For a long, breathless minute, Jasmine stood exactly where Master Dain had left her, her arms wrapped so tightly around her ribs that her fingernails dug into the thin blue silk of the gown he had forced upon her.
She was alone. Truly, terrifyingly alone.
The room at the top of the spire was a masterclass in elegant claustrophobia. It was circular, perhaps twelve feet across, with walls of slick stone that seemed to drink the meager light provided by two flickering violet torches. There were no corners for her to hide in, no shadows deep enough to mask her small, trembling frame. The furniture was sparse and mocking: a low bed draped in the heavy, dark furs of some unidentifiable creature; a small, tripod table; and a stone basin filled with water that sat as still as a sheet of glass.
Jasmine's breath came in ragged, shallow hitches. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those burning red orbs, Master Dain's eyes. She felt the phantom pressure of his hand on her arm, the bruising strength that reminded her, with every second, that she was not a guest, but a prize. A pet. A "distraction" that the Devil himself had promised to kill.
"Grandma" she whispered, the word catching in her dry throat.
She tried to conjure the scent of the lavender patch, the hum of the honeybees, the safety of the cottage porch. But the memory felt thin, like an old photograph left in the sun. The sensory reality of Asphodel was too aggressive to ignore. The air here didn't just sit; it pressed. it tasted of ozone and old, cold iron.
She forced her feet to move, her bare soles silent on the floor. She stepped toward the window, hoping, praying for a glimpse of a moon, a star, anything familiar. But the window was shuttered with thick iron slats. When she reached out to touch them, a sharp, static sting bit into her fingertips. She gasped, pulling her hand back.
It wasn't just iron. It was a boundary.
"Help me," she whispered to the empty room. "Someone, please."
The room did not answer.
She retreated to the bed, sinking onto the edge. The furs were soft, unnervingly so, and they smelled faintly of the woods after a fire and of him. The scent sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through her. She scrambled off the bed, choosing instead to sit on the cold floor, her back against the door. If he came back, she wanted to know the second the door moved.
Hours bled into a seamless grey void. Without the sun, Jasmine had no way to measure time. She watched the torches, waiting for them to burn down, but they remained constant, their flames never flickering, never shortening.
A sudden snick made her jump so violently she hit her head against the door.
At the base of the stone, a small rectangular slot slid open. A tray was pushed through, sliding across the floor with a dry rasp. On it sat a chalice of water and a bowl containing three fruits that looked like oversized plums, though their skins were a deep, iridescent copper.
Jasmine stared at the food as if it were a coiled viper.
"If anyone touches her, they answer to you," Dain had said.
"I will have her killed myself," the Devil had countered.
Was this the Devil's move? A drop of something tasteless in the water? A slow-acting venom in the fruit? Her stomach cramped, a sharp, physical reminder that she hadn't eaten since the garden. Since the world ended.
She reached for the chalice, her hand shaking so badly the water slopped over the rim. She didn't drink. She set it back down and crawled to the far side of the room, near the basin.
"I won't eat it," she told the walls. "I won't."
"Eat, little bird," a voice breathed.
Jasmine froze. The voice hadn't come from the door. It hadn't come from the window. it had come from the stone behind her head. It was a woman's voice, smooth, melodic, and layered with a cruelty that made the hair on Jasmine's neck stand up.
"Who's there?" Jasmine scrambled to her feet, spinning around.
The room was empty.
"The Prince is at the border," the voice continued, drifting now from the ceiling. "Spilling blood to prove he is still a man. Do you think he thinks of you while he's gutting his enemies? Or do you think he's already forgotten the color of your eyes?"
"Stop it," Jasmine cried, covering her ears. "Where are you?"
"I am in the marrow of this place," the voice laughed a sound like breaking glass. "I am Sephira, and I have watched a thousand mortals like you wither in this very room. They always start the same. They cry for their mothers. They pray to gods who cannot hear them in the Rift. And then, they get hungry."
"Master Dain said no one would hurt me," Jasmine shouted, her voice breaking.
"Master Dain lies to himself more than he lies to you. He calls you 'mine' to spite his father, not to save you. You are a shield, Jasmine. A way for a son to wound a king. And when the shield is dented, it is thrown away."
The voice faded into a low, mocking hum that merged with the heartbeat of the fortress. Jasmine sank back to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. She pressed her face into her lap, trying to drown out the silence that was now heavier than the whispers.
She stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. The cold of the floor seeped into her joints, and the darkness behind her eyelids was filled with images of Sephira's golden eyes and the Devil's cold, absolute face.
Eventually, the hunger became a roar she couldn't ignore. Her head throbbed, and her vision began to swim with dark spots. She looked at the copper fruit on the tray. It seemed to glow in the violet light.
If I die, I die, she thought. At least the nightmare ends.
She crawled to the tray and picked up the fruit. It was heavy and warm, like a stone left in the sun. As she bit into it, a flavor exploded across her tongue: honey and cinnamon.
The effect was instantaneous. A surge of warmth raced through her veins, chasing away the chill that had settled in her bones. The terror that had kept her heart racing for days didn't disappear, but it blunted, turning into a dull, manageable ache. Her mind cleared. The whispers in the walls became nothing more than the sound of the wind.
She ate all three fruits, her fingers sticky with coppery juice. She drank the water, which tasted of mountain minerals.
Strength returned to her limbs, but with it came a new kind of fear. If this food was magic, if it was his magic, what was it doing to her? Was it tethering her to this place? Was it making her like them?
She walked to the basin to wash her hands. As she leaned over the water, she saw her reflection. The bruises on her throat were already fading, the skin turning a pale, healthy cream. But it was her eyes that frightened her. In the violet light, they seemed wider, the pupils dilated, catching the torchlight in a way that looked almost… predatory.
She backed away from the basin, tripping over her own feet.
"I want to go home," she sobbed, the words muffled by the furs as she finally collapsed onto the bed. "Please, let me go home."
The furs seemed to curl around her, drawing her in. The scent of woodsmoke and Master Dain wrapped around her like a shroud. She hated it. She hated him for taking her, hated him for "protecting" her, and hated the way her body seemed to crave the warmth of the fruit.
She fell into a heavy, drug like sleep.
She dreamed of the garden, but it was changed. The lavender was black, and the sun was a red eye in a violet sky. She was running, her feet sinking into the soil, and behind her came the sound of heavy boots.
"Scream," a voice urged in her dream. "Scream and he will hear you."
But in the dream, as in life, her throat was tight with a terror that had no sound.
She woke up in total darkness. The torches had finally gone out, or perhaps they had been extinguished. The room was freezing.
And then, she heard it.
The slide of stone.
Jasmine bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She couldn't see anything, but she felt the change in the air. The scent of ozone and copper grew stronger. The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots approached the bed.
She scrambled toward the headboard, her hands searching for a weapon, finding only the soft, mocking furs.
"Don't touch me," she rasped into the dark. "Please, don't touch me."
A hand closed around her ankle. The grip was cold, gauntleted, and absolute.
"Quiet," a voice growled.
Master Dain.
He didn't sound like a savior. He sounded like a man who had just walked out of a slaughterhouse. Even in the dark, she could sense the violence radiating off him, a tangible heat that scorched the cold air of the room.
He pulled her toward the end of the bed. She kicked out, her heel catching the edge of his breastplate with a dull clank. He didn't even flinch. He reached up, his hand finding her waist and hoisting her into the air as if she were made of straw.
"I said quiet," he snapped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against her ear. "The border has fallen. My father's hounds are already on the stairs. If you want to live, you will stop fighting me and do exactly as I say."
He didn't wait for her to agree. He threw his heavy cloak over her, swaddling her in the scent of blood and winter, and strode toward the door.
Jasmine pressed her face against the cold metal of his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut. She was terrified of the men on the stairs, terrified of the Devil, but as Master Dain's arms tightened around her, she realized the thing she feared most was the man holding her.
He hadn't come to save her. He had come to reclaim his property.