What are they doing to me?
A twist churns in my stomach, and I glance down, catching a movement so strong it’s visible even through my dress. This may be my first pregnancy, but I know enough to recognize that I’m larger than I should be for how far along I am. I devour every meal, leaving not a scrap behind while always hungering for more, and I’m endlessly thirsty. Is this because my child is half-Fae?
A sharp kick suddenly jolts me, as if the child is answering my question with an emphaticyes.It already has a temper, that much is certain. But with parents like me and Daedalus, it was never destined to be a calm, placid thing. I smooth my hands over my belly, trying to soothe it, and begin to hum softly. Slowly, the flutters and flips quiet.
The melody has no words, just a tune born of the sounds I’ve heard in moments of stillness: birdsong, rustling leaves, the whisper of the wind. I hum it often to my child, not just to comfort them, but to calm myself as well.
Soon, I’m certain my child has drifted to sleep, but sleep evades me. My gifts can’t save me here. Even if the collar around my neck didn’t suppress my power, I have no earth to draw from, no Souls to channel. If I could free Ashen, we would escape with ease, but that would mean flying to the cave where he is imprisoned and somehow breaking the enchantments that bind him, dulling his power as effectively as the collar dulls mine.
I hold on to hope, but I can feel Ashen’s slipping away. I fear the next time I’m allowed a visit with him, I’ll find his cage empty, nothing left but a faint wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by the familiar groan of shifting rock. I turn toward the balcony, watching as clouds drift past, but it isn’t the clouds moving. It’s Driftspire.Has it already been that long?
Every few days, the Ithranor gather and channel their magic to move the city to a new location. But where they take us, I never know. That information is not shared with me, nor am I meant to be privy to it.
The thought gnaws at me. If I have no clue where I am, what chance does Daedalus have of finding me? Am I to wait for him? For how much longer? Weeks? Months? Years?
No, I cannot wait for him.
I cannot wait for Ashen to fade into nothingness or for my child to be born a prisoner.
If I want freedom, I must take the bargain Anethesis offers.
Endure the trials, and I will be released.
I drift in and out of tormenting awareness, blinking through fragments of sleep, until the sun finally rises. Stumbling out of bed, I wander dazed to the balcony, squinting into the sharp morning light. The sky is flawless, a stunning blue. The rocky islands of Driftspire hover around me, and when I glance down, I see nothing but an endless sea of white, misty clouds. No landmarks. No clues. Just emptiness. Once again, I’m granted no insight into where we might be, but deep in my gut, I feel it. I’m even further from Daed than I was before.
A knock sounds at the door, but I don’t bother answering. After a pause, it creaks open, and the maid peeks in, carrying a silver tray.
She doesn’t say a word, just hurries inside with her head bowed, as though even looking at me might curse her. She lifts the dome lid from the tray, revealing a vibrant sprawl of freshly cut fruit. Then scurries out, closing the door softly behind her.
I glance over my shoulder at the platter. Some of the fruit is familiar, but other pieces, bright pink with large black seeds or brilliant yellow with an almost glowing flesh, I’ve never seen before. Could this be a clue to where we are? These fruits aren’t common in the Sundered Kingdoms.
But the thought doesn’t linger. Hunger wins. I dive upon the platter, scooping up pieces of fruit and biting into the firm, sweet flesh with urgency, half-afraid it might vanish if I don’t eat it fast enough. The juices drip down my chin, sticky and sweet, and anyone watching would think I was being starved.
If nothing else, I can say my captors feed me well. They even respect the fact I do not eat meat, unlike my Mordorin hosts.
When I’m finished, the tray is littered with mangled skins and scattered seeds, yet the hollowness in my stomach remains. I could devour three more platters like this, and it might not make a difference. This baby is insatiable.
I glance at the water jug, debating whether to drink straight from it, but I decide to maintain a semblance of decorum and pour myself a cup instead.
Taking a seat at the chess table, I notice the board has been reset. Clearly tidied while I was trapped in the maze of mirrors. The game I’ve been playing with the Golden Son is wiped clean. I have no desire to see him, yet I have my first move planned out.
I sip my water, avoiding the chess pieces, trying to keep my hands from reaching for them. But eventually, I give in. Setting the cup down, I pick up a black pawn and move it forward on the board.
There’s another knock on the door, but before I have time to respond, Anethesis glides in, his eyes flickering toward the tray with a hint of surprise.
“I’m glad to see your appetite is strong,” he says smoothly. “I’ll inform the kitchen to double your servings.”
I don’t acknowledge him, but I don’t argue either. At this point, extra portions feel less like a luxury and more like a necessity.
An awkward silence stretches between us, and I lack the patience to draw this interaction out any longer.
“Is there something you want, Anethesis?”
“Yes,” he replies promptly, as if he’s been waiting for permission. I still find his placating demeanor strange, especially coming from my jailer. “It’s time for your next test.”
“Already?” I ask, unable to hide my annoyance.
