"You are twitching," Lira said, her voice tight with false patience.
Aeliana met the handmaid's eyes in the silver mirror. Lira stood behind her, weaving gold wire into the complex braids of Aeliana's silver hair. It wasn't a gentle process. Every twist was a tug, every pin a sharp scratch against the scalp.
"I am breathing, Lira," Aeliana replied, her tone cool and glass-smooth. "There is a difference."
"Well, stop it. The bodice is laced too tight for heavy breathing."
Lira stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron as if she had been handling raw meat. She surveyed her work with a critical, cold eye.
"The King is in a mood tonight," Lira warned, picking up a powder puff. She began to dust Aeliana's neck, masking the natural flush of skin with a ghostly, aristocratic pallor. "He spent the morning in the counting house. The taxes from the South are light. When the gold is light, his temper is heavy."
Aeliana stared at her reflection. The woman looking back wasn't a person. She was a statue. A pristine, breakable thing painted in colors that pleased Valerius.
"He will want distraction," Aeliana said, reciting the script she had learned over three years of survival.
"He wants a show," Lira corrected, dropping the puff. She moved to the wardrobe, pulling out the gown Valerius had selected. It was deep plum velvet, heavy and suffocating. "He has brought something down from the North. Some beast he intends to butcher in the hall for sport."
Aeliana stood up. The corset constricted her ribs, forcing her posture into a rigid, unnatural arch.
"Another beast?" Aeliana asked softly. "The last one... the bear... it screamed for a long time."
"This one won't scream," Lira said, bunching the heavy fabric of the dress. "The guards say it's a mute. A feral thing. Step in."
Aeliana stepped into the gown. Lira hauled the laces tight, cinching Aeliana's waist until spots danced in her vision.
"Perfect," Lira murmured, not complimenting Aeliana, but the product she had created. "He likes it when you look fragile. Like he could snap you with one hand."
She circled Aeliana, checking for flaws.
"Go to the door. The guards are waiting."
Aeliana waited until Lira turned her back to tidy the vanity.
Quickly, silently, Aeliana reached under the oak table. Her fingers brushed the rough, unfinished wood on the underside until they found it—a jagged splinter of iron-wood she had wedged there weeks ago.
Iron burned Fae skin. It was anathema to her blood.
She pressed her thumb against the sharp point. Hard.
A single, bright drop of iridescent blood welled up. The pain was sharp, hot, and electric. It cut through the numbness of the powder, the corset, and the fear.
'I am still in here,' she thought, watching the red drop fall onto the rug, instantly absorbed by the dark fibers. 'I am not a doll.'
"Your Grace?" Lira called from the door, impatient.
Aeliana hid her hand in the folds of her dress. She turned, her face a mask of serene, terrifying beauty.
"I am ready."
[The Lower Dungeons]
The air down here didn't move. It sat heavy and stagnant, smelling of rust, wet stone, and the ammonia of old fear.
Beastmaster Gorm walked down the corridor, his heavy boots echoing on the damp flags. He spit a wad of tobacco to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of a scarred hand.
"Wake him up," Gorm grunted to the two guards stationed by the heavy iron door.
The guards hesitated. They were big men, outfitted in full plate, carrying electrified spears. But they looked at the door as if it were holding back a flood.
"He ain't asleep, sir," one guard muttered, shifting his grip on his spear. "He don't sleep. He just... stares."
"I don't pay you to be scared," Gorm growled. "Open it. The King wants him angry for the show."
The guard swallowed, unlocked the three heavy deadbolts, and shoved the door open.
Gorm stepped in, raising his torch.
The cell was a black pit. In the center, chained to the floor by links thick enough to hold a dragon, knelt a shadow.
He was massive. Even huddled on his knees, the breadth of his shoulders was unnatural. He was stripped bare, his skin a roadmap of violence—old white scars crossing with angry red brands.
Around his neck was the Collar. A slab of black iron, etched with binding runes, pulsing with a faint, oppressive heat.
"Up," Gorm barked.
The figure didn't move. His head hung low, a mane of matted black hair obscuring his face.
"I said get up, you bastard!" Gorm swung his baton, cracking it against the prisoner's ribs.
The prisoner didn't flinch. He didn't make a sound.
But slowly, the head raised.
Gorm felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He had broken lions, bears, and men. But he had never seen eyes like this.
Amber. Liquid gold. With pupils that were vertical slits.
They weren't looking at Gorm. They were looking through him.
"Save your energy," Gorm sneered, stepping back to a safe distance. "You're going to need it. The King has lined up ten men for you to kill. He's taking bets on how long you last."
The prisoner remained silent. His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic cadence. He seemed to be listening to something far away—a sound, or perhaps a vibration in the stone.
Then, his nostrils flared.
He inhaled. A long, deep breath that seemed to taste the air.
Through the stench of the dungeon, through the mold and the sweat, a thin thread of scent drifted down from the ventilation shafts high above.
Lilac. Rain. And... blood.
Fae blood.
The prisoner's hands clenched. The chains rattled, the iron groaning under the sudden tension. The runes on his chest flared a brighter red, reacting to the spike in his heart rate.
"Oh, you smell the meat?" Gorm laughed, mistaking the reaction. "Yeah, they're feasting upstairs. And you're the main course."
Gorm turned to the guards.
"Chain him up for transport. Short leash. If he tries to bite, shock him until he smokes."
Gorm walked out, slamming the door.
Inside the dark, Kaelen didn't move. He ignored the pain of the brands. He ignored the hunger gnawing at his belly.
He focused entirely on that scent. It was terrified. It was angry. And it was calling to the Wolf in his blood like a beacon in a storm.