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Angry tears were prickling at the corner of her eyes, her gaze fixed on the landscape outside. Without turning around, she swallowed her pride and finally spoke. “Please, don’t. I need to be alone.”
There was a moment of silence before his response came, “Being alone is not a luxury you get after your threats to your own life.” His blatant disregard for her wishes, his lack of respect for her personal needs felt like a slap to the face. Especially after she’d just laid down her request to be treated as a person.
“Why do you even care if I live or die?” Anthea spat, twisting around to face him. The tears welled up in her eyes and she didn’t bother to hide them.
“Because I believe in the prophecy and your part in it.”
“Well, I don’t care about the prophecy or the fate of this world,” she retorted. “Why should I care, after all the pain it has brought me?”
Eldrion abandoned his post at the door, stepping closer in a few fast strides. His hands found her shoulders, closing around them with a firm grip that sent a jolt through her body. “Because you are part of it,” he stated, his voice a forceful rumble. “Like it or not, you are part of this world now.” His proximity, the intensity in his eyes, the firmness of his grip—it was all too much. “And if you bothered to step out of your everlasting self-pity, your selfishness, and learn more about Isluma and its people—not the courts—the people, you would care too.”
“All I know is the courts,” she shot back. “All I know is the blatant disregard, the abuse . . .” Her gaze dropped to his hands encircling her arms. “All I’ve known in this world . . . is this. And you are wrong, I am not part of this world—all you’ve ever done is keep me away from it, locked me up, isolated me. How do you expect me to know and understand anything when all I’ve seen is the cage you’ve put me in?”
Eldrion faltered, releasing his grip on her arms, his fingertips trailing down her skin in a soft, almost comforting, touch. One hand lingered over her once broken wrist, before finally falling away. He took a deliberate step back, giving her the space she craved. Anthea turned away from him, her gaze drawn to the window but not truly seeing the world outside.
“I am sorry,” Eldrion murmured, the raw remorse in his tone so unexpected it startled her, “for what I have done to you, Anthea. For what you have been through.”
His apology hung heavily in the room.
“All I ask is for you to give Isluma and its people a chance.”
“I don’t want to die,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t know how to live like this either.”
A heavy silence followed, the room filled only by the sound of her shaky breaths.
“Tomorrow, I will arrange for you to see the town in the valley. To meet the people who live there, away from the courts.” Eldrion’s voice held a quiet plea. “Would that be acceptable for you?”
Anthea faced him again. “Yes,” she whispered.
33
Mellow light streamed through the cracks in her dark green curtains, casting a gentle glow on the room. Anthea rubbed her eyes. Her sleep had been restless—she had lain in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the wooden posts, tossing, turning. She was angry at the elves, so incredible angry at them for thinking they could just mold her into whatever they wished—the arrogance, the entitlement enraged her?—
But she was also angry at herself. Anthea had always been proud of her mind, her quick wit. Last night, she had realized the first time she had asked Endreth about the dragons, the idea that they might hold a way for her to return home had been like a lifeline thrown to a drowning person. That hope had been false, a lure to keep her compliant and controlled. She felt so stupid, naive.
Sometime at night, her thoughts had turned darker—had her sisters stopped searching? Had they accepted her death? She hoped they had. She was never going to get back. Ari and Treia—Anthea would never see them again. She hoped they had moved on?—
She got up, stretching her limbs high above her head, trying to get the weariness out. Choosing a simple green garment, its soft fabric embroidered with dark green lines resembling leaves, from the wardrobe, she dressed quickly. The dress fit her well, save for the sleeves, which hung a little too long.
She moved to the adjacent bathroom, pausing in front of the small mirror. Her brown bob, which once barely brushed past her jawline, had grown considerably. The locks now reached past her shoulders, the ends curling slightly. She decided on two pigtails, wanting to get her hair off her face. She tied the ends with a small green ribbon that matched her dress. She studied her reflection: her brown eyes looked dull, skin paler than ever, cheeks hollow. Time in Isluma had aged her.
The little sleep she had had—it had been plagued by nightmares. Things she had seen in the Cattleya court had merged with her experiences in the Nephrite court. She shuddered, thinking back on Endreth’s cruel smile as he had held the whip in her dream, the way he had laughed while she had pleaded with him, stripped bare and on display on the stage at the Cattleya court’s hall.
A knock on her door pulled Anthea from her thoughts.
“Come in.”
It was Beldor.
“I’m here to take you to Tharport.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Beldor raised a singular brow. “I’m just following orders, Anthea.”
“Are you joking? After what you did? Thanks to you, I have twenty lines on my back.” She didn’t mention the constant nightmares.
He leaned against the doorframe, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Fourteen,” he corrected. “An unconscious person cannot learn a lesson. But then again,” he added with a sly grin, “you do seem like a slow learner anyway.”
