Being a prisoner to a man I barely knew, a man capable of such dreadful cruelty, knotted my stomach with terror. I considered avoiding the self-serving fae king at all costs, but that would never work when he insisted on training. Refusal wasn't an option. Even thinking about the consequences sent my panic spiralling. He would probably drag me out by force.
There was so much more to worry about. It was all too much. If I hadn't returned to Ortensia by the end of the week, I was as good as dead. Physical and mental exhaustion,coupled with my self-imposed isolation, had already begun to wear away at my unstable witchcraft. It wanted out. It cared nothing for circumstance, only that it longed for a connection to nature.
In brief moments of clarity, when the storm of chaos eased enough for logic to breathe, I knew I needed a plan. With so many obstacles in my way—my underdeveloped powers, my obvious otherness, and the fact that I was captive to the monster himself—I could only come up with one scheme: pretend to accept life in his court.
If I abided by his rules for a few days, he might lower his guard. Then I could escape.
The first time I saw the portal, I would dive through it and find the Elders Committee to report the treacherous king, begging for release from that cursed treaty. My dragon and I weren’t hoping for much more from them.
Michael knocked on my door several times throughout the day, pleading with me to speak to him. But trust is earned, not given, and as Dracon’s subject, he could well have been involved in my imprisonment.
Power itching beneath my skin, driving me half mad, I decided to leave the supposed safety of my room for the courtyard where we trained. Soil beneath my feet might soothe my power enough to let me rest.
Slowly descending the main staircase, I was met by a silence that echoed through the castle, sending shivers down my spine. My footsteps rang loudly across the tiled floor, disturbing the stillness, each tap sounding far louder than it should have. Was this place always so eerie?
I followed the paths I’d tried to memorise after the king had brought me up, eventually reaching the foyer. When I turned towards the winding corridor that led to the garden doors, a man stepped into my path.
Anger radiated off him, making the hair on my arms prickle with warning. His clothes were spattered with bloodand grime. He was a soldier—black and burgundy fatigues, heavy boots, and a utility belt bristling with weapons.
My heart hammered as his eyes glinted with a promise of carnage.
His mouth twisted in a vicious scowl, his arm erupting into flames as he reached for a dagger. ‘How fortunate I am to stumble upon yet another witch. I think I'll enjoy this.’
I spun and bolted in the opposite direction, but he was too fast. Even before his weight crashed into me, I could feel him at my heels.
It slammed me into the wall hard enough for the sharp taste of copper to flood my mouth. His grip was so tight there was no room to move or defend myself. I tried to scream, but he pressed a flaming blade to my throat.
Wedged between my legs, his breath reeked of blood and smoke. ‘You’re a cute little thing. Maybe I’ll let you beg me for a swift cut. I don’t usually finish quickly.’
The bastard’s voice oozed mockery, and I flinched when the blade began to bite. Panic dominated all of my other senses.
‘Sebastian,’ the king’s rough voice cut down the corridor.
The soldier froze but didn’t withdraw his weapon. He pressed harder, searing my skin as his liege warned coldly, ‘The witch is not to be harmed. By you or anyone else.’
A deep frown carved across the man's face before he reluctantly sheathed the blade. Instead, he wrapped a hand around my throat and squeezed while I desperately tried to pry his fingers away. His disappointed grunt told me how lucky I was that my captor had interrupted him. ‘What’s so special about this one?’
‘She’s the Ortensian who summoned a dragon,’ Dracon replied, his voice low and measured. Leaning against the wall, he yawned as if bored, while panic still clawed at my chest.
Still too close. He could still inflict far too much damage while I remained completely defenceless.
The soldier studied my face with open disgust. ‘How the fuck did thisthingever bond a dragon?’
He shoved himself away, seeming to enjoy the way I winced when he finally released my throat. His laughter echoed down the marble corridor as he strode past his king. I wanted to hear what they were saying, but my ears rang, every sound reduced to a dull hum.
I touched my throat and found a thin line of blood. Dracon closed the distance, pressed a finger to the wound and gently traced the cut, his expression unreadable.
‘I wish I could just let him fucking kill you,’ he murmured, lost in thought. ‘A witch is only good when it’s dead.’
‘That’s your flawed opinion,’ I said, forcing my quivering voice to steady. Who did he think he was?
His lips curled as he wrapped a hand around my neck, leaning close enough for his breath to brush my ear. His grip was gentler, though his hand trembled. ‘It's not an opinion. It's a historical fact, witch.’
Then his fingers dug in, deliberately dragging across the shallow cut. My body locked, bracing for what would come next. The soldier left us alone, and I was all his to torment.
‘Green witches helped cast blood witches awa—’
‘I don’t need a fucking history lesson from you.' His voice lashed at me like a whip. ‘I know what you are. Soulless abominations. I’ll paint the world red with your witch blood.’
