A Pirate By Any Other Name | Sybil & Dmitrei
For once in her life, Sybil Grancourt found herself sincerely wishing that she had been left to rot in the damp and cold of the Aragothi dungeons.
The young woman groaned a little under her breath, tugging at the stiff skirts and scratchy collar of the dress some barely-grown maid had shoved in her hands before locking her in this blasted cellar room. All because some damned--what had he called himself?--counselor or whatever he was, had recognized Sybil for who she ‘truly was’.
“Bastard.” She muttered, crossing her arms and staring out the window of her only slightly more elegant prison. Anyone who knew anything knew that she was no longer the Countess of Grancourt. That woman had died five years ago and was never coming back.
Of course, her father had never given up hope that she still lived somewhere out in the world. “Captured, no doubt.” he’d told the whole of Aragoth, she’d learned. “Taken hostage by savages somewhere and held against her will, forced to become their slave.” As if it were beyond his comprehension that she ever would have willingly left the pretty golden cage her father had built for her from the moment she was born. As if she had not been his own slave--primped and prepped to be sold at market to the highest bidders in the land.
Anything would have been preferable to the life she had left behind. And yet here she was--about to be sent back to die a slow and agonizing death.
Sybil turned from the window as she heard the door opening, standing with a start as her heart leapt with the--certainly futile--hope that perhaps it was Godfrey come to whisk them all away. But instead her gaze merely fell upon the vile man that had sent her on this damned path, causing Sybil’s countenance to fall into a sour grimace.
“Ah. The Rat scutters through my doorway once more. How droll. I’d hoped for some more stimulating company today.” She drawled, rolling her eyes and looking back out the window. “Does the High Bitch on her throne know you’ve moved me here? I’d think she’d be rather... displeased to hear you’ve taken a fancy to one of her prisoners.”
For a moment or two longer, Sybil was silent, fingers tapping against the rough fabric of her dress. “You know, my offer still stands.... A thousand gold dragons to set me and my--companions free. We’d just need to sail to the Southern Isles, and you’d be one of the richest men in the Capitol.” Her voice was quiet, just on the edge of pleading, forcing herself not to look at the man who’d managed to ensnare her once again.