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She gave the newcomers a cursory glance, then refocused on the window. Her interest was held by a large black bird, flying majestically above the distant mountains.
“I need to change your bandages, Anthea,” Thalion’s gentle voice cut through the silence. She offered no response, her eyes remained fixed on the bird. It was a beautiful creature—enormous wings stretched wide as it glided in the air.
Eldrion’s voice was harsher, an edge of frustration coloring his words. “You have not eaten anything.” He stepped in front of the window, his large form blocking her view. His gray eyes held a storm. Turning her head away, she looked at the dull brown wooden ceiling instead. “What do you hope to achieve with this . . . this childish act?” he added.
Anthea’s lips curved into a grimace, and she muttered just loud enough for their elven hearing, “I want you to leave.”
Thalion sighed. He had started to work on the splint on her wrist, slender fingers moving gently, unwrapping the bandages, and applying a salve that tingled against her raw skin. When he finished with reapplying the splint he said, “Please move up a bit. I need to tend to your back.”
She remained where she was. She had no desire to aid them on making her healthy enough for the next torture session.
“Anthea, Thalion needs you to move. He needs to tend to your wounds,” Eldrion repeated.
Her brown eyes flickered toward him. “And I need you all to fuck off,” she spat. Her eyes moved from Eldrion to Thalion and back to Eldrion again. “Especially you, Eldrion. You can go and fuck yourself.”
“You stubborn—” The warrior clenched and unclenched his fingers at his sides. “Have you learned nothing? What has this defiance brought you? More pain? More suffering?”
“Go fuck yourself,” she repeated.
Eldrion was swift as he closed the distance between them. Kneeling in front of her, his face inches from hers. “If you do not get up yourself, I will do it for you. Either way, Thalion will redress your wounds.”
For a brief moment, she considered spitting in his face—but there was something in his eyes, a challenging spark, a silent invitation that gave her pause. Her satisfaction would probably be short-lived—not worth the trouble. Instead, she moved to turn her head away. He stopped her, fingers grasping her chin.
“Will you do it or do I have to lift you?”
With a jolt of energy, Anthea yanked her chin out of his grip. “I will do it, as soon as you leave.”
Eldrion captured it again. She saw the flecks of green in his gray eyes, the rigid set of his jaw, the furrowed brows. “Such insolent words,” he murmured, “for someone so fragile.” His thumb traced her cheek in an almost affectionate gesture.
“Perhaps, Eldrion, it would be best if you left,” Thalion suggested from the foot of her bed, glancing between the two of them.
The warrior remained silent for a moment, his thumb continuing its slow caress. His eyes never left hers. “I will leave,” he said finally, “as long as you do as Thalion says.” There was a slight pause before he continued, “And eat your food.” The words were a warning, a promise. He was going to make sure she did, whether she wanted to or not. Releasing her, Eldrion stood. He cast a final glance at her before he turned to the healer. “I will be close.” With those words, he left.
“I must advise you, Anthea, to not test the lords of the Nephrite court any further. They have already shown great patience with you.”
A bitter laugh slipped past her lips, the sound harsh and empty. Patience. They called their cold, calculated torment patience. Each instance of pain meticulously followed by care, keeping her body just healthy enough to endure the next round of punishment.
The healer seemed to pay no mind to her response, his focus devoted entirely to his task. “It is unfortunate I cannot heal you with magic,” he mused.
Her body stiffened at the thought, an unexpected shiver coursing through her. Magical healing wasn’t a comforting prospect at all. The cycle it proposed was horrifying—periods of excruciating pain, instantly followed by healing, over and over again. The elves could harm her as much as they wanted, without any concern for lasting damage. If they could do that, Anthea was sure—in time she would break. Was that what the other humans in Isluma had to go through? She didn’t voice these thoughts. Choosing instead to remain silent, her body tense under the elf’s gentle care.
The next three days passed in a blur. Thalion visited her once more with Elara, tending to her wounds with the same practiced care and quiet concern. The male elf who brought her meals came twice a day, the repetition of his tasks forming a monotonous rhythm that marked the passing of time—food, water, empty chamber pot.
Most of the time, she found herself lost in a sea of thoughts, as she gazed out the window. The distant mountains stood steadfast and serene. She longed for the nights at home, where the most prominent lights were streetlamps. She missed the nightly sounds of the traffic behind her bedroom window—strange as it seemed, she even missed the motorcycles at two in the morning. Ari had wanted to learn how to ride one—they’d had a fight about that too. If Anthea could take back all the harsh words she had said to her sister—she would in a heartbeat.
To break the monotony, Anthea took to pacing. Each step was painful, the wounds on her back pulsating with a dull throb. But she welcomed the pain. It was a tether to reality, a grim reminder of her determination to resist, to survive—to get back home. She wouldn’t let these elves win. Not like that, she would rather die.
Her muscles were sore from disuse, and at first, each movement felt sluggish, her body protesting. Anthea pressed on, ignoring the twinge of discomfort, the sheen of sweat that formed on her forehead.
She moved across the room in slow steps, her bare feet padding softly against the cool stone. Each lap across the room was a small victory, a defiant stand against the lethargy that threatened to overtake her. She could feel her strength returning, bit by bit.
Hope was the thread that held her together. Hope that Endreth and the Crimson court would find her, hope that she would survive the torture long enough to be rescued—it was all she had. And so, she clung to it with all her might, willing herself to survive, to endure, for as long as it took for Endreth to arrive. After all, he had made her a promise—he would keep her safe.
“A proper slave would bow before a king.” Galodir’s voice was deep, like the rumble of distant thunder. “Have the lines on your back taught you nothing?”
She had barely glanced at Galodir and Eldrion as they entered, her attention had resolutely been fixed on the window. The sun was setting. The mountains were bathed in stunning orange hues, the river glittered with the last rays of daylight.
Anthea didn’t dignify his question with a response. Instead, she turned to face him and asked her own. “Do you go nowhere without at least one of your guard dogs?”
