Ptolema paced back and forth in her so called, room. She was moved into a room next to the Prince last this morning before breakfast. Yes, they gave her breakfast. The way the royal family is not killing her, makes Ptolema suspicious about what they are planning instead: torchure, rebellion in her own kind, revenge with strategy. The list goes on. He wants her to kill whom? There has to be a catch. There has to be.

The windows are bolted from the outside, she checked an hour ago. No planks are loose on the floor, her fingers burn from trying to find a loose plank.

A knock came from the bolted door. Ptolema ran to it and pressed her back to the door. Whomever is on the other side of the door wants to get in badly because the door shattered into many peices behind her back. She guarded her face and brought her chest to her knees. Droian walked in.

He puffed out his chest as he walked to the corner of the room. Droian searched through the closet near the bookcase. He brought out a black-leather uniform.

"Put this on." Droian threw the uniform at Ptolema and started to walk out the door, "and don't bolt the door again."

"I'm not putting this damn thing on!" Ptolema screamed. Droian stopped walking, and slowly turned to face Ptolema. Steam bursted from both of them. The air thinned as neither spoke.

Droian spoke through gritted teeth, "I am the Prince, and I order you to put it on."

"You're not my Prince. And, you can't order me to do anything." Ptolema glared at him.

"Don't you want to get out ou'd here" - he motioned his arms to the castle - "Put the damn uniform on and meet me downstairs in the dining room for breakfast."

Ptolema growled as Droian smirked and left the room. She quickly put the uniform on to notice that it was full of weapons. Daggers around her forearm. Two swords crossed her back. Ptolema took out the 1st sword with her right arm. She ran her pointer finger along the blade. Rilk metal. Metal that can break any other metal. The Prince trust her with rilk metal? Blood dripped from her finger onto the floor. She slipped the sword back onto her back shaft and bolted down the stairs.

When she got into the dining room Droian was not there. No one is here. No food is placed, no napkins set, no plates, no silverware, not even a  tablecoth. Ptolema reached for both of her swords on her back. She brought them out and ready to slice through anyone who comes out. A swoosh came from the door. Stupid people: if you go too fast, you'll create wind loud enough for a trained ear, like Ptolema's. She turned to face the door with a smile. It spread from ear to ear.

Seven black figures emerged from every shadow of the dining room. Shit. How did she miss them. Ptolema swirled missing four blades that aimed for her neck. She ducked and brought her blade up to stab one of the figures in the gut. Nothing. Damnit. Spider-silk armor, of course. She paused for too long. The figure kneed her face.

She fell to the floor, blood spraying everywhere. A little knee to the head can not stop her, she jumped back to her feet and jumped onto the dinner table. The figures surrounded the table and the door to escape. Shit. They also had rilk metal swords. All of them, fourteen rilk swords pointed toward her. She looked at their clothing and noticed a sliver of skin that poked out. She smirked as she leaped onto the clostest figure. Her sword through the figures neck without faltering. The other six came in on her quickly, too quickly. She went after the two on her right. The figures are not trained well because Ptolema was able to kill both, quickly, of them without a scratch.

The four to her left cornered her. She picked up the dead figure's sword and threw it at the shortest guard. He ducked and it missed him completely. A hoarse laugh roared from him. Ptolema thought. She looked up to find the ceiling not too far from the ground. She had always been a great jumper since her training with Kolo.

Ptolema bent her legs and jumped, stabbing her swords into the ceiling at an angle. The figures were too marvelled at what she did to noticed that her feet were dangerously close to their faces. Ptolema grabbed one figure, by the head, with her feet, and twisted. He fell to the floor silently. The other three figures snapped out of their daze and started to swing their swords at her while jumping. She brought her feet up to touch the ceiling. Her abs burned to keep her entire body from falling to it's death.

The table is only a few feet away from her. She let out a groan as her bicep screamed in pain with every movement Ptolema made towards the table. The figures have not noticed that the table could probably give them enough high ground to kill her instantly.

As she inched closer to the table, Ptolema had not realized how muvh higher the figures started to jump. She screamed as one made a long and deep cut into her back. Just a few more inches. Another sword sliced itself across her back, Ptolema bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Finally, she could jump onto the table. She gained momentum, but not before another cut sliced along her back, making her fall onto the ground with a groan. The figures jumped on her instantly. Ptolema has no weapon and is pain, she is weak.

NO! Ptolema let her anger roar as she got up and started to fight with her fists. She leaped over a sword, ducked under a punch, and aimed her own to the neck of one the fugure's. He fell to the floor and she quickly grabbed the swords from dead grasp and started to fight the other figures. The short figure was definitly weaker, so Ptolema killed him with a kick and a slice. One left.

"How?!" The last figure yelled with anger and confusion.

"How did I beat all of y'alls asses? Well, it's called fighting." Ptolema gave him a mocking smile.

"But you're a girl!"

"And you're a boy." Ptolema started toward the figure with the swords up and aimed for his neck.

"Wait! You're..." before he finished, Ptolema sliced her two swords through his neck so swiftly, no noise could be heard from the slice.

Someone started to clap by the door. Ptolema turned and pinned the person to the wall with the sword at his neck. Droian.

"You did very well today," he smiled at her.

"Wait, you planned this?" Ptolema wanted to slice the sword through his neck slowly.

"Yes. If you're going to kill for the royal family, we have to make sure that you can kill our best soldiers."

"Damn you! Damn your father! Damn this castle!" Ptolema backed away from him but still held the sword up just in case he had anymore surprises.

"You have training at five today. I'll see you there." Before he left her, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Ptolema hates that she blushed when he kissed her. He noticed and winked at her.