Chapter Three
F ive days.
I am not confined to a dungeon or chained to a chair.
I am not even restricted to one of the Dryma’s bubbles.
The noble women use the bubbles as a containment that they can insert magicks into for the more feisty prisoners. Or those in their care for health-related conditions.
But I am not lucky enough to be injured.
And my fear of this place makes me a much more compliant prisoner.
So no Dryma bubble for me.
Instead, I am simply locked in this room. My room, if Laeryne has any say in it.
The King’s sister is the last elvish woman I ever wanted to see again. Well, her and my betrothed, of course. Gods willing, I will still have at least a week before I have to face the Princess again.
Reasoning with them has gotten me nowhere. I have told them that Forsythia is my mate.
However, once they were able to identify Blake as her mate, they refused to believe that a simple earthly witch could possibly have more than one mate. Since soulbonds are nearly non-existent in the fae realm, they don’t even have the means to test my words for truth.
Not that they would actually care to, anyway. They would probably prefer to simply take something that did belong to someone else as a power play.
Of course, their insulting words about Forsythia being a mere earthly witch earned one of my guards a broken nose.
The elves used to be such a nature-driven race. Peaceful, regal, and kind with their peoples.
Now?
Now they are so detached from nature that the royals try to be as far from the ground as possible. Whether the distance is out of shame from their muted magicks or due to their developed aversion to getting dirty, I am not sure.
When I look out the window of my room, the subjects below are so far away it is indiscernible if they are even elven themselves. I watch as the people scatter to avoid a lone walking figure. No doubt noble.
The people don’t thrive as they once did.
Even the light of the fae realms– the two suns– seem so much duller than before.
My sudden agitation causes me to quickly withdraw from the window.
Why should the lives of others– of both strangers and my captors– bother me so?
My mind begins to wind back to my brethren, and my last bit of strength is pulled under with my emotions. My legs give out from underneath me as my body slides to the ground. I cover my face with my hands and let go.
I weep for the people below my tower prison who live in fear and poverty.
I weep for the land that I once called home, which is closer now than it has been in years.
But mostly, I weep for my love. My heart. My brother. My new family and the future we could have made together.
When my tears begin to dry, and my body feels completely wrung out, I hear the creaking sound of my door opening. The smell of heavily lye’d soaps overwhelms me, and I hold my breath While trying not to show any outward signs of emotion.
Only one person smells like that.
“Good morning, my delicious toy.”
My worst fucking nightmare…