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In the oppressive silence of her cell, Anthea was left with nothing but her thoughts for company?—
The journey had been long, the horse’s steady trot pounding through her tired body. She had never been on a horse for that long, Treia had always been the one to enjoy such things—so, she had gritted her teeth against the discomfort and tried to keep her back straight, but the strain had proven too much. Anthea wished she had been stronger, but her body had begun to slump, and pretending to fall asleep, she had leaned into Eldrion’s solid chest. His arm had snaked around her waist, holding her up.
She hated how relieved she had felt for that small measure of comfort. Hated she had fallen asleep in his arms—but he had been warm, and she had been exhausted.
When they had finally reached the fortress, she had been unceremoniously pulled from the horse, her legs almost buckling beneath her. Eldrion had brought her to this dark, cold cell. Before leaving he asked for his cloak back. She hadn’t wanted to part with the only warmth she had, but she had handed it over, knowing she had no choice.
Eldrion’s final words echoed in her ears. “You should really think about your options.”
The chill of the stone cell seeped into her bones, her dress offering little protection from the damp cold. She curled up on the floor, trying to retain what little warmth she had left. Her mind played through all the possible outcomes. Her mouth felt dry from thirst, and her stomach ached with emptiness—no food nor water had been given to her the whole day?—
Anthea knew she needed to craft a plausible story that would explain her actions and her strange resistance to magic. Eldrion had witnessed her in action, so there was no denying it, but she could perhaps bend the truth about the rest.
So she spent her hours coming up with a story that was plausible yet innocuous enough not to rouse suspicions. She would tell them that she was born a slave, raised and worked in the household of elven merchants. She was always aboard the ship as they sailed along the eastern coast, trading wares. During one such journey, a fierce storm had wrecked their ship, causing her to wash ashore alone and afraid. The soldiers of the Crimson court had found her and took her back to their castle. Once there, a healer, in the process of healing her injuries, discovered her immunity to magic. Seeing this as something of a curiosity, they assigned her to Endreth as his personal slave.
Anthea committed her story to memory, repeating it to herself over and over until it was as familiar as her own name.
The sudden intrusion of light was brutal and harsh. Anthea winced, hands lifting to shield her eyes from the assaulting brightness.
Three silhouettes, menacing against the well-lit corridor, occupied the doorway. Eldrion and Vaelor were easily recognizable. The third figure, however, was a stranger. A regal elf—his hair a silver cascade, neatly arranged to reveal a face etched with the marks of age.
He introduced himself as Galodir Valassariel, the king of the Nephire court.
Then he seated himself on one of the sole pieces of furniture—a simple wooden chair by a modest table. Vaelor stood beside him, hands clasped at his front.
Before Anthea could even say anything Eldrion grabbed her by her arm and dragged her toward the two royals. His grip on her arm was iron-clad, forcing her to kneel before the king, twisting her arm behind her in a punishing hold.
Anthea’s breath hitched in her throat—this was an interrogation. It was time to tell her story, and make it believable.
The king’s eyes bore into hers, unblinking and unmoving. “Tell me, girl,” Galodir began in a voice as cold as the stone walls that surrounded them. “Who are you? And what were you doing in the vault of the Cattleya court?”
“I-I am Anthea,” she whispered. “I am but a slave. As for the vault . . . I . . . I was only doing as I was told.”
“Is that so?” Galodir leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were like polished jade, glinting under the flickering light of the lone candle Vaelor had brought into the room.
“I swear. Please. I am only a slave.” Anthea hoped her fear would make it seem genuine.
“How did a slave walk into the vaults of the Cattleya court? The wards should have kept you out. And you. You just walked through them?”
Anthea nibbled at her lower lip, her eyes downcast as she nodded slowly. “I don’t know how, My King,” her voice was a quivering whisper. “The Crimson court discovered that magic doesn’t work on me when a healer attempted to use it on me. I was born a slave and have always been one. I don’t know why magic doesn’t affect me. It just doesn’t.” Her heart hammered against her ribs so loud she was sure they would hear it.
Galodir watched her for a moment. Then he gave Eldrion a nod, a silent command that was immediately followed. A sharp pain surged through her arm and back like a shockwave as the elf twisted her arm further.
“P-please, please!” Anthea cried, her voice echoing pitifully off the cell walls. Her tears welled up, spilling over. “I am telling the truth! I’m just a slave. I know nothing more!” Her pleas were not part of her act anymore; her screams were real, each one filled with the raw fear and pain coursing through her.
“Lies will not help you in my court, girl,” Galodir’s voice pierced through her cries. “If you have any wisdom in that head of yours, it would serve you to speak the truth. Full and absolute.” His eyes bore into her, the shimmering jade growing darker, harder. “Confess, and it may yet spare you from further pain.”
Despite the searing pain radiating from her arm, Anthea forced herself to continue, her teeth clenched in determination. “Endreth . . . Prince Endreth chose me. He . . . He would want me back!” Her voice wavered on the last word, almost breaking under the weight of the desperate hope she clung to. She prayed her implication would resonate with them, that the thought of the Crimson court wanting her back would bring pause to their actions.
“The Crimson court has not taken slaves in millenniums.” Vaelor’s smirk was cruel, his eyes as cold as ice. “And Endreth has always shown nothing but disdain for the slaves of other courts. It is highly unlikely he’d miss you. Unless there are other reasons the Crimson court would want you back?”
“Prince Endreth will miss me. He chose me, and he won’t take kindly to your court taking what belongs to him.” Anthea sneaked a glance at the king, his face a mask of indifference. “How do you think the relations between your courts will fare when he finds out?” she pressed on.
A deep sigh slipped from Galodir’s lips. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Insolence now, girl? Added to your lies, that makes for an unfortunate combination.” His voice echoed around the dank cell. “But,” he continued, “I will disregard your impudence if you apologize and come clean. We value honesty in this court, Anthea.”
“But I am telling you the truth.” Her eyes searched Galodir’s face, seeking some sign of belief. “It would be wise, My King, to inform the Crimson court I am here. Surely they would want to retrieve their property, and I believe it would be beneficial for both courts to maintain friendly relations.”
The king gave another signal to Eldrion.
