Nothing happens.
"The physician will be here in an hour." He's already opening the door, dismissing me. "Get undressed and lie on the bed. Be ready for him."
He leaves.
I stand there, my dress still bunched around my waist, his seed already leaking down my thigh. Be ready for him. Like I'm a piece of meat to be inspected. To be examined and prodded and declared fit or unfit for breeding.
The door closes. I'm alone. And the burning, the burning, the burning won't stop.
The scream tears from my throat before I can stop it. A sound of pure, incandescent rage. And with it comes fire.
Actual fire.
Flames pour from my mouth in a torrent of gold and crimson, shooting across the room like dragon's breath. They lick at the ceiling, scorch the wallpaper, leave black marks on the ornate molding. The heat is glorious. The power is intoxicating. For three seconds, maybe four, I am not a princess or a wife or a womb. I am fury incarnate.
Then it stops.
I stand there, panting, staring at the scorch marks on my bedroom wall. My heart hammers against my ribs. My throat feels raw but not burned. Just that same constant burning that's been there for weeks, maybe a little more intense now.
"Yes," I whisper to the empty room. "Yes, yes,yes."
I did it. I actually did it. The flame I thought I imagined weeks ago was real. This is real. Whatever is happening to me, whatever I'm becoming... it's real.
I try again immediately. I think of Benedict's face, his whining voice, the way he called me defective. I think of being returned like a broken toy. I summon every ounce of rage and humiliation and—
Nothing.
I try again. And again. I scream, I rage, I imagine burning this entire castle to the ground with everyone in it.
Nothing. Not even a spark.
"Come on," I hiss through clenched teeth. "Comeon."
But whatever door opened for those few precious seconds has slammed shut again. The burning remains, constant and maddening, but the flames won't come.
I want to scream again, but I'm afraid of wasting whatever this is. Afraid that if I scream without the fire, I'll somehow use it up, lose it forever.
I've been thinking about killing Prince Benedict for weeks now. The thought has been a small, dark seed in my mind, growing roots, spreading branches.
Maybe I need to act sooner than I thought.
The knife work I've been practicing in secret, the footwork, the grip, the way to slide a blade between ribs, it's not just an idle hobby anymore. It's preparation. And I'm fairly confident now. Not perfect, but confident enough. I've watched the knights for months.
But how? When? Benedict never lets his guard down around me, never shows me his back for more than a moment. And there are always servants nearby, guards in the halls. I'd need to be smart about it. Careful. One chance is all I'd get.
I don't have time to figure it out right now.
I look down at myself, dress still bunched, his seed still wet on my thighs. The physician will be here in an hour. I need to clean up. Need to be "ready" like a good little breeding mare.
I wash myself roughly, scrubbing away every trace of Benedict. The water in the basin turns cloudy. I wash again. And again. Until my skin is golden pink and raw and I finally feel somewhat clean.
I don't get dressed. That's what he ordered, after all. To be naked and waiting.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I comply. Not for Benedict, but because I'm curious about this physician. Curious what he'll find. Curious if he'll see something that explains the burning, the healing, the fire.
I climb onto the bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Then I wait.
An hour passes with agonizing slowness. I count the minutes by the clock on the mantle. Watch the hands crawl forward like they're moving through honey.
