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Anthea felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t Alyra’s fault she felt so out of place here; she had no right to direct her anger toward her. Alyra was her only friend in this place. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, steadying breath. When she opened them again, she offered a weary smile. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
The elven maiden’s expression softened at her apology.
“Do elves celebrate birthdays here in Isluma?” Anthea asked, trying to change the subject and steer their conversation toward something that might, perhaps, still give her the information she was seeking.
The elf blinked, once, then twice, before a soft smile graced her lips and her eyes sparkled with what could only be described as amusement. “Yes, we do. It’s a significant day, marking another year of survival and prosperity.”
Anthea hummed, nodding as she took a sip from her glass. “When’s your birthday?”
“It’s on the 29th day of the Month of Zuriëlth. I’ll be turning 296 this year. Why the sudden interest in birthdays, Anthea?”
“Just curious.”
Anthea nearly choked on her drink when Alyra, amusement twinkling in her eyes, asked about her own birthday. How could she explain? She didn’t know the Isluma equivalent of September, or even if such a correlation existed. She didn’t know if they had 365 days in a year, or even how many days they considered to be in a month. With a forced smile, she said, “Well, I’ll be turning 31 . . . sometime next year,” hoping her deliberately vague answer would suffice.
The elf burst into hearty laughter. “31? You’re still a baby by our standards!”
“I suppose that’s true,” Anthea replied, her mind racing. Leaning forward, she began casually, “So, being 295 means you were born around . . .” She let her voice trail off, inviting the elf to fill in the gaps.
Alyra’s eyes narrowed slightly as she considered Anthea’s words, her fork pausing mid-air as she thought about it. “You’re right. I was born just after the second rebellion.”
A year, Anthea just wanted a year. And now, a new term to grapple with—the second rebellion? Who rebelled? Why? She pushed the questions aside, focusing on keeping her face neutral, her frustration hidden. Contemplating asking outright for the year, her fingers twitched with impatience as she looked at Alyra, her mind urging her to just ask. But something made her hesitate. There was something in those pale blue depths, something that gave her pause. A knowing look, as if she knew what Anthea wanted, and didn’t give it on purpose. Her answers were just a bit too . . . evasive, deliberate. Anthea couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was enough to make her hold back. Instead she asked about her last birthday, eyes remaining fixed on Alyra. As the elf started to tell her about the elven celebration of birthdays, Anthea’s mind was elsewhere. Yes, she hadn't been entirely truthful with her new friend either. Her secret—her true identity and origin—was a necessary deception. But now, looking at the elf, she started to wonder if Alyra had been honest with her. She didn’t know—couldn’t be sure, and that uncertainty gnawed at her. Her gaze narrowed slightly as she studied the elf's face. Alyra's laughter rang out, bright and genuine, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she recounted a humorous story. But Anthea was only half listening, half her focus was on picking apart their previous conversation, dissecting every word, every expression, every glance.
The room buzzed with the chatter of the other servants, the clatter of dishes and the hum of activity.
Was she overthinking this? Anthea’s hand clenched around her fork, her appetite forgotten. She forced herself to smile, to nod at Alyra’s story, to engage in the conversation?—
How had she ended up here, in this castle for almost two months, with only Endreth, Aegonar, and Alyra for company? Why were no other elven servants willing to look past her being a human slave? Only Alyra had shown her any real kindness. Was she really this kind, or was there something else at play? The elf had told her in the beginning to give the others time, to let them come to her. Had that been purposeful? Her thoughts drifted to Aegonar and Endreth. The mere idea of seeking help from either prince left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was probably in their best interest to keep her as ignorant as possible, to keep her isolated.
To keep her isolated.
What better way to achieve that than by instructing the servants to avoid her, all except one—one whose purpose was to keep an eye on her?
The things she had told Alyra . . .
Was she overthinking this?
Her lips curved into a brittle smile as she listened to Alyra’s tale: another beautifully woven story. She really knew had to tell stories.
Anthea glanced down at her half-eaten meal, the food looking less appealing with each passing moment. A dull ache formed in her chest. She was in a world where she knew nothing and nobody, depending on individuals whose motives were as mysterious as the strange land they lived in.
She couldn’t trust any of them—not really.
She couldn’t trust anyone here.
Suddenly aware of Alyra’s expectant gaze, Anthea blinked.
“Anthea, are you . . . are you alright?”
“I . . . I think I need some air,” she said as she got up and made her way toward her room, not looking back, not caring if her exit had been abrupt.
Once inside, Anthea slid down the door, pulling her knees to her chest. The cold stone of the castle seemed to seep through the wooden door, chilling her. Her room felt like a prison cell. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she buried her face in her knees.
She wanted to go home.
15
The following days were a blur of tear-stained sheets and long hours of solitude. Anthea’s thoughts revolved around her sisters back home. She envisioned their worried faces—their fear as the months passed without a trace of her. They probably thought she was dead. The thought of them mourning her sent fresh waves of sorrow coursing through her veins. Were they okay? Would they manage to keep the house? Did Ari get the job? She had so many questions, and no answers.
