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Then, Elara had taken her from the healing room, guiding her through the stone corridors of the Nephrite court—had taken her to the room she currently occupied.
The room was modest in size but offered a sense of comfort her cell had lacked. A small bed was positioned near the wall, with a table and a chair set by the very window she was enjoying the view from. Anthea’s mind raced, thoughts clashing and colliding, dissecting her captors’ actions, words, and inconsistencies.
Galodir had claimed they sought the knowledge she held about the Cattleya court’s vault, but his insistence on her place in the Nephrite court painted a different story entirely.
The fever had left her vulnerable, her defenses stripped away, leaving her raw and exposed. In her delirium, Anthea had forgotten to maintain the façade of a slave. But deep down, she had a nagging suspicion they never truly believed her act to begin with—they had always seemed to be waiting for the mask to slip, had always seemed to have almost known she wasn’t really a slave.
She remembered the hurried footsteps, the frantic voices, and the sensation of being carried. They had tended to her with an urgency she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t out of compassion; she was sure of that. It seemed more out of necessity—the concern for her well-being, or rather their concern for her survival, was obvious.
So, they needed her alive. But why? For what endgame?
Her fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the windowsill. Just a few days ago, Galodir had insisted she remain in the dank cell, yet here she was, in a significantly more comfortable room. Her sickness seemed to have prompted a reconsideration, a step back even.
If they believed she had value, she could negotiate, she could bide her time. Endreth would come for her—she still had hope. But if he didn’t, she would negotiate her own terms with the Nephrite court, much like she had with Endreth. She would get through this. Anthea had to believe that.
She traced her bandaged wrist: playing the meek little slave only made them think they could bully her further. She had to put her foot down. If they needed her, she had to make them see using force wouldn’t get them results. She wasn’t a meek little slave. Pretending to be one had not served her well.
It was time for something new.
The creak of her door swinging open shattered the peaceful silence of her sleep. Galodir, flanked by Vaelor and Beldor, entered the room, their grim faces bathed in the pale moonlight seeping in through the window.
A spike of adrenaline banished any remnants of her sleep. Pushing the fear down, Anthea willed her body to move, inching into a sitting position. Her back was rigid against the wall, her shoulders squared. She kept her face carefully blank, an unreadable mask she hoped hid the fear she felt.
“Are you ready to speak the truth, girl?”
Anthea folded her hands on her lap as she met Galodir’s eyes, heart beating loudly against her ribcage, desperately hoping they wouldn’t hear it. She didn’t acknowledge his question, didn’t acknowledge him at all, wanting to see if she could get a reaction from him, to see what else he might say.
“When the king addresses you, human, you bow your head and answer,” Vaelor’s voice was a sharp rebuke.
Anthea slowly, deliberately, dragged her eyes from Galodir to Vaelor. She fought back the urge to quail, to show fear. Instead, she arched her brows as if she were mildly amused, hoping her poker face would hold.
Vaelor’s answering smirk was razor-thin, barely there. “Do you enjoy pain?” he asked, voice low and soft as velvet, but there was an edge to it, an undercurrent of something that almost seemed like desperation.
Her lips curled into a small, polite smile. “I must thank you for the unexpected room upgrade, King Galodir.” Her eyes drifted toward the window. With a slight tilt of her head, she gestured at the stunning panorama beyond the glass. “The view is quite breathtaking. It is a vast improvement from the cell.”
“Remember who you are speaking to,” Beldor warned.
Anthea held back a wince. Instead, she feigned surprise, lifting her eyebrows and widening her eyes in a perfectly orchestrated expression of innocent confusion. “Is there someone else I should be thanking for the room?” she asked. “I was under the impression that you, King Galodir, were the one in charge here.”
“I am also in the position to ensure you learn your proper place through a world of pain,” Galodir said, a dark promise lacing his words.
Her wrist throbbed painfully. But she couldn’t back down, not yet—she had a theory to test. “Further injuries could only serve to worsen my condition,” Anthea stated. “Thalion himself said I need rest. Given my current frail state, it wouldn’t take much for me to deteriorate, maybe even die.” She lifted her chin a fraction higher, maintaining an air of indifference, a shield to conceal the fear that gnawed at her insides. It was like stepping on a tightrope, risky, potentially disastrous, yet she needed to know the limits. She had to understand how far she could push before they struck back.
Then, Galodir laughed—a sound so jarring and out of place, it stole her breath. His amusement was like a ghost in the room, an insubstantial thing that made her skin crawl. “You are a clever little human,” he admitted, his lips twisting into a smile that failed to soften the chill in his eyes. A sudden sickening feeling of dread washed over her. His laughter was the laughter of a predator, a predator who had just figured out the game his prey was playing.
“However,” the king added, “you should channel that cleverness into understanding your position in the hierarchy here, and begin acting accordingly, as a frail little creature such as yourself should.”
“Why?” Anthea asked, a furrow deepening between her brows. “Why should I? What would happen if I didn’t?”
Galodir’s brows rose in surprise, his demeanor shaken by her unexpected frankness. Vaelor, too, looked momentarily taken aback.
Meeting their gazes head on, Anthea refused to shrink under their surprise. She remained steadfast, waiting for their responses. If they expected her to play a role, she needed to understand why.
“Those are dangerous questions, Anthea,” the king said.
“Which begs the question, why?” she shot back, determined to propel this conversation forward, to break free of the cycle of trepidation and uncertainty that had gripped her.
Rather than answering, Galodir simply regarded her, his mouth turning down in visible disapproval.
