A tray sat on a small table by the bed. It held a small variety of food, or what passed for it here. Fruit that glowed faintly, bread that smelled of honey and earth, a pitcher of something that might have been water or might have been liquid starlight.
Her stomach was cramped with hunger, but she remembered stories. Rules. Don't eat fairy food or you'll never leave.
Already can't leave,she reminded herself.Already bound.
But some stubborn part refused to give in that easily. She ignored the food, moving instead to the bed. The covers pulled back at her approach, inviting. The pillows looked impossibly soft.
She sat on the edge, then immediately stood. It was too soft, too warm. It felt too much like surrender allowing herself to sink into its embrace.
"Can't sleep standing up," she muttered.
A knock at the door made her jump. It was soft, almost hesitant.
"What?" she called.
The door opened to reveal the bark-skinned woman from earlier. She carried an armful of additional clothing, eyes carefully downcast.
"Begging pardon," the woman said quietly. "His lordship wanted these brought. For tomorrow."
"I don't want them."
"Please." The woman's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "If I return with them, he'll think I failed. And failure here..." She trailed off, but her meaning was clear.
Briar took the clothes reluctantly. They were all variations on the same theme, dresses that would cling and flow, all in colors of night and forest. Nothing practical. Nothing that would help her run. She wasn’t surprised, disappointed perhaps but not surprised.
"What's your name?" she asked impulsively.
The woman's eyes widened. "We don't... that is, names have power here. Best not to share freely."
"Then what do I call you?"
"Nothing. I'm nobody. Just another root in his garden." She glanced nervously at the door. "I should go. But... a word of advice?"
Briar nodded.
"Eat something. Sleep in the bed. Use what's offered." The woman's voice was barely audible now. "The forest knows when you refuse its gifts. And it tells him everything."
Then she was gone, the door closing with finality.
Briar stared at the tray. At the bed. At the beautiful prison she'd traded her life for.
The mark pulsed, warm and satisfied.
She picked up what might have been an apple, if apples glowed from within and felt warm to the touch. It smelled sweet. Safe. Which probably meant it wasn't.
But the hunger was real, and the woman's warning echoed.
She bit into it.
Flavor exploded across her tongue. It wasn’t just sweet but complex in ways that didn’t make sense but felt right. She tasted summer afternoons and winter mornings and every season between. Juice ran down her chin, and she wiped it away with fingers that trembled.
Just food. Just fruit. Nothing changed.
Except the mark pulsed warmer, and the walls seemed to lean in slightly, and somewhere in the distance she could swear she heard Eliam laughing.
She finished the apple and tried the water. It tasted of moonlight, or so her senses told her though such things were impossible. Moonlight had no taste, no flavor, but yet, it lingered cool and sweet at the back of her throat. The bread dissolved on her tongue, leaving behind the memory of grain fields she'd never seen.
Each bite bound her deeper. She knew it, could feel it, but what choice did she have?
