Written in 6o minutes.

---

It had to be a trick, a lie to lure her back inside the inn, back to a miserable future—

Elizabeth took one step away from the tree, towards the man who held her daggers in his hand, the only link she had to her heritage, to the world she’d known before that terrible day.

The winter wind swirled around them, rustling through the trees. The air grew more bitter, the chill deepening, but still she stood there, a foot separating her from her captor, from her weapons.

Jason Morgan tipped his head to the sky, then brought his gaze to hers as the first snowflakes fluttered past his cheek, dancing down to the forest floor thick with leaves and foliage. His eyes were shadowed, but she could see the corner of his mouth turning up in a half smirk. “Do you think you can freeze me to death? Is that how you plan to end this?”

She drew in a sharp breath, fought the urge to deny it. This man, this puppet of Valentin Cassadine held too many secrets—but how? Why would Valentin put so much trust in an underling? Or was Jason Morgan hiding secrets of his own from the Cassadine?

Elizabeth flicked her wrist and the wind settled, the flurries fading from the sky until they fell no longer. “I could bury you in a snowdrift,” she bit out, “if I so chose. Give me a reason not to.”

Jason flipped one of the daggers in his hand, a neat little twirl that she’d never seen anyone else complete — save for the man who had taught her. Had Alan Quartermaine trained him as well? But then who was he? And why had Valentin sent him?

Pressure built behind her eyes, an itch in her throat that she forced down. All she had was her dignity, her self-respect, and she would not fall apart in front of this man, in front of any man.

“That is not a reason, and I grow weary of this conversation. Keep the daggers.” She lifted her chin and stalked across the clearing, nearly reaching the other side before his voice traveled to her on the wind.

“A few months back, in another place, a woman came to a pub. She had a pair of those daggers.”

Elizabeth stopped, but did not turn around. Another trick, another lie.

“I was there on other business, and found myself in a meeting with her and an associate who knew something of my background. He thought she was lying, trying to lead him on a wild chase or steal something from him. But then she reached into cloak just the way you did — pulling one of these from some pocket that could not be detected. A dagger from Nevoie. They are not given to all members of the line. Just the women in the line of succession.”

“There are no survivors from Nevoie,” Elizabeth said, but her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s what I would have thought. What we’ve been told.” Jason took a step towards her, almost hesitant. “A sickness spread in the household and the village. Too fast, too deadly. No survivors. That part is no lie, is it?”

“No. There was a fire—” Her throat tightened, the acrid smell of smoke still lingering in her memories, choking her from beyond. “After. They burned the village to the ground, then the house.”

“To stop the disease from spreading.”

“To hide their crimes.” Her fingers fisted in her skirts. “But I was captured in the woods. We ran. We ran, and we ran, and I lost her somewhere. I heard her screams. There are no survivors from Nevoie,” she repeated.

“You survived,” Jason said, taking another step towards her. “Is it so impossible that you alone could have?”

“I—” Her eyes blurred and something unfurled inside her. An emotion she could scarcely recognize. Hope. No. “She told you this. She told you that Nevoie was a massacre, and you did nothing. She showed you daggers, and you did nothing.” She swallowed hard, and her heart hardened again. “I expect nothing less from a Cassadine pawn—”

“What would you have me do? Tell the king that his aunt and her family were slaughtered like animals? She wanted no justice. Just vengeance. She came to my friend looking for revenge.”

“You still have told me nothing that convinces me that I should go inside or continue this conversation. You weave nothing but lies designed to trick me into trusting you.”

“I tell you the truth as I know it. She gave no name, and she never spoke of her relatives. She didn’t need to. The daggers—” Jason held them out to her again. “They don’t take kindly to being separated from their mistress, do they? That’s how you came to have them after all this time. Why they didn’t burn to the ground with your home or become the property of whoever kidnapped you from the woods that day.”

“How can you—” She bit back the demand, clenching her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms. “Then you know that if you withhold them from me, they’ll only find their way home.”

“I do. So why go to that trouble when you can take them now?”

Her hands itched to take the offer, to snatch the daggers from him, but what if he were lying? What if he knew the power the weapons held, and he had a charm to bind them to him? What if she held out her hands and he grabbed her—

She was just so very tired.

With trembling hands she reached out, held out her hands, and nearly wept when Jason carefully laid the hilts in her palm, his fingers closing her hand around them so that his larger hands engulfed hers.

Their eyes met, and Elizabeth drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t understand you.”

“I’ve heard that before. From the woman in the pub who also was unhappy that I knew the origin of these, that I knew their power, and declined to tell her why.”

“And do you think it fair that you seem to know all my secrets, and I still know nothing of yours?” she demanded.

“You know the one I’ve told no other. You just haven’t put the pieces together.” Jason released her hands, then drew his sword. Elizabeth leapt back, set herself to ward off the attack—but he held the hilt towards her, as if handing her the sword.

Elizabeth furrowed her brow, lowered her hands to her side, the tips of the daggers brushing her cloak. On the base of the hilt was the same insignia burned into hers. “The Quartermaines. They do not make weapons for the common people. They’ve made our daggers, and—” Her eyes rounded. “You’re a Quartermaine?”

“By blood,” Jason said, sheathing the sword again. “Not by right or name. I was honest when I told you I was a bastard from Wymoor. I just didn’t specify whose bastard.”

The information didn’t fit in neatly with everything else that she knew. The Quartermaines looked after their own, and clearly he had been part of the family at one time. He’d been trained and outfitted by Alan Quartermaine.

And yet—

“You take coin from the blood enemy of your family?” Elizabeth asked. “You think that to be reassuring?”

“You’re betrothed to the blood enemy of yours,” Jason returned calmly and she flinched. “Does that not make us the same?”

“I don’t know,” she said, lifting her brows. “Were you held prisoner for six years, then bound to a small, remote village for another eight? Did you bargain for the false pretense of freedom by trading your future?”

“Bound,” Jason repeatedly slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Then let me make this very clear, Master Morgan.” She stepped close to him, their faces so close that the breath she exhaled mingled with his. “I begged Valentin to release me from the   locked room that had been my whole world since the day he slaughtered my family and took me prisoner. He brought me to Shadwell, to that cottage, and once I stepped across the border of the village, he relished in telling me that I was to stay there until he had need of me, and the only way he’d ever let me leave was if I agreed to marry him. Or else I’d rot away in my isolation. And for eight years, I prayed he’d find another way, another route to the power he so desperately craved. As long as the king drew breath, there was hope. And then you came.”

Jason took a step back, confusion swirling in his eyes. “He bound you to the land, but I spoke no words to release you—”

“You did not have to. It’s an oath. When you came and you asked me if I was his betrothed, I fulfilled the contract. I agreed to leave with you. But Valentin does not respect the old ways, the magic. I agreed so that I could leave. But I will never marry him. And if you force me, if you drag me to the capital, I promise you, Valentin will not live long enough to take the throne.”

Jason looked at her for long a moment. “Good. Then we are agreed.”

“We—” She blinked, shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You wish to see Valentin dead. But I will tell you what I told your kinswoman — if you want Valentin’s blood, we are in accord. I’d prefer to do the deed myself, but if you need to have a hand in spilling it, that can be arranged.”

← Flash Fiction: Masquerade – Part 4 |