I was so angry I didn’t wash my plate or glass.
I was about to leave when I felt a draft coming from a bolted wooden door. I glanced around the kitchen—it looked normal, modern. I opened the door, and the moment I saw the stone walls, I knew where the staircase led.
I took a deep breath and began my descent.
To my surprise, the space below was massive. Store rooms. A tunnel—where the draft came from. But I was looking for the room he’d kept me in.
When I found it, I gasped at how tiny it was. The mattress and blanket still lay there. So did the chain. Tears pricked my eyes.
What’s wrong?Bouda asked.
When he first brought me here, I said, glancing around the room.He kept me in here. No heat. No food. I became ill. So cold. My body felt like ice.
I shivered at the memory and wrapped my arms around myself. His hoodie drowned me, but it was massive and warm.
I could feel my body struggling—shutting down, I said, staring at the wall.Why didn’t you come then?
It wasn’t an accusation. Just curiosity.
Most likely it was a slow illness, not a potentially fatal attack from an enemy, she said after a moment.Your body would have been too weak to receive me.
I nodded. That made sense.
Let’s leave this place, she said quietly.
I hummed and turned to go. We could explore the tunnel another day. It probably led to the cliffs or the beach.
Eventually, I ended up back in my bedroom.
It felt different.
I could leave, for one.
The flooring beside the window was still ruptured from our claws. I smiled, remembering clawing his face. Then I turned toward the bed.
The rug was still stained. The blood had turned brown.
He’d left it there on purpose.
Such cruelty.
Why?
Adam had been polite. He’d even given me a book. I shut my eyes, remembering his dirty blond hair and blue eyes.
Gone in a flash.
My eyes snapped open, locking on the armchair.
Where he sat.
Waiting for me to bend over the bed.
I sank to my knees, wishing to God I could go back to my family and erase all of this from my memory. The tears started slowly, but it didn’t take long for deep sobs to break free.
It wasn’t until I leaned against the bed, staring at the rug, that I realised I hadn’t allowed myself to grieve—because I knew how much he would enjoy seeing me break.
It is okay, my love, Bouda murmured.We are descendants of great Queens. We survive. We thrive. And we never bow.
