CHAPTER 40 — The Iron Hand of Yora —
The walk back to the castle was a slow march through a graveyard of silence. Every footfall on the damp cobblestones felt like a heartbeat, heavy and rhythmic. Above them, the sky was a bruised purple, and the raven from the tavern was a constant, ink-black shape flitting between the jagged rooftops. Crystal wouldn't even look at Leona. She walked with her head down, her shoulders pulled tight, as if trying to shrink small enough to disappear. Talia and Anna were a wall of tension beside her, their breathing loud in the quiet of the predawn.
They didn't make it to the safety of the servants' quarters.
Standing at the iron-studded gate, silhouetted against the flickering torches of the courtyard, was Mistress Yora. She didn't need a lantern to see them. Her eyes were a flat, predatory crimson that seemed to drink the moonlight, glowing with the dull hunger of a creature that lived for order and thrived on fear. As the Headmaid—a vampire tasked with breaking the spirits of the human staff—Yora was the undisputed queen of the castle's underbelly.
"Line up," Yora commanded. The words were a low vibration that felt like a physical blow to the chest.
Talia, Anna, and Crystal scrambled into a row, their spines snapping straight. Leona stood at the end, her hands tucked into the folds of her dress to hide the raw, bandaged wrist that felt like it was pulsing in time with the vampire's gaze.
"Look at you," Yora hissed, her voice like dry leaves scraping over a tombstone. She began to prowl the line, the stiff silk of her black dress rustling with every predatory step. She stopped in front of Crystal, leaning in until their noses almost touched. "Ale. Sawdust. And the cheap, sour stench of a common tavern. Is this what the King's gold buys you? The privilege to roll in the gutters like stray dogs?"
"Mistress Yora, please," Crystal whispered, her voice cracking. "There was a fight, we didn't—"
"Silence!" Yora barked. She reached out with terrifying speed, her pale fingers gripping Crystal's chin and forcing her head up toward the moon. Crystal whimpered, her eyes watering. "Do you think we keep you here for your charm? You are tools. And when a tool becomes rusted with the filth of the lower city, it must be scoured."
She shoved Crystal back. Crystal hit the stone wall with a dull thud, gasping for air as Anna reached out to steady her.
Yora turned her gaze to Leona. It was a look of pure, concentrated loathing. "And you. The one who survived the Spire. The one who thinks she can lead my staff into the darkness and return without a scratch." Yora stepped closer, the smell of ancient dust and dried lavender clinging to her. "You have insulted this house. You have brought the eyes of a Hunter to our gates. You are a plague, Leona."
Yora turned back to the group, a cruel smile touching her lips.
"Since you have so much energy for dancing, you clearly have no need for rest. And since you find the tavern food so enticing, you clearly have no need for the King's kitchen." Yora's voice rose, carrying across the empty courtyard. "For the next week, your rations are cut to bread and water. One meal a day. If I see any of you slowing down, I will take the calories you lack from your veins myself."
Anna let out a soft sob. Talia squeezed her hand so hard her knuckles turned white.
"To the Great Hall," Yora commanded. "Every silver tray, every goblet, every inch of the marble floor is to be scrubbed with vinegar and salt. You will scrub until your hands bleed, and then you will scrub with the blood. If there is a single scent of the tavern left when the sun rises, I will personally ensure you spend the next month in the blood-cellars."
She leaned into Leona's ear, her breath cold as a winter draft. "Go. Before I decide to see if your blood tastes as 'special' as the King seems to think."
The night that followed was a blur of agony. The Great Hall was a cavern of shadows, freezing and indifferent. Yora sat in a high-backed chair at the far end, her red eyes glowing in the dark like twin embers, watching.
They worked in a grim, miserable rhythm. The vinegar was the worst part—the acidic fumes stung their eyes and burned the raw skin of their hands. Crystal worked in a state of silent fury, her tears leaving tracks in the dust on her cheeks. Every time she glanced at Leona, it was with a sharp, jagged resentment. To Crystal, this wasn't a tragedy of fate; it was a punishment earned by Leona's presence.
By the time the grey light of dawn touched the high, stained-glass windows, the girls were broken. Their backs were locked in a permanent ache, their fingers were swollen and numb, and the smell of vinegar had settled into their skin like a brand.