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“It’s . . . it’s nothing,” she lied, offering him a strained smile. Anthea straightened in her chair, forcing her face to relax and her posture to return to normal. “I must’ve pulled a muscle during those chores with Miriel.”
Endreth’s gaze lingered on her for a few more seconds, his eyes searching her face for any signs of dishonesty. Eventually, he nodded, returning to the objects laid out on the table.
She glanced at the next artifact, a beautifully crafted dagger with inscriptions running along the blade. Trying to shake off the pain, she reached out to grab it. Another cramp, sharper and more brutal, radiating all the way to her left knee, made her breath hitch in her throat. Her fingers closed around the ornate handle. She bit back a moan. It had been a while since her cramps were this bad?—
Birth control—ever since she got here, she hadn’t taken her birth control.
Anthea hated this world with new vengeance.
Aegonar’s sharp gaze flickered toward her, his eyes sparking with interest. “That object—does it affect you?” nodding at the dagger she was clutching tightly.
“No!” she gritted out through clenched teeth, setting the dagger back onto the table with more force than necessary. “No, it does not.”
Endreth raised an eyebrow at her curt response but didn’t comment. Instead, he moved to pick up another artifact, a crystal pendant pulsing with a soft blue light. She found herself resenting these experiments, resenting the detachment with which the princes handled her, and most of all, resenting the control they held over her—emotions that had been simmering under the surface for weeks now flared within her.
“I think we’re done for today.” Anthea rose from her chair, her spine rigid with determination.
Aegonar’s eyes narrowed. “You do not decide when we are done.”
“We have yet to test the ring of Harduil,” Endreth reminded her.
Her pain was getting worse, each wave stronger than the last, sending rivulets of cold sweat trickling down her back.
“I don’t care about the ring—I said we’re done,” she gritted out, her fingers clenching the back of her chair with white-knuckled intensity.
“Are you in pain?” Endreth’s eyes were narrowed. Anthea saw the younger prince’s nostrils flare—Their damn sense of smell. She saw the dawning realization in his eyes, the pieces clicking into place. But she would rather chew glass than admit it out loud to him.
“I’m fine,” she shot back, the words escaping with more venom than she had intended. “I just . . . I need a break, My Prince.”
Aegonar and Endreth shared a glance, their eyes locking in an unspoken communication. As Endreth’s gaze fell back on her, she was caught off guard by the softness there.
“Do you need a healer?” His voice was as soft as his gaze.
“No,” she responded firmly, shaking her head with determination. The pulsing pain in her lower abdomen was momentarily forgotten in the face of the elven prince’s concern. The very last thing she wanted was for him to think she was weak.
“But—” Endreth began, only to be cut off by her sharp voice.
“I said no, My Prince. I just need . . . a break.”
“You are in our care,” Aegonar said, green eyes holding a spark of irritation. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled in front of him. “It is our duty to ensure your well being. You will not dictate?—”
“I am not dictating anything.” Anthea’s breath hitched as another wave of pain washed over her, but she remained upright, refusing to give in. “I know my body better than anyone, and I say I need a break.”
Aegonar opened his mouth, ready to continue, but a small gesture from Endreth silenced him. The younger prince looked at her.
“Very well, take your break, Anthea. We will continue this tomorrow.”
She nodded in response, struggling to keep her expression neutral.
The pain ebbed and flowed like a malicious tide, but the sense of relief coursing through her was a stronger sensation. She had successfully escaped the scrutiny of the princes, at least for the time being.
Upon reaching the servants’ quarters, Anthea knocked lightly on the door of Alyra’s room and entered. It was the first time she had seen the inside of her quarters, and she was surprised by how much it differed from her own.
The elf’s room was filled with bookcases that held a plethora of scrolls and trinkets. A desk was situated in the corner, a sheet of parchment and quill laid out neatly on its surface. The elf herself was seated by the desk, her long, white hair cascading over her shoulder as she hunched over, engrossed in whatever she was writing.
She looked up at the sound of Anthea clearing her throat, her pale blue eyes widening in surprise as they met hers. “Anthea,” she said, concern lacing her voice as she took in Anthea’s pale face and strained expression. She quickly pushed aside the parchment she had been working on, hiding it from view.
“I . . .” Anthea began, her voice raspy. She swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat. “I need something to help with bleeding.”
