To one side, a smaller arched alcove held a copper bathing tub that steamed gently, the scent of winter herbs—pine, mint, something sharp and clean—drifting from the water. Candles clustered on every surface, their warm light fighting back the cold that pressed against the windows. A wardrobe of the same dark wood as the bed stood open, revealing gowns in white and silver and palest blue, all of them far too fine for a prisoner.
The floor was covered in thick rugs that looked like fresh snow had been woven into patterns, soft under her bare feet. A low couch upholstered in white velvet sat near the windows, positioned to take in the terrifying beauty of the view. Beside it, white flowers she didn't recognize filled crystal vases, their petals so pale they seemed to glow in the firelight.
It was a room for a cherished guest, not a captive. The luxury of it made her skin crawl.
"I'll send a healer shortly. And food. You must be hungry after your journey."
He stood in the doorway, blocking her exit again, studying her with that single eye while the ornate patch caught the candlelight.
"Three days, Lady Briar. Do try to make them pleasant for both of us."
The door closed, and she heard the lock turn. Heavy. Final.
She collapsed beside the fire, pulling her knees to her chest, trying to stop shaking. The room was beautiful, warm, everything her frozen body craved. But it was still a cage, just one lined with velvet and fur instead of iron bars.
Three days. Three days of Malachar's games, his revenge, his satisfaction at having her exactly where he wanted her.
The warmth in her chest pulsed weakly, pulling toward the south, toward forests and thorns and safety that might as well have been on the moon.
Time lost meaning as she sat there, watching flames dance over logs that never seemed to burn down. The fire's warmth barely penetrated the cold that had settled into her bones—not from the mountain air but from the knowledge of where she was, who held her.
A knock broke through her numbness. Before she could respond, the door opened to admit a procession of servants.
First came an elderly woman with bark-brown skin and knowing eyes, carrying a leather satchel that smelled of herbs and something metallic. Behind her, two younger fae balanced trays of food—breads that steamed despite the journey fromthe kitchens, soups that smelled of root vegetables and winter herbs, fruits she didn't recognize preserved in what looked like ice but didn't melt.
More servants followed, these carrying linens and a copper basin that matched the tub in the alcove. They moved with practiced efficiency, not meeting her eyes, filling the basin with steaming water that smelled of pine and something medicinal.
"My lady," the healer said, her voice neither kind nor unkind, simply professional. "Lord Malachar has instructed me to tend your wounds."
Briar didn't move from her position by the fire. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through that cloak." The healer set down her bag, movements brisk. "The talons of mountain harpies carry a mild venom. Not fatal, but it prevents proper clotting. If untreated, you'll continue bleeding until you're too weak to stand."
As if to prove her point, a wave of dizziness swept through Briar. She'd attributed it to exhaustion, fear, the cold. But now that the healer mentioned it, she could feel the steady seep of warmth down her back.
"The bath is ready, my lady," one of the younger servants said. This one did meet her eyes briefly—a flash of something that resembled sympathy before her expression smoothed back to neutrality. "We'll need to clean the wounds before the healer can work."
They waited, clearly expecting her to comply. The alternative was bleeding out slowly on Malachar's floor, which would only give him satisfaction. Survival meant accepting their help, even if it came on his orders.
She forced herself to stand, legs unsteady. The servants moved immediately, one steadying her elbow, another beginning to work at the cloak's fastenings. Their hands were impersonal but gentle as they peeled away the blood-stiffened fabric. She heard a soft intake of breath when they revealed her back.
"Three punctures on each shoulder," the healer noted, clinical in her assessment. "Deep but clean. The venom's kept them from closing. We'll need to draw it out first."
They guided her to the alcove where the copper tub waited and the servants worked with mechanical efficiency, removing the ruined nightgown, their faces carefully blank at the bruises on her hips that had nothing to do with harpies.
The water burned when she sank into it, every cut and scrape announcing itself. The healer added something to the bath that turned it pale green and made the wounds sting worse before the pain began to numb. Blood clouded the water, more than seemed possible.
"The venom's breaking down," the healer explained, working some kind of paste into the punctures. It smelled sharp, medicinal, and made her skin tingle. "This will draw out the rest."
While the healer worked, other servants laid out clothing on the bed. Not one dress but several, as if she had a choice in what cage she wore. The gowns were beautiful enough to make her chest ache—one in white so pure it seemed to glow, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that looked like frost on windows. Another in the palest blue, like winter sky just after dawn, with billowing sleeves that gathered at the wrists with pearl clasps. A third in deeper blue-gray, the color of storm clouds over snow, with white fur trim at the neckline and hem.
All of them were designed to cover more than anything she'd worn at Eliam's court. All of them were meant to make her look like she belonged here, in Malachar's domain.
"This will scar," the healer said, finishing her work with bandages that seemed to adhere to skin without wrapping. "But you'll live. The venom's neutralized."
They helped her from the bath, wrapping her in soft towels that smelled of lavender and something else, something that made the warmth in her chest recoil slightly. Magic of some kind, woven into the very fabric. Mountain Court magic that her body recognized as foreign, wrong.
"Which gown, my lady?" The servant who'd shown that flash of sympathy held up the white one.
