It was hell.
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t feel. I was numb and broken.
The sheets felt like nothing under my hands, the clothes that were taken off me and put back on were simply an encasement.
Food, when I ate, was ash on my tongue.
Not even the garden, when I was allowed outside with an escort, awoke anything inside.
I was as dead as the brother I sentenced to death, as the mountain I burned to ash in the dreamscape.
No one came to visit, not Mistress Lautaro, not the Warlord. Not Mother and Father. Whether they were not allowed or simply chose not to see me, I neither knew nor cared.
“You should eat something, miss,” Pip’s voice echoed from somewhere to my left. I was placed in an armchair by the fire today, posed like a fragile doll.
When I didn’t respond or show any sign of recognition, Pip sighed before leaving the room, closing the door quietly in her wake.
Tears tracked down my face in reckless abandon and I did nothing to stop them. At least I could feel that, even if it was only desperation and abject sadness.
More days passed.I grew more despondent, less communicative, if possible.
What’s the point? Finian is dead. Peytor is in the mines and hates me. Mother and Father won’t see me, they probably hate me too.
No one had come to see me, no healers or servants, even Pip was simply dropping food in my room and leaving. She no longer dressed and bathed me, and I stayed in the same position, dressed in the same clothes, for days at a time.
I was trapped.
A prisoner in my own mind and in my own home.
I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or cry.
I knew I wanted to die, though it felt like I already was dead—every piece that once made me was destroyed that day. I was only a shell.
A knock sounded and my eyes moved from the wall to the door.
The door opened and the Warlord entered. My expression didn’t change, but I could feel the heat of my anger bubbling deep within.
“You’ve had more than enough time to sulk, dear Ellowyn,” he chastised with no preamble.
How dare he?
“You will join me for dinner tonight. Private dining room at six. Do not be late,” he said as his gaze took in my appearance. His nose wrinkled. “And for the love of the gods, take a bath and dress appropriately. You represent me now, and I will not have you looking like . . . this.”
“M-my parents?” My voice rasped and cracked from disuse, my dry lips sticking together. They were the first words I’d uttered in weeks.
“Will not be joining us. They are . . . indisposed,” he deadpanned. I simply stared at him.
Dead. They were dead, then. Like I wished to be.
“Dinner. At six. I’ll send your maid to assist you.” With that, he turned from me and strode out of the room, the door shutting echoed loudly in the quiet space.
Promptly at six,Pip guided me through the halls and down the stairs to, what used to be, my parents’ private dining room.
Is it his now? Is this house his? What else has he taken from us?
Again, I felt that bubble of anger deep within as I thought about the injustices thrust upon my family in such a short amount of time. I basked in it—the only emotion I allowed myself to feel, and my magic whispered to me in kind.
Pip pushed open the dining room door and ushered me inside, half-dragging, half-guiding me to a seat at the table. It was empty apart from the Warlord, who sat at the head in my father’s chair. Only one other setting was present, and it was directly to his left.
