I scramble to the window. It is a single pane of glass, impossibly clear. I press my hands against it. Cold seeps through to my palms. Below, the estate of House Imas sprawls like a sleeping beast in the gloom of Lliandor. Rain slashes against the glass, distorting the view of the high walls and the jagged iron spikes that line the perimeter.
I push against the frame. It does not budge. I trace the edge of the sill and feel a faint, vibrating hum—a magical seal.
I am trapped. Not in chains, but in silk and sorcery.
Why?
Dark Elves do not keep human slaves in rooms like this. We are kept in barracks, in pens, in the mud. We are livestock. To put livestock in the master's quarters implies a purpose far more terrifying than labor.
A sharp cramp twists my stomach. I haven't eaten since the gruel at the market two days ago. My body is failing, even if my mind is racing. I curl my fingers into the loose thread of my tunic, pulling it tight until the pain centers me.
Think, Leora. Observe.
He recoiled when I felt for him. When I... pitied him.
I close my eyes, trying to recall the sensation. It hadn't been a conscious choice. It was a reflex, like throwing up a hand to ward off a blow. The dam inside my mind—the wall I built to keep the screaming emotions of the world out—had fractured. And instead of takingin, I had pouredout.
And it hurt him.
A click at the door makes me scramble backward, pressing my spine against the cold stone of the hearth.
The door opens. It is not the Lord.
An older human woman enters. She carries a silver tray, her head bowed so low her chin nearly touches her chest. She wears the gray wool of a house slave, her hair strictly bound in a white cloth. She moves with the shuffling, silent gait of someone who learned long ago that invisibility is the only shield that works.
She places the tray on a small table. Bread, cheese, a pitcher of water. The scent of the food hits me, and my mouth waters so painfully my jaw aches.
"Eat," the woman whispers. She does not look up.
I remain by the hearth. "Is it poisoned?"
The woman flinches. She looks at me then, and I see a landscape of tragedy written in the lines of her face. Her eyes are watery and dull, the spark long since extinguished. "If Lord Imas wanted you dead, child, he would not waste the arsenic. He would simply stop your heart."
"He couldn't," I say. The words are out before I can stop them.
The woman freezes. Her gaze darts to the open door, then back to me. "Do not speak such things. The shadows in this house have ears. The Serpent hears all."
She moves to leave, but I lunge forward, grabbing her wrist. Her skin is papery and dry. "Please. Who are you?"
"I am Rina," she says, her voice trembling. "I have served this House for forty years. I served his father before him."
"Where am I? Why am I in this room?"
Rina looks at the velvet bed, then at me. A flicker of pity crosses her face—not the magical kind I project, but the weary, human kind. "You are where he puts things he wishes to study. Things he wishes to break slowly."
"He tried to break me," I say, my voice dropping. "In the study. He tried to scare me."
"He will try again. And again." Rina pulls her wrist free, though I wasn't holding her tightly. She wrings her hands together. "He is Khuzuth. He does not know how to lose. If you fought him... if you defied him... he will not stop until you are dust."
"I saw him," I insist, needing to understand what happened in that room. "When he tried to use his magic... something happened. He looked afraid."
Rina steps closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Lord Imas does not feel fear. He consumes it. He is a devotee of The Serpent. Do you know what that means, girl? It means pain is his prayer. Do not mistake a pause for weakness. He is merely deciding which knife to use."
She backs away toward the door. "Eat the bread. Gather your strength. You will need it when the night comes. Lliandor is cruelest in the dark."
She slips out, the heavy door locking behind her with a finality that echoes in the marrow of my bones.
I am alone.
