I’m not sure whose idea it was to finally feed the king’s half-starved, unwanted, inconvenient bride. Perhaps Captain Hael thought of it. While I don’t flatter myself that she cares for my wellbeing, she wouldn’t want me to outright starve to death. Not on her watch.
However it may be, the door to my room opens unceremoniously, startling me from a semi-doze. Hael stands in the opening and announces in monotone, “Food, Princess.” She steps aside to make room for a scuttling little person bearing a tray. The maid—for I take it this must be her role—is an unusual-looking creature. Her skin is rough, gray, and looks to be hard as rock. A condition called dorgarag, if I recall the trolde word correctly. Hael suffers from a similar malady, with stone-hard hide covering her right arm, her neck, and creeping up one cheek, while the rest of her skin is alabaster pale and smooth. Vor told me once that more and more trolde children are born with this strange skin, which some consider a sickness and others a holy sign.
“Thank you,” I say when the maid sets the tray down on the table beside my bed. Her pale eyes flick to mine ever-so briefly before she turns and scuttles from the room. No nod, no bow, no murmur. Perhaps she’s never seen a human before. Perhaps I am as unsettling to her eye as she is to mine. Or perhaps she, like my taciturn bodyguard, simply hates me for betraying her king.
Hael stands in the doorway. Her expression is entirely unreadable, her emotions impenetrable even to my prying gods-gift. “Does the Princess require anything else?”
I glance at the tray. I don’t know what to expect underneath the domed cover, whether I’ll find trolde food palatable to my human tastes and digestion. But I merely nod and offer the captain a faint smile. “That will be all. Thank you.”
Hael dips her chin once, steps from the room, and shuts the door firmly behind her.
I stare at the platter cover for a long while. I don’t remember when last I ate. But while my innards are cavernously empty, I don’t have any appetite. Would it be so bad to simply waste away without a fight? After all, I’ve never been the brave sister, the throw-myself-against-the-odds and claw-my-way-to victory sister. That was always Ilsevel. And even she never faced odds like this: a husband’s rejection, a kingdom’s hatred. No home, no allies, no help.
Closing my eyes, I bow my head and summon up a vision of my sisters’ faces. Ilsevel, fierce and fiery; Aurae, sweet and kind. I press a hand against my heart, feel the emptiness there. Even when I lived apart from them, I’ve always held my sisters close and dear. To know they are gone from this life . . . to know I’ll never see them again . . . never hear Ilsevel’s wicked laugh or feel Aurae’s gentle hand in mine . . .
A sob chokes in my throat. I press the back of my hand to my mouth. The truth is, I’ve scarcely had time to process my grief. And grief is such a wild, untamed creature, always returning at the most unexpected times to bite. But I must be strong. My sisters are lost. Killed. And those who killed them, who slaughtered them without mercy? Those monsters still run rampant throughout the kingdom, butchering innocents, setting fire to towns and villages. Pillaging, raping, destroying wherever they go. My kingdom. My people.
Gavaria needs this alliance. It needs these powerful trolde warriors to set Prince Ruvaen and his forces fleeing across the boundaries of the worlds, back to the dark realms where they belong. Gavaria needs King Vor and the might he wields.
Which, for the moment means . . . Gavaria needs me.
My jaw firms. I may not boast Ilsevel’s spirit, but I’ve spent my life fighting against my own body’s betrayals. I’ve not given in yet. I’ve always found some strength deep down, underneath the pain. Some reason to hold on, to fight, to forge ahead. So I will eat. I will live. And I will prevail.
I lift the platter lid. My eyes widen. I’d expected roasted cave crickets or fungi prepared in outlandish manners. Instead, I feast my gaze on hard-crusted rolls, butter-and-herb fish, sugared fruits, and pastries which, when cut into, reveal succulent roasted game and vegetables. Human dishes. My stomach growls. Suddenly, I’m more ravenous than I ever remember being. Niceties forgotten, I cram as many delicious mouthfuls in as quickly as possible. It’s only after I’ve polished off my third game pie that it suddenly occurs to me: all of these dishes were Ilsevel’s favorites.
My too-full stomach knots. Sitting back, I stare at the remains of the meal. Evidence of Vor’s consideration. He took the time and care to notice Ilsevel’s preferences while courting her in Beldroth and saw to it that the Mythanar larder was supplied appropriately. In the face of such kindness, how long would it have been before my sister truly fell in love with the bridegroom who so terrified her? Or would she soon have discovered the cruel, unrelenting, vindictive side of the Shadow King? The man who would send a woman to the block for daring to offend him.
A shiver races down my spine. Rising, I leave the platter on the table and step to the window. A view of the city lies before me, all white stone, carved and shaped by trolde artisans so that it seems to have sprung naturally into existence. So strange, so pale, so fantastical, ringed by high walls and accessible only by vaulting bridges. All beneath a stone ceiling set with shining crystals, like a hundred thousand subterranean stars.
The light of those crystals is fading now. What was it Vor called night in this world? Dimness, I think. How many days have passed since I came to this shadow realm? I lost track of time while down in the holding cell. And how long will I remain here? In this place between dimness and lusterling, between life and death, between prisoner and queen?
Determined to take some action, to prove in whatever small way I can that I still belong to myself, I leave the window and move to the wardrobe. It’s been too long since I changed from the flimsy white bridal negligee into this lavender gown, which has seen rough wear since. It’s time I freshened up. My perusal of the wardrobe is daunting, however. Most of the gowns prepared for the Shadow King’s bride are so elaborate, I don’t think I could dress myself in them if I tried. Eventually, I find a soft blue robe tucked away in the back. Whispering a prayer of thanks, I shed the purple gown and slip into this fresh garment, fastening the belt at my waist. Then I sit before a large, obsidian stone disk polished to a perfect mirror-shine. Finding a silver comb and brush on the low table, I set to work putting my hair to rights. I’ve just begun dividing it into sections for plaiting when my idle gaze falls on the crystal pendant resting against my breast.
It flares—a warm, red light down in its core.
In the same moment, a sickening thud bursts in my stomach. I gasp, drop my hair, the plait unweaving about my shoulders. Clutching my midsection, I struggle to draw breath through my tight throat. A second blow lands, this one hard enough I nearly fall from the stool on which I’m perched. My hand flies out, grips the edge of the table, knocking both brush and comb to the floor. Sweat beads my brow.
I know what this is. I’ve lived with my gods-gift long enough to recognize the signs. Someone else’s terrible emotions explode against my senses. Only . . . I drag in a gasping breath, panic thrilling in my veins as I scan the room. Where is this coming from? My gods-gift never reacts so strongly if the source isn’t in near proximity. But I’m alone in the room. A third blow. I bare my teeth and push myself up from the stool. Nearly doubled-over, I stagger across the room to the door and lean there heavily.
Low growls sound from the other side. Voices. Speaking troldish. One is Captain Hael, I’m sure of it. Her tone is sharp, like a guard dog’s bark. But the answering voice is more forceful by far—a deep, dangerous snarl. Hand trembling, I find the latch, turn it, crack the door just enough to peer out.
It’s Vor. Standing in the doorway of the apartment. He wears a wine-colored robe, open across the chest, only loosely belted. His feet are bare, his hair a pale storm about his head. His eyes are those of some crazed beast. I’ve never seen him like this, wild and dangerous. Not even in the midst of battle did he appear so savage.
Hael has assumed a defensive stance, her shoulders broad as though she’s trying to bar his way. Vor snarls at her again, his voice accompanied by a harsh gesture. Hael shakes her head. Vor takes hold of the front of her jerkin, dragging her face close to his own. He stares into her eyes, and she stares back, a silent battle of wills. I can do nothing but watch, my heart in my throat. My body shudders from the violence of emotion assaulting my every sense.
Then Hael bows her head. Vor lets go of her. She staggers back, head still bowed, and steps past him into the passage. There she pauses, looks back across the room to my door. Our gazes meet through the crack. Hael’s eyes widen ever so slightly. She shakes her head, opens her mouth—
The door slams. Vor stands in front of it, both hands pressed into the panels, leaning heavily against it. His shoulders heave with the force of his breath. I can see the terrible tension in his hands, in his fingers, all the way down the line of his back. I should retreat. I should shut this door. But I can only stand there, staring.
He turns at last. His hands clench into fists at his sides. Another wave of feeling rolls out from him, strikes me like a blow to the head. I cry out, stagger, grip the door frame for support. Shaking my head, I pull my gaze up, only to find him looking. At me.
His lips pull back, revealing his teeth. “Found you.”
I push the door shut with an ear-rattling slam and I cast my gaze wildly about for some lock or bolt, some way to secure it against him. There’s nothing. And Vor is already there. He pushes the door open so hard, I’m only just quick enough to keep from being struck. I stagger back, nearly tripping on the hem of my robe. I brace my feet, shake hair out of my eyes as I try to meet his terrifying gaze. I dare not look away.
He stands in the doorway, one arm up and gripping the frame. His robe sags, revealing the whole broad expanse of his torso. Light from the fading crystals casts deep shadows across the planes and contours of his muscular chest. He’s breathtaking, like a statue of living marble. But his face is animalistic, and the heat radiating from his core sears my brain.
This is the man who ordered my execution. The man who wants me dead.
He stalks toward me. One step, two. Another terrible wave rolls out from him. A soul-darkness so dense it’s almost visible. It hits me, and I cry out in pain. The sound of my voice seems to startle him. He pauses, giving me a chance to recover, to wrap my arms around my quivering body. “Vor,” I breathe raggedly. “Vor, please.”
He lunges.
With a desperate cry, I grab the table close at hand and wrench it over. A useless defense. Vor does not stop. He picks the table up, hurls it into the wall, where it smashes into kindling. Then he whirls upon me, chest heaving, teeth bared.
“You humiliated me,” he snarls.
I shake my head. “Please, Vor. I didn’t mean—”
He springs. I put up my arms in defense, but he’s too fast, too strong. One large hand catches my wrist while the other grips me by the shoulder, whirls me around, slams me against the wall. My breath is knocked from my lungs. Instinctively, I try to push him away, but he takes hold of both my wrists, pins them above my head. His eyes burn down at me.
Our faces are so close. The heat of his ragged breath blasts against my lips. My chest swells, struggling to drag in air. I’m painfully aware that the front of my robe has fallen open. His gaze rakes over me, lingering, lascivious. I squirm, desperate to hide myself, and his eyes shoot to mine again, freezing me in place. There’s more than hatred in his gaze. There’s lust as well, hot and pulsing. Terrifying. I drop my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Look at me,” he snarls.
My eyelids jerk back up. I’m caught in his stare, like a mouse hypnotized by the serpent.
“Beg,” he says. “Beg my forgiveness. For what you have done.”
My lips quiver. “Forgive me, Vor,” I whimper.
“No.”
Then his mouth crushes against mine. It’s not a kiss. It’s too rough, too violent to be anything like a kiss. A bruising, terrible claiming. I scream into his mouth, twisting, struggling to pull away, to escape. The heat of his lust pours into me, pools in my chest, in my gut, in my loins.
He breaks away at last, stares into my eyes once more. “Beg me to stop,” he says.
I shake my head. Part of me wants to plead with him, to implore his mercy. But I cannot find the words. Not anymore. He is so close, so overwhelming. I can scarcely discern where he ends and I begin.
“Beg me, Faraine.” He shifts his grip so that he can hold both my wrists with one large, powerful hand, freeing up the other. Slowly, languorously, he trails one finger along the line of my cheek, my jaw, down my throat. There, he encounters the chain of my necklace, which he loops once, twice, around his thumb. With a vicious tug, he breaks it and tosses my crystal pendant to the floor. “No!” I cry, trying to dart after it. He grips my shoulder and pushes me back into the wall. I’m helpless in his grasp.
“I’m waiting,” he says. “I might yet hear you. If you weep.” He bends in closer, nuzzling my cheek, his breath against my ear. “I like tears, Faraine.”
I shake my head fiercely. I won’t do it. I won’t give him the satisfaction. His lips press against my temple, my jaw, my neck. The hand on my shoulder tightens around a fistful of fabric. With a predatory growl, he yanks it back, exposing more skin. His mouth, hungry and hot, moves down my throat, tasting, ravenous. Teeth scrape against sensitive flesh while his tongue flicks over my wildly racing pulse. I sink further, deeper into the well of his pain, drowning.
He draws back, hisses through his flashing teeth. Slowly, he releases his hold on my robe. His hand slides instead to my waist, fingers working to undo the belt buckle. His knee nudges between my legs, forcing them apart.
“Beg for mercy, Faraine. Your king commands it.”
“Vor,” I breathe. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t I?”
I’m weeping now. Tears stream down my face. Never would I have believed this man could be so cruel, so base, so violent. How could I have been so wrong? How could I have thought I loved him? Desperately I look up into his face. Gone are the pale, silvery eyes of the man I knew. Instead, I gaze into two black voids.
Suddenly, I am standing outside of my body, poised on the brink of a terrible chasm. I stare over the edge, down into impenetrable darkness from which hot blasts of air belch, burning my skin. I wheel my arms, trying to find my balance, trying to draw back again. But it’s too late.
I fall.
Unembodied, helpless, hopeless, I pitch into oblivion. The heat intensifies, until I’m sure it will burn away my very being, leaving nothing but the hollowed-out core of my body behind. I try to scream, try to grasp at the walls, but I can do neither. I can do nothing but fall and burn and fall and burn—
With a painful gasp, my whole body spasms. I blink hard, shocked to find myself embodied once more, still pressed against that wall. Vor’s strong hand grips my hipbone underneath the skirt of my robe, his fingers hot against my skin. I jerk my head up, look into his eyes.
Silver eyes.
Wide with shock. With horror.
“Faraine?” he gasps. “Faraine, what . . . what have I . . .?”
In that moment, the room begins to quake.
