He didn’t knock. Why didn’t he knock?
Her mother’s hand remained on her spine, but Lyssena’s mind had already begun to spiral. The sound of boots met her ears. Not her father’s. Not her brothers’. Heavier and very unfamiliar.
Her eyes stayed lowered.
Her heart thudded high in her chest.
And now everything began.
Chapter Three
A Lie of a Bargain
Lyssena
The door closed behind him.
Silence stretched between every step he took.
“You can look at your new owner.”
Lyssena’s eyes remained fixed on her feet, on the hem of the white gown she had felt so proud to wear only hours before. Now it trembled in time with her fingers.
“I’m waiting, Lyssena.”
She blinked—once, twice—her mouth parting in disbelief. Surely he hadn’t meant it like that. Surely it was a mistake, a cruel joke, or some tradition she hadn’t yet learned.
But she didn’t move. She simply couldn’t.
“Go on,” the knight said, this time louder. His tone was clipped and bored. The kind of voice used for servants, not for brides. “Raise your head. Let me see what I paid for.”
Her stomach dropped like a stone tossed into still water. The taste of bile rose at the back of her throat. Sweat traced a pathdown the center of her spine, and another bead rolled along the curve of her temple, tickling her cheek like a tear that had come uninvited.
He paid.
The words echoed in her mind, again and again.
He paid.
A hand pressed gently to her back; it was her father’s. The same hand that had steadied her when she was small, still afraid of the dark or the deep parts of the river.
“Come now, Lyss,” he said softly. “Stand up straight. It’s a proud night.”
His voice was kind. But he had lied.
Lyssena thought both families exchanged a coin and some gifts. She knew that this was how marriage worked. She had hoped to bear many children to a man who would love her, and to come visit her family every few days. Lyssena prayed to all four gods for a good man and believed her family would do the same.
She believed her family would never lie.
Tears gathered at the base of her eyes as she lifted her head.
The man before her wore armor that might once have gleamed, but it was dulled with wear and dried blood. The metal was scuffed, smeared, likely signs of battle or . . . other things. Worse things.
His eyes were the kind of pale that looked blind, but they weren’t. They were evil, unblinking, and hungry.
When he smirked, a scar stretched across his cheek like a wound pulling itself open.
“I expected more freckles,” he said, gripping the hilt of his sword. “But I like the pale look. More delicate. Easier to bruise.”
