Lies.
This house is built on lies. Lord Privis didn’t justmarryinto this estate; he stole it. He killed Lord Tull, and now he has killed his wife. The cloying, sweet smell ofrirzedblossoms is everywhere, thick and heavy, a cheap perfumed shroud trying to mask theothersmell—the sharp, chemical reek of ozone and strong cleaners that wafted from the bathhouse wing all morning.
My hand trembles. The heavy silver goblet slips from my grasp, clattering onto the white marble floor with a sound like a gunshot.
I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. I snatch it up, frantically polishing away a new smudge, my eyes darting down the empty hall.He didn't hear. Please, gods, don't let him have heard.
I scrub the same spot on the goblet, my knuckles white, my breathing shallow. Lady Lamas was not a kind woman. She saw me as human filth, a strayrodanher husband stared at far too often. She enjoyed finding ways to punish me, to make my life harder.
But her pride… her high-born, old-Eelry pride…thatwas my shield. She was the only thing in this house more powerful than her husband's depravity. She would never have tolerated the social humiliation of him openly taking a human maid to his bed.
But Lamas is dead. My shield is gone.
He killed her to get to me.The realization is a slithering snake in my belly, a truth I have been trying to ignore for hours.My ‘Lady Doll’.He whispered it once, when he cornered me by the wine cellar, his breath hot and stinking ofzhisk. I had pretended not to hear, but the name stuck to me, a greasy film I can't wash off.
I am not a person to him. I am athing. A doll. A prize he just cleared the board to collect. And now, there is nothing left standing in his way.
The main entrance doors slam open, the heavythudechoing through the “mourning” hall like a blasphemy. I shrink into the alcove, pressing myself flat against a heavy tapestry, trying to merge with the threads.
Heavy, booted footsteps. More than one. And a new smell, cutting right through therirzed—the hot, coppery stench of smoke and fresh blood.
It’shim. "The Tusk."
He stalks into the hall, returning from the raid on Lord Dareksword’s estate. He is a seven-foot mountain of gray-green muscle and black leather, his massive axe dripping dark elf blood onto the pristine marble floor. He is a walking nightmare, the living, breathing proof of what Lord Privis is capable of.
Behind him, his mercenary comrades drag in new captives—three women, their hands bound, their faces streaked with tears and soot. They are whimpering, their soft cries swallowed by the vast, cold hall.
He is the axe, and Privis is the hand. He is the creature they send to butcher and bind. He is the monster Privis will send for me.
He stops. My blood turns icy.
He turns his massive head, his nostrils flaring, sniffing the air. He smells me. He smells my fear. His gaze—flat, dead, amber-yellow—sweeps over my alcove and lands on me.
I am paralyzed. I am asuruin the shadow of alikar. His eyes pass over me, registering my terror, my flimsy maid's uniform, my smallness. He doesn't sneer. He doesn't threaten. He just... dismisses.
A low grunt rumbles in his massive chest, a sound of pure indifference. He turns his back on me, stalking toward Privis's study, leaving the scent of pine and slaughter in his wake.
I am not even a person to him. I am not a threat. I am not an equal. I am just... furniture. Another piece of his master’s property, waiting to be cataloged and, eventually, used. The realization is a cold, new kind of terror.
I run. I don't care about the silver. I abandon the cart and run, my soft shoes slipping on the marble, back towardthe servant's wing. The air here is blessedly cold, smelling of unwashed bodies, lye soap, and the thintaurastew simmering for the staff. It’s a relief from the choking perfume of the main hall.
From the grates in the floor, I can hear the new women—the ones from the wagon—weeping in the holding cells beneath the barracks.
I reach my own room, a windowless cell no bigger than a closet, and shove my flimsy, broken-backed chair under the door handle. It's useless. I know it's useless.Hecould break it down with one push.
He's back.
I sink onto my thin, straw-filled cot, my hands shaking so hard I can't clasp them. I am trapped. I am just… waiting. Waiting for those heavy, monstrous footsteps to stop outside my door.
3
OTHIC
The barracks stink of stale zhisk, unwashed mercenary sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of the oil I’m using on my whetstone. The sound of my work is a steady, rhythmic shing-shing-shing that grinds against the noise of the others. They are celebrating.
Dareksword's blood is a stubborn, dark film on my axe blade. It gums up the stone, and I grunt in frustration, applying more oil and pressure.
"To the 'grieving' widower!" Krell, the mercenary captain, roars from the far table, raising a stolen silver goblet.
