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Feeling his grip tighten and the harsh angle of her twisted wrist, Anthea drew in a sharp breath. Her body instinctively tried to recoil, but the warrior’s hold was steadfast. Every nerve in her body screamed out in protest, her mind teetering on the edge of panic. The king’s voice, colder and more ruthless than before, cut through the painful fog that had settled in her mind.
“Tell me again, girl,” he demanded. “Tell me again what I, the king of the Nephrite court, should do.”
Anthea fought against the scream rising in her throat, her fingers twitching with the need to claw at Eldrion’s hand. Drawing upon every ounce of strength she had left, she forced herself to speak. Her voice came out in a whimper, the pain making her words shake. “I . . . I meant no disrespect. I-I’m sorry,” she managed to utter. Her breaths were shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I only thought . . . it would maintain peace . . . between the courts.”
Galodir leaned back in the wooden chair, his posture radiating an air of dominance and control. “You keep insisting you are a slave. Yet, you do not act like one. A slave is truthful, submissive to her superiors, obeys without question, and certainly does not make suggestions.”
Anthea held her breath, her fingers clutching into a fist as she gritted her teeth against the persistent pain. But she remained silent, her eyes cast downwards.
“Until you learn what it truly means to be a slave, Anthea, to serve without question, you will suffer. For every lie, for every act of insolence, there will be consequences.” He gave a single, curt nod to Eldrion.
A distinct, horrifying crack resonated within her body and then there was only pain. Anthea screamed, the sound filled the cell, bouncing off the cold stone walls.
The elven warrior stilled, and released her shattered wrist.
She collapsed onto the unforgiving floor, cradling her broken hand to her chest. Every movement sent fresh jolts of pain coursing through her. Tears blurred her vision but she could not tear her gaze away from the figures looming over her. “Please . . .” she managed to gasp out through her sobs, her voice trembling.
Galodir rose from the meager chair, his robe whispering against the stone floor as he moved. “Think about your place in this world, girl,” he said, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the corridor beyond.
Anthea’s gaze locked onto his retreating form, his departure leaving a cold emptiness that seemed to echo the pain wracking her body.
Vaelor and Eldrion followed him in silence.
The cell door swung closed with a resounding thud.
26
The flickering light of the candle cast dancing shadows across the small, cold room when Anthea awoke. She blinked in the faint light. Her hand hurt, but she wasn’t cold. Her eyes landed on the source of the warmth: a surprisingly soft blanket had been draped over her.
There was a flare of pain as she attempted to move, her injured wrist aching painfully. Ignoring it as best as she could, she forced herself to sit up.
A small, clay pitcher was on the table. Someone had been in her cell when she had slept; someone had brought a blanket, this pitcher and the candle, and she had slept through it—the thought troubled her.
Thirst clawed at her throat, and she reached out with her good hand, the coolness of the clay against her skin a relief in itself. Lifting the pitcher with care, she poured the clear water into a wooden cup that had been set beside it. Anthea brought it to her lips and drank greedily, the water soothing her parched throat.
After drinking two cups, her attention returned to her injured wrist, the skin around it now a deep, dark purple. The sight of it sent a shiver of pain and fear through her, but she pushed it aside. She would have to be strong, to keep up the lie and hope help was coming. She drank another cup of water, allowing herself this small moment of respite.
Anthea sat in the cold silence, trying her best to keep her mind busy.
First, she tried to recall the lyrics to old songs she used to love, her mind reaching for the familiar melodies and comforting words. Each verse, each chorus, was a small victory, a tiny rebellion against the despair that threatened to consume her. She hummed the tunes softly under her breath, her voice echoing slightly in the cold stone room.
Then she moved on to phone numbers, reciting them one by one. She remembered Ari’s and Treia’s, her childhood best friend’s, the local pizza place—each digit was a lifeline, an anchor to the world she had known.
Anthea tried so hard to think about the small things in her old life, tried not dwelling on all the big things she had lost. But she couldn’t help herself—she kept picturing Treia and Ari at the police station: Ari demanding they’d continue looking for her; Treia trying to reason with them, taking a more steady approach—She missed them so much. She wondered if Endreth would put as much effort into finding her as she believed her sisters would. She hoped so—she really, really hoped so.
She continued like this for hours, maybe even days—she had no way of knowing. The rhythmic flow of numbers, words, and melodies became a lifeline in the silent solitude. As she sat in her cell, she clung to these memories of the world she once knew, a world she was determined to return to. Anthea didn’t want to think about the courts, this world—not now, not when the pain in her wrist was a constant reminder of the cruelties of it, a constant reminder of how the humans were treated here.
So she thought about home, remembered the fern wallpaper in her room, the Yosemite Falls hike with her sisters last summer, the ingredients of her mother’s favorite pecan pie?—
The time in the cell provided Anthea little comfort, but at least it offered a sort of predictability, a regularity that kept her grounded. It was a disheartening familiarity she found in the footsteps echoing through the hallway, growing louder as they approached her cell.
Each time, it was the same elven soldier. Tall and slender, his ash-blonde hair falling loosely around his shoulders. His face was an impassive mask as he went about his duties, his almond-shaped eyes never meeting hers. He would bring food, water, and a clean bucket, all while maintaining a silence as deep as the stone that surrounded them.
Anthea kept herself tucked away in the corner during these brief visits, her wide eyes watching his every movement. He never stayed longer than necessary, never acknowledged her beyond what was required of him. He was merely a part of her routine, as much a fixture of her cell as the stone walls themselves.
It was on his eighth visit when she finally found the courage to speak. Her voice was weak. It echoed in the silence, making her flinch at the rawness of it.
“How long . . . how long have I been here?” she asked.
