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Anthea pressed on, “What is it that you truly want with me, King Galodir?” She allowed a beat to pass, for her words to sink in, before she continued. “Your narrative . . . it’s riddled with inconsistencies. I don’t buy it. You have stopped asking me questions about the Cattleya’s vault, instead the only thing you do is lecture me on my place and the proper conduct of said place . . .” She trailed off as she noticed the look in the king’s eyes. Anthea had momentarily forgotten one critical difference from the hard negotiations with difficult clients at her job and the situation at hand—those clients hadn’t wielded the threat of violence. But she had made her gamble, and now it was time to see if her hand held any winning cards.
Galodir gave an almost imperceptible nod, and like an unleashed hound, Beldor moved.
Anthea scrambled back, pressing herself against the cool stone wall as her eyes followed his approach. “You know, King Galodir,” she called out, her voice trembling, “I can either cooperate or not.” She cast a pointed look at Beldor, her voice turning acrid, “but if you unleash your guard dog on me, I most certainly won’t.”
Beldor’s hand clamped around her upper arm, hauling her to her feet.
“That is where you are wrong,” Galodir said. “We can make you obey.”
Her heart hammered against her ribcage, but she forced herself to maintain her gaze on Galodir. “You can certainly try. But I might die in the process.”
“We will see,” he replied, his tone as chilling as the cold mountain air. “I will see you again, after you have learned your lesson.” He inclined his head toward Beldor, the silent command passing between them like a spark.
28
Beldor’s grip tightened on her arm as he dragged her forward.
Anthea fought, pulling against him, struggling with all her might. The labyrinthine corridors of the mountain stronghold became a disorienting blur. Her steps echoed eerily in the stone hallways, the air around them growing colder and damper with each passing second. She had realized a few turns back he was taking her inside one of the surrounding mountains—that had only made her fought harder. At one point he had stopped, grabbing both her arms, he had told her to act like the slave she claimed to be. Anthea had headbutted him, had been quite proud of the blood that had spilled from his nose.
Finally, they entered a large room, one that made her heart drop. The walls were adorned with various instruments—wickedly sharp devices, intimidating chains, and cruel restraints. It wasn’t a cell—it was a chamber designed for torture. A wave of terror washed over her. Her knees buckled, but Beldor’s unyielding grip kept her upright.
The warrior’s rough hands cinched the ropes around her wrists with an expert swiftness that spoke of years of practice.
Secured to a post, she strained against the bonds, her broken hand throbbing with each pull. She was stretched taut, like a bowstring ready to snap. Beldor stepped back, brushing at the bloody nose with his fingers, smearing a tiny streak of it over the tail end of the scar on his cheek.
“There is really no need for this,” he said. “You just need to give up your attitude, learn to behave, and to follow orders.”
“And rob you all of your favorite pastime? You fucking psychopaths,” she spat back in a burst of anger, the words scraping raw against her throat.
Beldor’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You would do well to watch your tongue, human.”
“Oh, I’m watching, just like I’m watching you all jump at every command. Tell me, does Galodir reward you with treats?”
Beldor wiped his bleeding nose once more before turning to an elf lurking in the shadows. “Fifteen,” he ordered, but after a moment of considering Anthea, he corrected himself. “No, twenty.”
Her bravado faltered as the other elf picked up a whip. “Wait, please! I’m sorry. I can be cooperative . . . I . . . just don’t do this . . . please.” The words felt like acid on her tongue, a bitter taste of fear and desperation—a last desperate bid for mercy in the face of impending pain.
The other elf aimed a quizzical look at Beldor.
“Twenty—and count them out loud!” The elven warrior crossed his arms and leaned his back against the opposing wall.
As consciousness returned, her senses were assaulted by the pain coming from every inch of her body. Her back, raw and throbbing, felt as if it were on fire, every beat of her heart sending new waves of agony coursing through her.
Every strike of the whip had been pure agony, slicing through her body with calculated precision. Anthea had fought against the ties binding her hands in the beginning, hurting her broken wrist in the process. By the time the thirteenth lash had fallen, her vision had been a swirling mess of blurred colors. Her body had hung limp, her head slumping forward as she had struggled to maintain her grip on reality. She didn’t remember much after the fourteenth strike.
A soft whimper slipped past her lips as she tried to turn onto her side, the coarse linens of the bed biting into her freshly bandaged wounds. Her eyes took in the sight of her room—the same room with the small window she had ironically thanked Galodir for. Her ripped dress lay discarded on the floor. She dared a glance at her arm, noting the fresh bandages. The bitter irony of her situation was not lost on her. The very beings who had inflicted such cruel punishment on her were also taking care to tend to her wounds, ensuring her body would survive just long enough to endure more torment. It was as if they had taken a page out of the book about disciplining slaves. Anthea didn’t want to imagine what the other humans had to go through in Isluma—the elves, for some reason, were making sure she would survive, the other humans might not be so fortunate. Anthea at least didn’t have to worry about dying. She had at least this knowledge—she would stay alive until Endreth came for her.
Galodir had told her they would make her obey, but he was wrong, so fucking wrong?—
The door creaked open. Anthea squeezed her eyes shut, feigning sleep as she heard the soft footsteps approach. She risked a glance at the newcomer from underneath her lashes.
Elara moved around her room, careful not to disturb her, her actions seemingly focused on tidying up—picking up her bloody dress, placing a new one on the chair. And in no time, she was moving toward the door, her tasks completed.
Anthea kept her act up until she heard the door close behind her. Only when she was sure she was alone did she dare to open her eyes fully. Her eyes landed on the new dress—a dark green number with an open back, probably for easy access. She sank further into the bed, her resolve not to cooperate, at least for today, undeterred.
A different elf, one Anthea didn’t recognize, arrived later with a tray of food and a jug of clean water. He left the tray on the small table and the jug next to the washing bowl, his presence as silent and fleeting as Elara’s.
Thalion, followed by Eldrion, entered her room. Anthea had been left alone for two days. The whole time she had lain in her bed, only coming out to drink water and relieve herself. The food, she had left untouched.
