Chapter 9 #2
As if to prove her point, a wave of dizziness swept through Briar. She'd attributed it to exhaustion, fear, the cold. But now that the healer mentioned it, she could feel the steady seep of warmth down her back.
"The bath is ready, my lady," one of the younger servants said. This one did meet her eyes briefly—a flash of something that resembled sympathy before her expression smoothed back to neutrality. "We'll need to clean the wounds before the healer can work."
They waited, clearly expecting her to comply. The alternative was bleeding out slowly on Malachar's floor, which would only give him satisfaction. Survival meant accepting their help, even if it came on his orders.
She forced herself to stand, legs unsteady.
The servants moved immediately, one steadying her elbow, another beginning to work at the cloak's fastenings.
Their hands were impersonal but gentle as they peeled away the blood-stiffened fabric.
She heard a soft intake of breath when they revealed her back.
"Three punctures on each shoulder," the healer noted, clinical in her assessment. "Deep but clean. The venom's kept them from closing. We'll need to draw it out first."
They guided her to the alcove where the copper tub waited and the servants worked with mechanical efficiency, removing the ruined nightgown, their faces carefully blank at the bruises on her hips that had nothing to do with harpies.
The water burned when she sank into it, every cut and scrape announcing itself. The healer added something to the bath that turned it pale green and made the wounds sting worse before the pain began to numb. Blood clouded the water, more than seemed possible.
"The venom's breaking down," the healer explained, working some kind of paste into the punctures. It smelled sharp, medicinal, and made her skin tingle. "This will draw out the rest."
While the healer worked, other servants laid out clothing on the bed.
Not one dress but several, as if she had a choice in what cage she wore.
The gowns were beautiful enough to make her chest ache—one in white so pure it seemed to glow, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that looked like frost on windows.
Another in the palest blue, like winter sky just after dawn, with billowing sleeves that gathered at the wrists with pearl clasps.
A third in deeper blue-gray, the color of storm clouds over snow, with white fur trim at the neckline and hem.
All of them were designed to cover more than anything she'd worn at Eliam's court. All of them were meant to make her look like she belonged here, in Malachar's domain.
"This will scar," the healer said, finishing her work with bandages that seemed to adhere to skin without wrapping. "But you'll live. The venom's neutralized."
They helped her from the bath, wrapping her in soft towels that smelled of lavender and something else, something that made the warmth in her chest recoil slightly. Magic of some kind, woven into the very fabric. Mountain Court magic that her body recognized as foreign, wrong.
"Which gown, my lady?" The servant who'd shown that flash of sympathy held up the white one.
"I don't care." The words came out flat.
They chose the pale blue, perhaps thinking it most appropriate for day wear.
Their hands dressed her like a doll, layer after layer—chemise, corset that they mercifully didn't tighten too much given her injuries, the gown itself with its impossible softness.
They braided her hair in a style she didn't recognize, weaving white ribbons through it that caught the light like fresh snow.
When they finished, she looked in the mirror they held up and saw a stranger.
A winter lady, pale and ethereal, nothing of the forest left on her.
Nothing of Eliam's marks visible beneath the high neckline.
Even the warmth in her chest seemed muted, struggling against the wrongness of everything she wore.
"Lord Malachar wishes you to know he'll visit this evening," the sympathy-servant said quietly as the others gathered their things. "To ensure you're... settling in comfortably."
The words sent ice through her veins that had nothing to do with winter magic.
They left the food, the fire still crackling, everything arranged as if she were an honored guest. But the door still locked behind them. The windows, she'd already checked, were sealed with magic that made her fingers burn when she touched the latches.
Three days, he'd said. Three days of this mockery of hospitality before Malus came to claim his "gift."
She sat back down by the fire, finding what little solace she could in its warmth, and wondered if Karse and Thaine were even still alive. If anyone knew where she was.
If it mattered either way.
The hours stretched, marked only by the slow crawl of shadows across the floor. The food grew cold on its trays, untouched. Briar couldn't bring herself to eat anything he'd provided, her stomach twisted too tight with dread.
The sky beyond the windows had long since grown dark when the lock turned with a soft click. Briar held her breath, hoping, praying, that it was a servant come to check on her.
It wasn’t.
Malachar entered without waiting for permission, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. He'd changed from his earlier clothing into something darker, midnight blue that made his platinum hair seem to glow in the firelight. The ornate eye patch caught the light as he turned to study her.
"I hope you’re finding your stay satisfactory?" His voice carried that same cultured tone, as if this were a social call. "I see you haven't eaten. That won't do at all."
He moved further into the room, gliding casually past where she was sitting to pause at the window and gaze out at the darkening sky. "Beautiful evening. The storms that come through these mountains at night are quite spectacular."
She watched him warily, not trusting his casual demeanor.
"Nothing to say?" He turned towards her, their eyes meeting from across the room. "You were far more talkative the last time we met."
The reference to that night, to what he'd tried to do, made her grip the chair arms tighter.
"Oh, how thoughtless of me. I brought you something," he said, producing a box from his jacket. It was made of carved wood, beautiful and intricate. He set it on the small table between them, then stepped back. "A gift. To commemorate your stay."
"I don't want anything from you."
"No? Not even curious?" He settled into the chair across from her, the fire between them. "Your Forest Lord enjoyed giving you gifts, didn't he? That dress you wore to dinner—exquisite work. Though I notice you're no longer wearing his marks so proudly."
Her hand went unconsciously to her throat, where the high neckline hid Eliam's thorns.
"Ah, they're still there then." His satisfaction was evident. "How loyal. Even after he threw you away. No matter, you’re here now and I am not so foolish as to let you slip away."
"Open the gift," he said, his tone shifting from conversational to commanding.
She didn't move.
He sighed, standing with fluid grace. "Very well."
He crossed to the table and opened the box himself, revealing what lay inside.
It was a collar. Silver, delicate, decorated with etched patterns that looked like frost spreading across metal.
Beautiful enough to be a necklace if not for the unmistakable latch, the way it was clearly meant to close around a throat and stay there.
"No." She stood, backing toward the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" He didn't move, just watched her with amusement. "The door is locked. The windows are sealed. There's nowhere to run."
She tried the door handle anyway, pulling at it uselessly.
"This can be civilized," he said, lifting the collar from its box. "You can sit, let me put this on, and we can continue our evening. Or..." He let the threat hang.
"I won't wear it."
"Won't you?" He moved toward her slowly, collar in hand. "You have such limited options here."
She darted left, trying to get around him to the fireplace where there were tools, weapons. He cut her off easily, herding her toward the corner.
"This game grows tiresome," he said.
When he lunged, she was ready, dropping and rolling beneath his grasp. But he was fae, faster than human reflexes could match. His hand caught her braid, yanking her back. She cried out, hands going to her hair.
"Such spirit," he murmured, using the grip to force her to her knees. "Let's see how long that lasts."
She fought him, clawing at his hands, trying to twist away. But he was stronger than she could hope to match. He forced her head back, exposing her throat, and she felt the cold metal settle against her skin.
The moment it clicked shut, something changed.
The fight drained out of her, siphoned away like water through a drain. Her raised fist fell, the strength in her arms evaporating. The fury that had been burning in her chest dimmed to an ember, leaving her gasping.
"There we are." He released her hair, stepping back to admire his work. "Much better."
She raised shaking hands to the collar, fingers finding the latch. It wouldn't budge, sealed by magic or mechanism she couldn't determine. The metal was ice-cold against her throat, pressing against the marks Eliam had left.
"What did you—"
"It's quite ingenious, really." He produced a length of pale blue ribbon from his pocket, threaded with tiny silver bells that chimed softly. "The more you fight, the more it takes. Your defiance, your anger, your will to resist—it feeds on all of it."
He knelt in front of her, threading the ribbon through a loop in the collar she hadn't noticed. The bells chimed with every movement, delicate and musical and horrible.
"Eventually," he continued, tying the ribbon in an elaborate bow, "you'll learn not to fight at all. It's so much easier to simply... comply."
The warmth in her chest recoiled from the collar's magic, shrinking deeper inside her. She felt disconnected from it, like trying to reach something through thick glass.
"We're going for a walk." He stood, holding the end of the ribbon like a leash. "You can walk beside me with dignity, or I can drag you. Your choice."
She tried to summon anger at the mockery of choice, but the collar pulled it away before it could fully form, leaving her feeling hollow and strange. When she tried to stand on her own, her legs shook from the energy drain.
"I see you need a moment to adjust." His satisfaction was palpable. "The first drain is always the most dramatic. You'll learn to manage it. Or not."
He waited while she struggled to her feet, the bells chiming with every movement. The sound would announce her presence wherever they went, ensuring everyone looked, everyone saw what she'd become.
"Come." He tugged the ribbon gently. "I have something to show you. Some new additions to my collection you might find... interesting."
The way he said it made dread pool in her stomach. She followed on unsteady legs, the bells singing her humiliation with every step, the collar a weight around her throat that had nothing to do with its physical presence.
Whatever he wanted to show her, she knew it would be another cruelty, another turn of the knife. But the collar had taken her ability to properly resist, leaving her hollow and compliant, exactly as he'd intended.