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“Why do I have to be your slave, then?” She pointed to Endreth, her tone clipped. “I’d rather be his.” She turned her accusing gaze toward Aegonar. It was an impromptu decision made in the heat of the moment, but it served its purpose. She was able to witness their reactions, their façades cracking just enough to give her an insight into their emotions.
Endreth stiffened at her words, the barest flicker of surprise flashing across his face.
Aegonar, however, chuckled lightly, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I am flattered, human,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “But I am afraid it is not that simple.”
Endreth seemed to recover from his initial surprise, his ocean gaze remained on her, intense and unreadable. “Aegonar is the heir of the court,” he explained. “The expectations on him are higher, his role more scrutinized. A human slave would be inappropriate, not befitting his status.”
She forced a smile onto her face. “Well then, aren’t I lucky?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “How fortunate to be the right kind of accessory for you, Prince Endreth.”
“You will learn to keep your tongue in check.” All amusement was gone from the older prince’s face.
Anthea was about to retort when?—
“Extend your arm.” Endreth stepped closer, stretching out his own.
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“We need to seal our bargain. It is the way of things here.”
Anthea hesitated for just a second, but not seeing any way out of it, she placed her hand in Endreth’s much larger, cooler one. She didn’t want to do it, but she had no choice, not at the moment at least.
Aegonar’s voice filled the silence as he began to chant. His tone was eerily serene, the rhythmic hum of his words felt like the calm before a storm. Strange symbols were snaking their way up Endreth’s arm. Anthea’s hand trembled slightly as the markings crawled closer, their orange glow casting eerie shadows on her skin. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they stopped, their glow dimming as if meeting an insurmountable barrier. Her heart leapt in her chest, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.
“W-what?” Anthea stammered, pulling her hand back and examining her arm. The skin was untouched, stark and normal in the morning light. “What just happened?”
Endreth seemed to contemplate her question, his eyes never leaving her arm. “It appears you are not only resistant to our magic but immune to it,” he said, his voice filled with a sense of wonder.
“Your compliance will be . . . challenging without a magical pact,” Aegonar said, his tone thoughtful. “Nevertheless, we will continue accordingly. We will ensure your safety, Anthea.”
5
Her transfer from the cell to her new home had been quick and unceremonious. Endreth had escorted her, his grip firm but not unkind on her upper arm. His silence had been a brooding presence between them as they had navigated the white stone corridors of the Crimson castle. It was only when they had reached her new room at the servants’ quarters that he had spoken again, repeating their earlier conversation.
“You are my slave,” he said. “Keep your head down, your eyes lowered, and do as you are told!”
Endreth left her then, with a final note of her imminent meeting with the head servant—an elf named Miriel.
Anthea took a seat on the single chair in this small room. Ari and Treia would already be awake—surely, they had noticed her absence. She had forgotten to tell Treia she had ordered groceries to be delivered today—would someone be home? Would they get them? She traced the worn wooden surface of the small table, her fingers picking on a scratch. Maybe she had hit her head on the pavement. Maybe she would wake up in a hospital.
The room was small. It had the same white stone walls as the rest of the castle. Her eyes drifted to the single bed occupying a corner. It had a dark wooden frame with sheets made of simple but clean-looking linen. She leaned forward, placing her forehead on the wooden table. What had she gotten herself into? Agreeing to their terms, playing a slave?—
It was the only way to get out of that cell.
She had to get out of that cell.
A knock on the door stopped her thoughts, followed by the entrance of a tall, delicate-featured elf.
“Good day,” she looked at Anthea from head to toe. “I am Miriel, the head servant of the Crimson household. I have been instructed to provide you with your clothes. And your . . . daytime duties.” Miriel pursed her lips on the last words.
“I’m Anthea.” She got up from the chair and extended her hand. Miriel merely glanced at it and turned away.
“Follow me!”
Anthea felt the curious, wary eyes of the other servants boring into her as she entered the communal eating area. She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself as she followed the head servant.
Two large weathered wooden tables ran the length of the room, surrounded by matching wooden chairs. The tantalizing aroma of unknown spices and flavors permeated the air, making her stomach churn with unease. It seemed it was breakfast time.
“Come now! Do not dally.” Miriel stood a couple of steps ahead of her.
