Why would someone like him give a single damn about a human seamstress with no family, no fortune, no power?
Before she could ask, Valea stepped closer and caught her arm, far stronger than any mortal woman could to be.
“Come,” Valea commanded, voice even but sharp as a whip crack. “There is much to be done with you.”
Maris’s mind spun, fighting to hold on to a sliver of sense.
“Why?” she blurted, voice cracking.
Kael’s eyes found hers one last time. Something flickered there, buried deep, so fast she almost missed it —regret maybe, or a shadow of something else.
Before she could protest, Valea was already pulling her through a side corridor where the chill grew deeper and the rose scent thickened until it turned almost cloying.
Maris twisted to look back but Kael was already turning away, cloak flaring behind him like the sweep of tendril shadows, lost in the darkness of that terrible, beautiful hall. Maris tried to memorize the path Valea dragged her through, but the corridors twisted like a nest of serpents, each archway identical in its brutal, cold elegance. Black marble polished to a mirror sheen, torches burning with that odd, silver flame, casting shadows that danced and seemed to watch her.
Her footsteps echoed across the stone, occasionally muffled by carpets woven into intricate landscapes or battle scenes. As she walked, she could almost taste the scent of those ever-present flowers, syrupy sweet, but undercut with something sharp and rotting, like petals left too long in water.
Valea didn’t speak until they reached a set of heavy doors inlaid with thorn shaped iron locks. She opened them with a fluid grace that sent a chill down Maris’s spine.
"Your chambers my lady," she said, the title weighed down with disdain.
Inside, the area was large enough to swallow her tiny tenement apartment twice over. The walls were hung with tapestries so richly dyed they seemed to bleed color: deep crimson, indigo, black. A sitting room greeted them first, then within a side room a fire flickered in a massive hearth carved from onyx, throwing dancing shadows against a bed crowned with carved roses.
Everything was beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like a snake wearing a jeweled crown.
Valea’s voice cut into the hush.
“Strip.”
Maris flinched. “What?”
“You will bathe. You reek of the human grime, and no one will speak to the King’s guest if she stinks of gutter filth.”
Maris’s stomach twisted. Shame flushed hot through her, followed quickly by anger.
“I’m not . . . filth.” She spat.
Valea stepped closer, close enough that Maris could see faint lines etched around her mouth, the only clue to her age. She began to study Maris’s face with clinical precision. The girl’s pale green eyes, ringed with an eerie silver starburst that no one ever seemed to notice in the candlelight of Eryndor, reflected the flames of the hearth now. Valea’s own darkened red eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing something hidden in them.
“Unusual,” Valea murmured, but did not explain further before commanding, “I will not ask again, remove your clothing.”
Maris swallowed, fists clenched at her sides, then forced herself to obey. Her fingers shook as she untied the laces of her plain blue dress, her fingers tracing the many patches she had mended. When it fell to her ankles, she felt the cold bite of the air against her skin and hated how small, and pathetic she felt under Valea’s gaze.
Porcelain doll, her mother used to call her. But right now she felt like a rag doll, ready to be torn apart.
Valea barely reacted. With a flick of her hand, two other wraith-like women appeared from the shadows. They were nightbound as well, pale as moonlight, their faces eerily identical twins. They carried silver pitchers and bowls, their movements trailed by wisps of shadows.
Warm water steamed as they poured it into a deep copper tub carved with more roses and moons. The scent of crushed herbs drifted up , lavender, and mint.
The twins began to scrub her down with cloths that felt too rough against her fragile, half-starved skin. They worked in silence, eyes lowered, though every touch was clinical, mechanical. Maris tried to sink into her own mind, to block out the humiliation, but the scents and sensations overwhelmed her — hot water biting her skin, the sharp sting of soap in old wounds on her palms, the faint reek of smoke still clinging to her hair from Eryndor.
One of the twins rinsed her hair with a basin of fresh water that smelled faintly of rose oil, combing out the knots with long, spidery fingers until her scalp burned.
When they were done, the two wraiths disappeared into the shadows. Valea stepped forward with a black robe lined in red silk. She held it out without a word, and Maris forced her shaking arms through the sleeves, shivering at how the fabric whispered across her skin.
The robe was far too fine for someone like her, it felt like a reminder that she was property now, no matter what Kael called her.
Valea gestured toward a carved chair near the hearth.
