studying Ivanca in return. “You’ll find,” she said softly, almost a whisper, “that I am not so easily contained. Not by chains. Not by words. Not even by duty.”
Ivanca’s mind raced. Every fiber of her training urged her to dismiss it, to see only a prisoner, a task, a duty. And yet, the pull remained. The thrill of something forbidden, the spark she had glimpsed in the square, lingered like fire beneath ice. She could not let herself indulge it, not here, not now.
The day passed in meticulous observation. Ivanca noted every movement Ayra made, every interaction with the guards, every subtle shift in expression. Yet despite her vigilance, Ayra’s presence occupied more space than the confines of the cell allowed. It was in the way she carried herself, in the tilt of her chin, the flash of intelligence in her eyes. Ivanca’s resolve wavered, though she refused to let it show.
By evening, the castle corridors had emptied, leaving the warden and the condemned alone in the muted hush of stone walls and distant torches. Ayra’s gaze followed Ivanca as she patrolled, careful, methodical, yet impossible to ignore.
“You observe me as if I am a curiosity,” Ayra said quietly. “Perhaps you are, in turn, a curiosity to me.”
Ivanca’s chest tightened. She had anticipated hostility, pleading, fear, but not this—an acknowledgment that their connection, however undefined, had already begun. “Curiosity is not part of duty,” she said, voice firm, measured, yet it lacked conviction.
A faint smile tugged at Ayra’s lips. “Curiosity is the first step toward understanding,” she said, voice soft, carrying a strange weight. “And understanding is dangerous. Do you not agree, Warden?”
Ivanca paused, her mind a battlefield of reason and instinct. The walls of the cell, the cold iron, and the weight of duty should have defined the space between them. Yet in that pause, something unspoken passed, a thread of recognition, a spark neither law nor magic could sever.
The night deepened. Ivanca remained outside the cell, silent, vigilant, aware of every shift in shadow, every whisper of stone. Yet even in this solitude, the image of Ayra Veil, defiant, brilliant, untouchable, lingered in her mind. She had been assigned to guard a prisoner. Instead, she had found herself guarding something far more dangerous: the stirrings of her own heart, and a fascination she could not name.
And in the quiet of the warden’s hall, Ivanca understood something she could not yet admit: her duty had become far more complicated than she had ever imagined.