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Anthea’s eyes moved from one elven royal to another. Had she heard them right? It couldn’t be; she couldn’t have; because that would mean?—
“Yes, we are certain. She appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night. She also understands various languages, almost instinctively,” Endreth said, tracing his fingers on one of the scrolls in front of him.
Anthea’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “W-what . . . what is going on?”
For a moment, all eyes had turned toward her, drawn by her desperate question. But then, as if nothing was amiss, the attention was once again redirected to the discussion.
“Ah, I’d forgotten about that particular trait.”
Forgotten—Vaelor had forgotten about that trait.
The words echoed in her ears, cutting through her like a precision-cut blade.
He knew.
Had known for a while it seemed.
Each secret she’d guarded, each unique facet of her being—they all knew. She took an involuntary step back, hand still on her mouth, her legs faltering slightly. Eldrion’s hand on her back steadied her. She winced, jerking and taking a large step away from him. His hand dropped away. Anthea glanced at the elven warrior—he had let her put distance between them. He didn’t even try to stop her. There was no need, not really—she was surrounded anyway. He wasn’t here to impose on the Crimson princes—there was no need for that.
Anthea looked back at Endreth, then slid her eyes to Aegonar. They were deep in conversation with the Nephrite royals—deep in conversation about her abilities and how to make her best comply, how to make her fall in line.
She saw it then, the same books, the ones that she had stolen from the Cattleya vault. They were right there, on the table, in front of Elodir. The room seemed to spin as the tapestries on the walls blurred. Anthea fought back the bile rising in her throat, her knuckles turning white as she clenched her fists at her sides.
The low hum of the conversation washed over her, a distant murmur against the thunderous beating of her heart. They were speaking about her, deciding her fate as if she were an object, as if she weren’t even here. And Endreth was part of it—she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. How could he do it? Why was he doing it?
She was utterly alone, utterly at their mercy. Trapped here, trapped in a cage. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were glued to Endreth’s face, taking in each expression, each word—he had deceived her. He was part of it.
Endreth had deceived her.
She wrapped her arms around herself, tearing her eyes away from his rigid profile—she couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer?—
Her breath hitched as her eyes landed on a large chestnut bookshelf to her left. She had spent enough time in Endreth’s study back at the Crimson court being tested to recognize cursed objects when she saw them. One artifact in particular caught her eye—a gruesome skeletal hand whose bony fingers curled into a terrifying semblance of a claw. Its label, Hand of Death, was a chilling promise of deadly potential.
She lunged for it—grabbed it with her hands. Turning quickly, letting her back hit the bookshelf, she held the skeletal object out in front of her like a shield.
The entire room fell into stunned silence, seven pairs of eyes were on her now. Even Eldrion had been caught off guard by her sudden dash. He had frozen in mid-step, his hand stretched out, eyes wide with surprise. Anthea was just out of his grasp, the cursed hand between them like an impenetrable barrier.
“Do I have your attention now?!” she demanded.
“Put that down, girl.” Galodir was facing her fully now.
“I won’t be a puppet in your game.” The cursed object trembled slightly in her grip, the air around it growing colder. “You want to discuss my fate as if I am not here? Think again.”
“Thea, what are you doing?” Endreth rose from his chair.
Her eyes snapped to him. “What am I doing? What are you doing?” She let the pain lace her words, let her voice echo the betrayal she felt. Out of the corner of her eye, Anthea saw Eldrion and Beldor inching closer. Her grip on the cursed object tightened as she raised it. “Stay back!” Her eyes darted between the two of them. “I have no idea what this thing does, and honestly, I don’t even care. But believe me when I say I won’t hesitate to use it if I have to.”
The threat was effective in halting the elven warriors in their tracks.
Galodir’s eyes were locked onto the Hand of Death, his usual calm composure replaced with cautious concern. Vaelor’s eyes flicked between her and the two warriors, his fists clenched on the table before him.
“Calm yourself, Anthea,” Aegonar urged. “We can discuss your role and the situation in this world without resorting to threats.”
“Are you joking?” Her laugh was a bitter sound, bouncing off the walls of the room. “Calm down? Are you actually being serious? All I’ve had are threats thrown my way since I got here. So no, I don’t think we can discuss anything without them.” She turned her furious gaze to Endreth. “I trusted you,” she hissed. “That’s a mistake I won’t be making twice.” Her voice was icy cold, each word a venomous strike aimed at the male who had betrayed her. As she spoke, she felt the heavy gazes of the two warriors circling her like a pair of vultures waiting for a dying creature to take its last breath. Their movements were measured, their eyes never leaving her or the object she held up like a shield. “If either of you take a step closer,” she warned, “I’ll make sure to take at least one of you down.”
Across the room, both Vaelor and Elodir had risen from their seats. Vaelor had moved to stand at one end of the room, while his younger brother had positioned himself near the room’s only door, effectively cutting off any potential escape route.
“Anthea, put the hand away,” Vaelor ordered calmly. “If you do it now, we will overlook this . . . defiance.”
