Realization

                                    

                                          
The internal clock within my brain woke me up just before dawn. I crawled my way out of bed and groped my way through the dark room, not waiting for my eyes to adjust. I walked forward with my arms out stretched, hoping to find the place where Mercy had left me some clothes. I found a pile of dark clothes folded neatly on the vanity, not without stubbing my toe on the leg, however. 
                          
The clothes consisted of black breeches with a black tunic; my cloak and belt were also folded up on the vanity. Mercy had patched up some holes in the cloak and I made a mental not to thank her for that later. I picked up my clean boots, also a curtesy of Mercy, and tried to put them on as I hopped towards the door. 
                          
Dying torches on the walls lit the dim green hallways. There was an eerie silence ringing about the Palace. The same kind of silence that the forest emanates before it is quite awake, except not quite as comforting. 
                          
I strode quickly down the halls. My lungs were screaming for the chill, crisp air of the outside world. I was not fabricated to live a life indoors. 
                          
I moved down hallways until I came across somewhat familiar halls and I made my way to the room that I was brought to when I was first here. From there I found my way out of the Palace, using the same route Kian and I took out to the stables. 
                          
Throwing the door open, I inhaled deeply as the cool air entered my lungs and swept away all the cobwebs. The sun was just now waking up and it painted the skies in a light orangey pink; the clouds capturing the color underneath them. 
                          
I trotted thoughtfully over to the stables and did not stop until I was in front of Story's stall. However, Story was not sleeping like I expected her to be. She had her head stretched out the window as if she was reaching for an apple in a nearby tree. 
                          
"Hello Story," I greeted. Startled, Story threw her head up, hitting the top of the window frame. I snorted unsympathetically. 
                          
Ouch! Story's yelp echoed loudly off the walls of my skull. 
                          
Don't sneak up on me like that! Story whinnied and glared at me as I snorted once more. She hit her nose against my head. 
                          
"Hey," I laughed. "What are you doing sticking your head out of the window anyways?"
                          
I hate it in here, Story complained. It's so stuffy. Outside is much better.
                          
"I agree," I said quietly. "That is why I am here, though." I unlocked her stall. 
                          
To run?
                          
"No. I'm going to throw knives at a tree while you graze or do horsy-like stuff." I could see Story's face form into a pout. 
                          
"Hey, stop complaining," said as I lead her out of the stables. "Would you rather stay in here?"
                          
No, answered Story quickly. 
                          
"Thought so," I giggled. 
                          
"Stay close," I warned as I opened the stable door and let Story walk out into the small pasture of dew glistening blades of grass outside. 
                          
Yes, mother, scoffed Story playfully. When I glared at her, she pranced away quickly towards the center of the pasture, giggling. 
                          
I made my way over to the tree line as I plucked out the four daggers I had hanging from my belt. Picking out a large tree on the edge of the forest, I set down three daggers, keeping my best one in my hand. Using the long blade, I carved a circle on the tree with a smaller circle inside of it. A crude target, but it will have to do. 
                          
After picking up the three daggers from the wet grass, I walked to the middle of the small pasture to where Story stood. I dropped the same three daggers as I bounced my favorite blade in the palm of my hand. The knife was by far not the best quality of the four. The silver steal was crooked and misshapen and it was hardly sharp at all. The hilt was just a few layers of thick worn leather, tied at the bottom in a crude double knot. It was a pathetic looking knife. However, it was the first dagger I had made, with help from my father.