From these caving niches, Alve was not a stranger to the strong and varied emotions that are not witnessed in her high room. Because she was not in her high room, these emotions can often be too chaotic.

Alve peered behind her and fought her growing annoyance when she glimpsed the jet black shoulder pad of her Gasulin guard. They had the decency to send one tail for her that night. Their loyalty however still pricked her steps. For a steel mounted cooking pot, the guard’s footfalls were silent like the air of an awkward conversation. Despite the absence of flounces raking eroded bulwark and her feet with no escorted cushion shoes, Alve was like a walking avalanche.

She had not lost her wheezing fear when she had exited through her study room’s balcony. Yes, you could see the entire capital city for miles and miles up there, which meant the queen’s tower was very high from the ground. From there, she had to mousy  her way through the thinnest deckings and blasting northern winds before slipping into the smallest hidden cranny, and enter the secret corridors of the Gasulin guards. Alve’s guards had known she had often used the path. They could have at least allowed her to use their actual portals to avoid falling off to her death.

Nevertheless, she had been told she was not allowed there. In the weathering accesses of ancient Chrovestera, not only were some routes collapsed, there were also unlit and uncleaned halls that had become home to spindly spiders and spiteful mice.

A hoot crooned from the bushes of her curly hair and Walkre burst forth and flew into a dark left.

“Walkre! Come back here, this instant!” Alve hissed at her dwarfed barn owl, scolding herself when her voice echoed into the cold corridor. She had the lingering sense that the guard who was following her was disappointed rather than mad of her turbulence.

A breath later, a squeak followed from another hoot, relapsing to where Alve stood. The upset princess was at the edges of the last torch light in one fork of passages. She gave her pet more time to wrestle his dinner and was putting an eye out to what was clearly the long chain plume of her Gasulin guard.

The scuffling of claws ended and Walkre walked back to Alve with a glint on his black slits and blood smattered on his beak. The avian was happy to the point it cheered the small worry in Alve’s soul. She had told Urda that she was going to study into the night, not stalk inside the crumbling veins of Skahstrah palace in search of a ghost. A ghost who haunts the older walls of the palace specifically.

Alve cupped Walkre into her protection and the bird perched homely on her shoulder. She rubbed her pet’s dirty beak before moving forward to the darker and unknown halls of the palace.

“Be my eyes Walkre,” she commanded and like how they practiced, Walkre would make signals to where his master should step in the dark. A soft scratch from his left claw and Alve would turn to her left, a right to her right, both for a stop, and a hoot when danger was near. They went on like this for an hour or so before a heaviness fell on Alve’s chest. It was one of the many familiar frames of mind that would slowly envelope Alve’s nerves.

Since she was a wee child, Alve would experience such senses whenever strong energies were close. The hunch was a theory though, there were no instances to justify why there were no waves of emotion when Arlou expressed his anger or that Urda felt disgusted. Their faces had always been her indication.

Somehow being able to sense her growing dread, Walkre rubbed his head on Alve’s cheek. To where she was traveling, Alve believed she was in the walls that stretched within the guest suites. Thick dust had clammored her toes and her nose was stuffy. She covered her face to avoid sneezing more attention from any more wandering Gasulin guards. Alve and Walkre had gone down curving stairs and even tight halls when she felt the tension. Alve touched her wall and vying heat enveloped her entire hand. There were instances that these surfaces were all too cold or that everything was too light. Like a large space with the wind from outside ventilating peace. But this time, the wall was too hot. She thought she was singing her fingers and instinctively pulled them away.

In the dark, Alve squinted at her nemesis before eventually moving on. She could never know who was on the other side…unless she could map their path. She had tried that once and she was left with head scratching and the amount of parchment that went to waste.

Wherever Walkre was guiding her, she trusted the bird to return her back to the tower. Alve had no way to call out a spirit. She believed that Alvenrade would come up when she was close-at-hand. One of the many reasons why she never feared venturing inside the chasm. It was another of her rebellious exploits that the Gasulin guards had even unrestrained her to have. And besides, what wrong could happen here when those who have access were a deceased princess and her royal guards?

More moments slipped by and there was no sign of Alvenrade’s winter whispers. Alve was about to ask Walkre to retrace their journey when a gust of wind blew upon them both and flung them to a wall. Luckily, she had covered her head and Walkre from any blunt damage but she could not help herself from groaning. Alve was just patting the edifice and scrambling herself up when another blast pinned their targets at place. Alve’s hair was razor sharp on her neck as she cradled Walkre from their enemy’s attack. The both of them were like being crushed into clay molds when Alve started to lose hope. Where was her Gasulin guard? She wanted to scream for their help.

It was like Enthah had not wished them to be there because, while they struggled against the pulverizing flurry of the typhoon, the wall they were mashed into began to melt?

Like jelly, Alve and Walkre started to sink into the melting wall. Their bodies were half way in when the storm ended. Relief however was half met when Alve realized they were still immersing into the wall. Horror bidded itself into her thoughts and she squirmed and lashed her limbs against the viscous construction eating them. Alve cocooned her bird between her arms when her head was finally swallowed into the belly of Chrovestera’s fortification and resignation, the last logic wrapping her mind.