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The murmur of voices hushed to a sudden stillness as the Crimson king made his way to the banquet table, High King Taranath in tow.
“My dear guests.” Endoral raised a crystal goblet high, its contents gleaming like liquid rubies. “Welcome to the Crimson court. It is our honor to host High King Taranath here, in celebration of Night and Life.” Endoral gaze swept over the attentive crowd. “Tonight, we celebrate the coming of spring,” he continued with a well-practiced ease. “Tonight, we celebrate new beginnings and new opportunities.” His eyes, a piercing shade of blue, gleamed as he scanned the crowd, acknowledging the elven lords and ladies, kings and princes of Isluma gathered in the grand hall. He turned his attention toward the High King. “Vesilethia is a time of celebration of life. A time where darkness is left behind.” He turned his gray-streaked red head toward the crowd again. “You may have already noticed a new addition to our court.”
Anthea’s breath caught in her throat, her body tensing as though bracing for a blow. All around her, she felt the weight of eyes, the prickling sensation of curiosity and scrutiny. She didn’t dare raise her bowed head?—
Then, a cruel grip of fingers in her hair yanked her head upward, forcing her face into the light of the shimmering orbs. It was Endreth, his expression devoid of empathy—the prince from the evening testing sessions was gone, instead he was replaced by a cold, cruel male—a male, who took pride in owning a slave.
“The long millenniums of the Crimson court not having human slaves are over,” King Endoral declared, his voice ringing with finality. “To new beginnings,” he toasted, his goblet raised high.
The room erupted into a chorus of agreement, glasses clinking, voices raised in mirth and celebration.
Anthea felt exposed, an object on display for the amusement of others. Her eyes stung—she hated it, but she willed herself to remain still, she willed herself to play the part of an obedient slave. As soon as Endreth released her, she lowered her head, staring at the ground again.
Soon, the guests took their seats around the grand table, the anticipation in the room morphed into an undercurrent of excited chatter and the clinking of cutlery. Endreth seated himself directly before her, adjacent to Endoral. She could see the fine details of his elaborate attire, the silver threads of his white tunic glimmering under the lights of the banquet hall.
Aegonar, who had taken a seat on the other side of his father, had chosen a dark blue tunic with golden adornments. He addressed the High King of Obsidian. “Taranath, where is the esteemed Lady Yelaria? We were looking forward to her company.”
A male elf, clad in a darker shade of obsidian robe, spoke in place of the High King, a soft chuckle underlining his words. “My mother prefers the comfort of the Golden City. You know how females can be, Aegonar, choosing the quiet of their chambers over the buzz of a court.” Anthea could only assume him to be Taranath’s son, prince Althar, the resemblance was obvious—long dark raven hair, sharp angled face, obsidian tunic, similarly adorned with golden threads and clasps as the High King’s.
“Finally, the Crimson court has seen the benefit of owning slaves?—”
Her eyes fell on the male who had spoken. Purple stones adorned his golden crown—the patriarch of the Cattleya court.
Icarion’s golden eyes roamed over her as he patted Endreth on his shoulder. The slight sneer on his face only added to her growing discomfort. He seemed to relish the unease he was causing her, his eyes lingering on her a moment too long before he settled into his seat.
Anthea swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the fabric of her dress. This was going to be a long night.
With the feast in full swing, the sound of clattering silverware, melodious laughter, and a myriad of conversations filled the banquet hall. She remained on the pillow, her knees beginning to ache from the unforgiving stone beneath the plush fabric. As much as she wanted to adjust her position, she stayed in place, her hands clenched in her lap, head bowed—just like a slave would do.
“How fares Synthia? I had hoped to see her here tonight.”
The eldest Nephrite court’s prince’s icy eyes flickered across the table to Althar, a hint of a protective edge in his voice as he answered. “Synthia is well, but my sister is young—her time is best served under the guidance of her tutors. Perhaps when she is older, you will have the opportunity to see her.” The Nephrite heir, Vaelor, took a sip of dark red wine from his crystal goblet.
A silvery ripple of laughter cut through the steady hum of conversation, drawing Anthea’s attention toward a female elf seated next to Vaelor. Her golden-brown hair, cascading down in a waterfall of curls, gleamed in the silver light. “Synthia will turn into an old maid before she even gets to live if her brothers continue to coddle her so.” The elven female placed her hand on Vaelor’s silver covered shoulder, directing her golden gaze toward Aegonar, a teasing smile gracing her rosy lips. “There is so much to learn, so much to see, and so many charming people to meet at the moon festivals. I am sure her tutoring wouldn’t suffer from occasional festivities.” She lowered her hand, trailing her fingers on the Nephrite heir’s arm. “Synthia is of age—has been for twenty years now.” Her gaze had found Althar as she completed her sentence. A spark of something Anthea couldn’t quite read flickered in her eyes.
“Now, now, Vanda, do not tease.” Icarion’s voice, rich and smooth, addressed the female. “We all know how protective the Nephrite court can be of their females.” He took a sip from his goblet, his head turning to the High King as he set it back on the table. “But is it not for the best? When they finally let go, our prince here will be receiving untouched goods. Well . . . assuming of course that young Synthia won’t follow her late aunt’s footsteps.”
Laughter rippled through the guests at the table—a sound that scraped against Anthea’s nerves.
Taranath’s voice, filled with sudden malice, silenced the laughter that still lingered. “We understand,” he said, his gaze steady as it moved from Vaelor to the younger Nephrite prince, Elodir. “The girl is young. But tell your father, Galodir, we have been patient.” The High King’s next words were spoken clearly, each syllable crisp and distinct. “A year should be enough for her tutoring.”
Vaelor’s smile was tight as he raised his goblet in response to the High King’s words. “We will deliver your message, High King Taranath.”
As the feast drew to a close, Endreth took Anthea by the chain again, and led her to a private lounge. A small party of Crimson, Obsidian, Iron, Cattleya and Nephrite courts’ elven lords gathered there for a more intimate discussion. The room was bathed in the soft, mellow glow of a dozen lanterns that hung from the ceiling, casting long, dramatic shadows on the rich blue velvet curtains and tapestries depicting various sea creatures adorning the walls. Comfortable, deep-cushioned lounges were scattered around a central low table, the surface of which was filled with an array of crystal goblets brimming with the sweet, potent elven wine.
Endreth, lounging with an air of casual confidence, tugged lightly on the chain connecting him to Anthea, directing her to sit on his lap. His touch was possessive, even slightly cruel in its nonchalance—she bore it stoically, leaning into it when he tugged her closer as he idly stroked her hair.
Just as they had practiced.
She rested her head against his chest, playing the docile pet. It was easier than the day before, his touch more familiar.
“The rebellion has grown louder.” Taranath leaned back on a central armchair, his obsidian eyes gleaming in the soft light. “These humans, they refuse to accept their place. An uprising, if left unchecked, could lead to chaos.”
Anthea forced herself not to react. There were humans in Isluma who weren’t shackled; there were humans who dared to retaliate. An unwelcome feeling of shame washed over her for swallowing the narrative she’d been fed so gullibly. Endreth had led her to believe all humans were slaves?—
“It is true. A month ago, the Iron patrol found another human settlement on our borders. We eradicated it, but they seem to spring up quicker than we can extinguish them,” a younger-looking elven male declared. His voice carried an unsettling icy malice. Anthea peaked at the elf leaning against a tapestry covered wall from underneath her lashes. He looked out of place in the midst of these lavishly attired elven royals: copper brown hair meticulously braided into one lengthy strand, the sides of his head shaven. He donned a simple dark blue tunic, reminiscent of a soldier rather than a courtier. He continued, crossing his arms over his chest, “The borders of the Iron court are infested with them.” His remaining green eye settled on Anthea, the weight of his stare heavy with undisguised animosity. One half of his face was marred by scars that distorted his once handsome features. Where an eye had once been, an artfully crafted copper prosthetic now rested, gleaming under the ambient light. “While the other courts lounge in their palaces, sipping on their sweet wines, the Iron court has been on the front lines, dealing with these pests.”
“Euthylion is right. They proliferate like rats, hiding in the darkest corners of our lands, recruiting more of their kind to join their cause, and some of our kind,” Taranath’s eyes locked onto Endoral, a silent command impossible to miss. “The Azure court may choose to hide behind their walls, to hide from this . . . affront against the peace in Isluma, but we cannot. The Crimson court must stand with us. We must end this insolence before it becomes a disease that spreads.”
