Forty-Seven
ChApter
Celeste
Iwake to silence.
Not the familiar stillness of Ivystone, where the distant murmur of guards and the occasional hoot of an owl drift through the night. Not the shuffling of feet as the servants prepare the castle for the day. This silence is thicker, weighted, like the air itself is pressing in around me.
My body is sluggish, my limbs aching in a way that doesn’t feel like simple exhaustion.
My head throbs, a dull, pulsing ache at the base of my skull.
I reach up, inspecting my scalp, to find a swollen bump that’s sensitive to the touch.
My throat is raw, my limbs as heavy as stone.
For a moment, I can’t remember where I am.
The bed beneath me is too stiff, the air too cold. Not Ivystone. Not Delasurvia.
Not… safe.
I blink against the dim light filtering through a small window, my vision sharpening slowly.
Despite the panic building in my chest, I sit up with a groan, the blankets stiff with embroidery and the chill biting through to my bones.
The chamber is unfamiliar, vast and grim, stone walls slick with moisture, the windows tall and narrow like arrow slits.
Frost grips the corners of the glass, a pale shimmer that makes everything feel… dead.
The bed beneath me is simple but not unpleasant.
The sheets are soft, the wool blanket heavy against my legs.
The walls are stone, adorned with a delicate woven tapestry depicting a winter landscape.
A wooden table sits near the hearth, a single chair tucked beneath it.
A small basin rests on a side table, a cloth neatly folded beside it.
Everything is pretty, comfortable—but wrong.
Because this is not Ivystone.
And I don’t know how I got here.
I’m still wearing the clothes I pulled on when—
A shudder runs through me as the memories come flooding back.
The note. The stables. Nadya’s warning. And then the fear in her eyes.
The chemical smell.
Torbin.
My stomach knots so violently I think I might retch. I was right. Torbin lives. And it was his hands that dragged me from the stables. My chest tightens, breath coming too fast, and I clutch the bed frame to steady myself. Of course it was him. Of course.
The door creaks open. I flinch, instinctively reaching for a dagger that isn’t there. I sit up too quickly, my head swimming as a figure steps inside. I immediately jump to the opposite side of the bed and take a defensive stance.
A woman enters—middle-aged, small in stature, sharp cheekbones, and a long braid falling over one shoulder. She’s bundled in layers of dark wool with the skirt of her grey dress scraping the floor. She’s holding a tray, steam curling from a delicate porcelain teacup.
She meets my gaze, her expression calm, unreadable.
“Who are you?” I rasp. “Where am I?”
She says something softly, but the words are garbled, alien. A strange, sharp rhythm to them. It’s not the common language, but I’ve heard this dialect before. From the refugees we rescued. It’s Dulcamaran.
I shake my head. “I don’t—I don’t understand you.”
She responds again in the same language, her voice gentle, but I can’t make sense of a single word. I try to interpret her signals as she gestures toward the tea.
I shake my head. “No. What is it? What do you want from me?”
Again, she says something, her tone insistent but not unkind. She places the tray on a nearby table, points to her ears, and then lifts the cup, holding it out to me with both hands.
The steam carries something earthy, almost metallic. My lips are cracked, my throat parched, and her eyes carry a kindness that doesn’t match the coldness of the room.
“Fine,” I mutter, my hand trembling as I take the cup. “But if this is poison…”
She gives me a tight, amused smile that I don’t need translated.
The tea burns on the way down—bitter, thick, with a strange mineral aftertaste. My tongue tingles. I finish the tea, not because of the taste, but because my throat is thick and dry. For a moment, I feel lightheaded, and then my ears pop.
“My name is Staja,” the woman says. As clear as day.
I freeze. “I… I understand you.”
Staja nods. “The tea. Brewed by our court sorceress. It allows your mind to receive our tongue. It will last a day. Perhaps two, if your fae blood doesn’t fight it.”
I lower the cup slowly. “You work for Prince Torbin?”
“He has commanded that I see to your comfort.” She pauses. “He will want to speak with you soon.”
My stomach sinks.
Of course he will. My blood turns to ice, and a chill slides down my spine, colder than the northern air seeping through the window. My mind is spinning—not from the tea, but from the reality of where I am and why. Slowly, I step toward the bed and sit on the edge.
He’s abducted me. Taken me against my will.
My breath catches.
Nadya.
I lurch forward, grabbing Staja’s arm. “My friend. Where is she?”
She doesn’t flinch, but her voice remains calm. “She’s unharmed. In a room much like this one. She’s not been touched. The prince said she won’t be harmed, so long as you cooperate.”
Nadya is here. He has her. Trapped like me.
My knees nearly give out, and I stumble backward until I hit the edge of the bed.
I should fight. I should find her.
The thought strikes me with sudden clarity.
My strength hasn’t fully returned, but I still have power—power that I haven’t yet mastered, but power nonetheless.
If I concentrated hard enough, I could overtake Staja and escape this room.
Then I could search for Nadya, find her somehow, and try to escape.
No. The soldier in me knows the risk is too great.
I don’t know how many guards are stationed beyond that door, how many people Staja could call with a single shout.
I have no idea how big this castle is or where to begin looking for Nadya.
And I don’t know how involved this woman before me is.
Just because she works for him does not mean she’s loyal to him.
Staja watches me carefully, her posture too poised to give anything away. She takes the teacup from me, setting it down with a quiet clink, then folds her hands in front of her. “The prince is expecting you for dinner.”
Dinner? What time is it?
My mind spins, not just from my confusion, but from the lingering ache in my head.
Staja crosses to a tall, iron-handled dresser and opens it with a groan of hinges. From within, she draws out a dress.
If it can even be called that.
The fabric is sheer and flows like mist between her fingers—a slip of dark-blue chiffon with a neckline that plunges far too low and sleeves that fall off the shoulders in diaphanous drapes. The bodice is boned but narrow, the skirt split up the sides, meant to reveal rather than conceal.
“That’s it?” I ask, my voice raw. “It’s freezing in here.”
Staja doesn’t answer. She simply holds the dress out to me with quiet resignation.
I square my shoulders. “I’m not going,” I say.
Her gaze flicks to the closed door, then back to me. She takes a hesitant step forward. “Please… it would be better—for both of us—if you do what he says.”
I frown. “‘Both of us’? Did Torbin threaten you?”
She shakes her head, eyes tight with something like fear. “He didn’t need to. I’ve seen what happens to those who don’t obey. I’d like to keep my position… and my skin.” She swallows, her voice softer now. “And if you want to keep your friend safe—”
The walls feel closer now, like they’re pressing in, heavy and damp.
I can taste salt on my tongue, and my clothes suddenly feel thick with dirt and dried sweat.
Despite the chill in the air, my chest tightens with a sick heat that makes it hard to breathe.
My ears ring with the sharp thrum of my pulse.
He has Nadya.
And I don’t have a choice but to do as he says, for her sake.
And maybe, I can trick him into telling me where she is.
I nod slowly, tasting the bitterness of surrender on my tongue. “Fine.”
Relief washes over Staja’s features. She sets the dress gently across the bed, smoothing the folds like it’s something sacred.
“I’ll prepare the bath,” she says, walking toward a second door—this one carved with curling floral motifs that feel out of place in such a cold place.
As the sound of running water reaches my ears, I stand and go to the window. I rub the condensation from the glass, but all I can see outside are snow-covered mountains. Flurries drift down at a steady pace, but otherwise, there is absolutely no movement to be seen.
After a few minutes, Staja emerges from the bathing chamber, and steam rolls out with her. “Your bath is ready, Your Highness.”
The warmth of the room envelops me as soon as I step inside. The air is thick with the scent of lavender and pine. A copper tub sits in the center, filled with steaming water that ripples with my reflection. Dozens of small candles line the stone shelves, their flames soft and flickering.
“The prince instructed me that you be made pristine,” Staja says gently. “That I use the finest soaps and oils. For your body. Your hair. He said he doesn’t want any scents from… before… clinging to you. He wants you perfect for him.”
Her voice doesn’t betray emotion, but her hands wring together nervously.
‘Scents from before’? What does she mean?
I stare at the water, the fragrant oils already glimmering on its surface like a lure. I grit my teeth and step toward the bath.
I have to admit that the hot water makes me feel better. It warms my chilled bones and loosens my muscles. I only stay in long enough to ensure I’m clean, and when I step from the bath, Staja is ready with a thick towel.
Though I could manage alone, Staja helps me slip into the thin dress. The bodice molds tightly to my skin, cinching just beneath my ribs, and the sheer skirt offers no warmth, brushing like breath against my thighs. I shiver, arms prickling with gooseflesh, and not just from the cold.
She doesn’t meet my eyes as she opens a small jar of glittering lotion, the scent of vanilla and clove thick in the air. “He likes when the light catches,” she murmurs, smoothing it onto my bare shoulders, down my arms, across the tops of my breasts. “Says it makes the skin look like starlight.”
My stomach roils. I clench my jaw, my breath catching in my throat. I couldn’t care less what he fucking likes. But I don’t argue with her. It’s not Staja’s fault I’m in this mess.
As she moves behind me, gathering my hair and combing it out with quick, practiced strokes, a wave of helplessness crashes over me.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be back at Ivystone. I should be with—
Dante.
Oh, gods!
I close my eyes, willing the memory to surface. The last moment I saw him. That look in his eyes—part challenge, part promise—as he asked me to decide what I really wanted. To choose him.
And I did.
I was going to tell him. I was ready to—
My chest seizes, the air sucked from my lungs like I’ve been punched. My blood feels like lead, like I’m being weighed down despite my urgency to run.
He must’ve gone to find me. To hear my answer. Only to find nothing but silence.
What if he thinks I left because my answer was no? That I ran away instead of choosing him?
The thought slices clean through me.
No. Please, no. Not after everything. Not after all we’ve been through.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek and press trembling fingers to my temples.
“Dante.”
The name echoes inside me—not spoken aloud but hurled like a stone into the icy air.
My telepathic magic has always been unpredictable.
I don’t even know how to control it. It didn’t work when I tried it on Nadya.
I don’t know if it’s bound by distance, or by the chaos of my emotions. But I have to try.
“Dante, please. Hear me. I didn’t leave you. I didn’t run. I was taken. Torbin has me—and Nadya too.”
I wait. I pray. I don’t even care if it hurts me; the pain will be worth it if he hears me. I open my senses, hoping to feel that familiar buzz I felt when Dante heard me before. But there’s nothing.
Only the creak of the floorboards as Staja shifts behind me, weaving delicate braids into my hair.
“I was going to say yes, Dante. I was ready to say yes. Please don’t think otherwise.”
Still nothing.
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry now. Not with Torbin waiting. Not with Nadya’s life tangled in the knot of mine.
A shiver travels up my spine, and I feel as if I could jump out of my skin. I just hope that Dante is confident enough in our love to know I would never abandon him and to have the resolve to come find me.