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7
Continuing to position herself near Alyra during their evening meals, Anthea listened with great interest as the elf described the grand ballroom with its tall, ornate ceilings painted with scenes from Isluma’s history, or the murals depicting sea voyages that adorned the castle’s main corridor.
“And you haven’t seen the music room, have you?” Alyra asked, her voice brimming with excitement, eyes gleaming. “The instruments, some from lands far and unknown, are a sight to behold.”
“It all sounds lovely.”
“Why doesn’t Prince Endreth let you explore the other rooms?” The elf tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes studying Anthea.
“I believe the prince . . . he prefers to keep me close, for himself,” Anthea said, opting for a half-truth.
Alyra leaned in, her voice dropping a notch. “You must really have a certain charm, dear Anthea,” she purred, her gaze playful yet penetrating. “He just cannot seem to get enough of you,” she added, causing Anthea’s cheeks to flush with embarrassment. Alyra was quick to pick up on her discomfort. “I just meant that he summons you every evening. It’s the talk of the servants.”
The rumors, the whispers—Anthea could only imagine what they were saying, what they were thinking the prince’s personal slave did every night at his quarters.
“Is that why the others don’t speak to me?” She glanced at the three elven servants eating at the other table, her fingers idly drawing patterns on the wooden surface.
“You must understand. Elves, especially those here, they . . . they take time to adjust to change, to things, or people unfamiliar to them.” Alyra paused, waiting until Anthea met her eyes. “Your presence here is . . . unique. Unprecedented. And that can be unsettling for some.”
Anthea felt a small pang in her chest. This made her task of befriending them even harder.
“Give them time,” Alyra continued. “And space. Let them come to you. It will get easier.”
“Thank you.” She appreciated Alyra’s honesty, and the kindness with which she delivered it.
“What was your life like before?” the elf lowered her voice to a soft whisper against the clattering of dishes and low hum of other conversations. Anthea was caught off guard—again. Her mind was swirling with the memories of her past that she could never share.
“I . . .” she started, her voice barely audible. “I’ve seen a lot of pain, lost a lot of people. That’s all I want to say about my past.”
Alyra regarded her for a moment. Then, she reached across the small space between them, her warm hand covering Anthea’s. “I understand.” Her thumb was gently brushing over her knuckles. “We all carry burdens.”
A chill crept up her spine as Aegonar stepped forth, his hands shrouded in a swirling maelstrom of blood-red magic. The spells the elven princes had tested on her for the past week were unlike anything she had experienced here before. Each new spell Endreth had cast on her seemed to drain him. But it hadn’t been just his exhaustion that had been disconcerting—it was the intensity in his eyes, the ferocious determination that radiated from him. Anthea had asked about the effects of those spells—the ones that left Endreth panting with exertion. He’d only said it was better for her not to know.
But it was worse when Aegonar was the one testing her—it seemed he was determined to push her to her limits, determined to see the end of her immunity. She had not been happy to see him today. It didn’t help that he seemed to be in a terrible mood.
Then, the scarlet magic flew at her, and a harsh vibration rattled against her skin—a terrifying sensation that left a ringing echo in her ears.
“What . . . what was that supposed to do?” Anthea had grasped the table behind her with the unexpected impact.
Aegonar only shook his head dismissively. “You should not concern your simple mind with it,” he drawled.
“I want to know!” She felt the collective gazes of the princes upon her, their disdainful eyes taking her in. “I felt it. I felt it more than any other spell you’ve thrown at me.”
“It would have melted your skin off your bones.” Endreth shifted his weight, leaning against one of the large wooden bookcases as he studied her. “How exactly did you feel it?”
“Like . . . like a burning wave crashing against me,” she began, her mouth suddenly dry. “Vibrations. Tremors. But it was more intense this time. Almost like it was trying to break through something,” she finished, wringing her hands together in an attempt to still their trembling.
“Trying to break through?” Aegonar echoed, his expression no longer one of annoyance but of a predatory interest. “Let us try again,” he stated, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He raised his hand once more, the ominous crimson glow of his magic encasing his fingers. “A little harder this time, let’s see if we can get it to break through?—”
“No!” Anthea cried, her legs sprung into action before her mind had caught up, placing herself behind the room’s large table, putting it firmly between herself and the two elven princes. Her hands gripped the edge of the heavy wooden surface, knuckles whitening. “You promised!” she shouted. “You promised me safety!” The mere thought of her skin melting off her bones made her want to retch.
The smirk on Aegonar’s face only grew at her display of terror. His fingers twitched, his magic still swirling around his hand like a mini vortex of impending doom.
She screamed, throwing up her arms to shield her face as the blast came in a searing rush of air and power, the red mist enveloping her in its ferocious intensity. The heat of the magic brushed against her hands—an oven-like intensity that felt like it would singe her skin off. But when the magic had dispersed and she dared to lower her arms, her skin was still intact. A whimper, then another escaped her lips as she surveyed her hands—a warm rosy color marked where the spell had made contact. The realization of what could have been sent a fresh wave of terror, and anger, coursing through her veins.
“You’re fucking insane!” she cried, a barely controlled scream as she grabbed the first thing her hand landed on—a black ceramic inkpot holding a quill—and hurled it at the Crimson heir, the ink spattering mid-air in a messy arc of black before it crashed against his chest. The quill followed in its wake, bouncing off harmlessly.
A dark, dangerous, beastly snarl slipped from Aegonar’s lips, “Watch your tongue, human. Remember who you are talking to. I am the heir to this court.”
