A Zagfer steward replaces the servant. Her skin is a rich, burnished bronze, her silver hair woven into an intricate, severe crown of braids. She clutches a ledger bound in scaled hide.
The freezing weight of her disdain crawls over my filthy bare feet, traveling ruthlessly upward to my tangled curls.
"Then to the servant dormitories, my lord?" The steward’s words clip with merciless precision. "She requires a thoroughscouring before she is put to labor in the scullery. I will have her marked for the morning tithe."
Zhetrin goes utterly still. The violent halos of his irises pin the steward in place.
"She takes the suite in the eastern corridor." The command is a low, glacial rumble. "Flanking my chambers."
Heavy quiet floods the cavernous hall.
The leather of Tharion's gauntlet creaks as his grip tightens on the pommel of his longblade. The steward’s flawless composure shatters.
"The eastern corridor?" Disbelief strips the respect from Maelis's tone. "My lord, those are the highborn quarters. To place a surface-stray... a mortal... so close to your personal sanctum violates fourteen distinct edicts of House?—"
"Maelis." The single spoken syllable severs her objection. The atmosphere turns into biting frost, heavy with the lethal promise of his magic. "Do you require me to repeat the directive?"
The steward's spine bows instantly, submitting to the sheer force of his presence. "No, my lord. I will arrange it."
The weight of her disdain snaps to me. "Follow me, mortal. Keep to the open stone. Do not brush the tapestries."
I refuse to move.
I root my bare feet to the obsidian. I am a fragile fraction in this realm of immortal predators, but the Undercity taught me that bowing to the wolves only guarantees the kill.
"My name is Megan."
My ruined vocal cords scrape the syllables clearly across the pristine stone. The captain’s armored frame jerks, jarred by the audacity. Maelis stiffens, her bronze features tightening into a mask of outrage.
"I did not ask what you are called." The steward's response drips with ice.
"I am providing it anyway." I bridge our gap, refusing to yield to her disdain. "I am not a prisoner. I am not your scullery maid. And I will not stomach 'human' as a slur. If you have directives for me, you will use my name."
The steward’s pristine mask fractures. She shifts her attention past my shoulder, silently begging her lord for the authority to strike me down for the insolence.
The immense weight of Zhetrin’s focus burns like a physical brand between my shoulder blades. He issues no reprimand. He offers the steward no defense. He lets the quiet stretch.
A visible tremor works down Maelis's bronze throat. "This way... Megan."
I trail her into the oppressive depths of the estate.
The eastern corridor is a suffocating stretch of vaulted obsidian and velvet-draped archways. The chamber Maelis leads me into is cavernous—a single room possessing more square footage than the entire shelter I shared with twenty other strays in the Lowtowns. The furnishings are carved from black ironwood, the mattress draped in deep indigo silks. The stagnant air carries the faint scent of dried lavender and ancient dust.
Maelis strikes a single alchemy lamp atop the desk, throwing sharp lines across the stone. "Two of the captain's warriors will remain beyond this threshold. For your protection."
"For my captivity."
Maelis offers no rebuttal. She pivots and breaches the corridor. The carved door slams shut, sealing me within. The deadbolt engages with a brutal, metallic snap.
I stand exposed in the chamber. It is created to isolate—to crush the occupant beneath the power of the Khuzuth nobility.
I cross the polished floor.
Onyx velvet drapes seal the towering arched windows, hoarding the gloom. Noticing the heavy iron rod above isseverely rusted at the center bracket, I grip the thick fabric with both hands, planting my heels against the cold stone, and throw my entire weight backward to use the fabric as a lever. The rusted bracket shrieks against the stone and snaps.
The drapes crash down to the floor in a heap.
A wave of pale, ambient surface light—refracted down through the crystal grates of the upper city—breaches the room. It obliterates the gloom. It is not true sunlight, but it is light.
