His lips curve in what might be satisfaction. "Good. You'll need your strength for what comes next."
He leaves me in the kitchen with my empty bowl and the lingering scent of winter. I sit there long after he's gone, trying to understand why my body still hums with awareness. Why I can still feel the phantom pressure of his chest against my back, the ghost of his hands over mine.
Why part of me—a part I don't want to acknowledge—already misses his touch.
The porridge sits warm and satisfying in my stomach, the first real comfort I've felt since arriving at this palace. But beneath the relief lurks something more disturbing: the knowledge that he controlled even this. That my nourishment,my survival, my very existence here depends entirely on his whims.
And the even more disturbing knowledge that some treacherous part of me finds that dependence almost... comforting.
I push that thought away and focus on cleaning my bowl, trying to ignore the way my hands still shake—not from hunger anymore, but from the memory of his touch.
Tomorrow I'll practice making porridge. I'll learn to take care of myself within the boundaries he's set. I'll become the self-sufficient prisoner he wants me to be.
But I won't think about the way his voice made my skin flush with heat. Won't remember how solid and safe he felt pressed against my back. Won't acknowledge the part of me that already looks forward to tomorrow's lesson.
I won't.
Even if it's a lie.
CHAPTER 6
ARATUS
DAYS 11-15
She stops bathingto punish me.
I notice on day eleven when her scent shifts from roses and female warmth to something sharp and unwashed. Sweat and smoke and the accumulated grime of someone who's been cooking over open flames without proper cleaning. The delicate fragrance that marked her as pampered nobility is disappearing beneath layers of human filth.
Clever little brat. She thinks her deteriorating state will disgust me into helping. Force me to either give up on her or break down and order her to bathe, which would prove she has power over me.
She doesn't understand yet. I've waited six centuries for her. A little dirt doesn't bother me—I've seen far worse in my long existence. But watching her make herself miserable for my attention? That's fascinating.
It tells me everything I need to know about how her mind works. She's learned that direct defiance brings punishment, so now she's trying indirect manipulation. Testing whether revulsion will succeed where rage failed.
I say nothing. Just wait and watch as she grows progressively filthier.
The change is gradual but unmistakable. Her auburn hair, once lustrous and carefully maintained, becomes lank with grease. The strands stick together in unnatural clumps, losing the fire-caught gleam that first drew my attention. Ash smudges her face and hands from tending fires she barely knows how to manage. Her clothes start to reek of old cooking fires and unwashed skin.
By day twelve, she's clearly uncomfortable with her own state. I catch her touching her greasy hair with expressions of disgust, trying to work oil through the tangles with her fingers. She avoids the ice-covered windows that might show her reflection, and when she's forced to see herself, she turns away quickly.
But pride keeps her from the bathing chamber she knows exactly how to use. Pride and the stubborn belief that this discomfort will somehow give her leverage over me.
The palace notices her deterioration and responds accordingly. Frost-flowers that used to bloom in her presence are wilting, their crystalline petals falling to shatter on the floor. The ornate ice sculptures in the courtyard have turned away from her chambers, their beautiful faces directed elsewhere as if they find her offensive. Even the magic itself seems to find her wanting now.
The palace has opinions about cleanliness. Ancient magic developed preferences over centuries of inhabitation, and it prefers its occupants to maintain certain standards. Her deliberate neglect of basic hygiene offends the very stones.
Perfect. Let her see that even the palace judges her choices.
By day thirteen, she's clearly miserable but still clinging to her strategy. She fidgets constantly, scratching at skin made itchy by accumulated grime. Her sleep is restless—I can hear hertossing and turning in the chambers below mine. She's hungry more often because her appetite diminishes when she can smell her own unwashed state.
But she persists. Stubborn as winter itself, convinced that her suffering will somehow move me to action.
Day fourteen, I decide it's time to escalate the lesson.
That evening, she appears in the great hall for dinner. I've been eating there regularly, knowing she'll eventually join me rather than continue taking solitary meals in the kitchen. She hovers at the edge of the room, reeking and filthy, waiting for an invitation that isn't coming.
I don't look up from my meal. Don't acknowledge her presence. Just continue eating the roasted fowl and winter vegetables that smell divine in comparison to her current state.
