The place where my mother usually sat.
The thought had dread coiling around my stomach until I felt like I would be sick.
My feet carried me, acting against my mind’s screams, to the place at the table, and I sat woodenly.
“Thank you for joining me, Ellowyn,” the Warlord said as he took a bite of deviled egg, a tumbler of whiskey in his other hand.
There was nothing on my plate and only water in my goblet.
Pity.
“Due to your inability to look after your well-being and actually eat, your stomach is small right now and you won’t be able to stomach much, if any, food. Especially richer foods. Or alcohol, for that matter. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the cook to make you a simple broth for now. If you can keep that down, I’ll offer you some bread.” He took another bite of egg, the yellow of it getting caught slightly in his beard.
As if called into the room by his statement alone, a servant appeared with a bowl of steaming broth for me and a plate piled high with roasted duck, vegetables, and potatoes. My stomach growled and rolled at the smell.
The Warlord smiled predatorily. “Eat, Ellowyn. You will need your strength.”
I picked up the spoon on autopilot and directed it into my bowl, then into my mouth. It was hot and flavors exploded across my tongue.
I moaned quietly at the taste, grateful that I could actually taste again.
The Warlord chuckled lightly before digging into his own food, and I was disappointed in myself for showing even that little bit of emotion.
We ate in silence for a while, each of us lost to our own thoughts. He with whatever hellscape he was planning next, and me with prayers that he would choke on a bone and die.
To my utter disappointment, he ate his dinner without dying.
Pity.
Perhaps he was just biding his time, because as soon as I set my spoon back on the table—the bowl of broth only half-consumed and my stomach close to bursting—he set his own utensils down and waved the servants from the room.
“We will be leaving for the capital tomorrow morning. Your servant is packing your belongings as we speak. You will ride in the carriage with me and, when we arrive, you will be given your own rooms in a private wing at my home. There will be no more of this behavior. You will eat. You will bathe. You will regain your strength, and then you will train at the Academy. It’s past time that you learned to control and wield your powers.” He paused and I simply stared at him.
It didn’t matter where I went, I was still a prisoner, both physically to him and mentally to my demons.
“No comment?”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say, my lord,” I replied woodenly.
That was apparently the wrong response, because the Warlord threw his napkin on the table with a huff.
“Alois,” he ground out. “You will call me Alois, and when you don’t, there will be consequences.”
I’m not sure what else he could do that would punish me further than I already had been.
“Alois,” I said just to placate him, and his posture relaxed slightly.
“Your betrothal to Lord d’Eshu,” he spat the name, “is also voided.”
That caused me to start, and I frowned.
“Why? Isn’t it in your best interest to entertain a relationship with the Southern Territories?”
The Warlord smiled darkly.
“I could give a rat’s ass about the Southern Territories. And even lessabout that lord who calls himself your betrothed. Where is he, hmm? Where has he been while you suffered?”
I was silent at that because it was true. Since our engagement, I had written numerous times with no response—our only interaction was within the dreamscape, and I wasn’t even sure those were real. My parents had also written to him, asking for him to come stay in Hestin for a while, and then again asking him to attend the Warlord’s most recent visit, and they’d received no response to either.
