Chapter 6
The handlers don't let go of my arms until we're corridors away from the Concord chamber.
My mouth tastes like copper. Blood from where Lord Coin's ring split my lip, pooling against my teeth. I swallow it because spitting seems like the thing that gets you hit again, and I've already met my quota for today.
The marble walls blur past. Left turn. Right turn. Stairs down. I'm counting—habit, not hope. Fourteen steps to the first landing. Twenty-two to the second. Three guards at the door. Two more flanking the exit. Not that it matters. I'm not running anywhere.
My father is somewhere behind us. I heard his footsteps in the chamber, that shuffle he does when he's nervous. He didn't say anything when they grabbed me. Didn't look at me when Lord Coin's hand connected with my face.
Seris tried. I caught the movement in my peripheral—her hand lifting, reaching toward me before someone pulled her back. Our father, probably. Can't have the spare daughter causing a scene.
Don't think about her. Don't.
The handlers shove me through a side door and into bright afternoon light.
Arkenhold spreads out ahead of us, all that gleaming architecture built on divine bones.
People turn to stare as we pass. A woman in Coin's colors.
A merchant who quickly looks away. A child who points before his mother yanks his arm down.
I'm a spectacle now. The Solyne girl who got sold to pay her father's debts. They'll be talking about it in every market square by nightfall.
Let them talk.
At least someone's getting entertainment value out of my shit life.
My lip throbs. I run my tongue over the split and taste fresh blood. The bruises on my arms are already darkening—I can feel them without looking, that ache of pressure held too long. The handlers haven't loosened their grip since we left the chamber.
The god's face keeps surfacing. Silver-white eyes. That stillness before he stood, the way the whole chamber contracted around him. The very obvious—
No. Not thinking about that either.
He stood up. That's the part my brain won't release. Lord Coin hit me and a god stood up. Not to help—gods don't help mortals, that's not how any of this works. But he stood, and the room changed, and for one stupid second I thought—
Nothing. I thought nothing. I'm smarter than that.
We turn onto the main thoroughfare. Coin's estate rises at the end of the street, white stone and gold trim catching the afternoon sun.
Pretty.
Expensive.
Architecture that screams we own everything and we want you to know it.
The gates open before we reach them. Someone was watching. Someone's always watching.
Inside, the noise of the city drops away. Manicured gardens. Servants in matching livery who don't look at me as we pass.
I'm nobody here.
Less than nobody.
A line item on a ledger, a debt paid in flesh.
At least the math is simple.
The handlers take me through a side entrance, down a corridor lined with portraits of people who look like they've never missed a meal in their lives.
We pass a training yard—I catch a glimpse of bodies sparring, the crack of wood on wood—and then we're inside again, climbing stairs, turning corners until I've stopped bothering to track them.
They stop in front of a heavy door. One of them knocks twice.
"Enter."
The voice is male. Bored. Bored and certain—the combination that always means pain is coming, because people with that voice make their own entertainment.
The door opens and the handlers push me through.
The room is an office. Large desk, expensive chairs, windows overlooking the training yard below. A man sits behind the desk, watching me. His eyes move over my body the way my father inspects horses before purchase.
Checking for defects.
Deciding what needs breaking first.
Kairis. I know the name. Everyone knows the name. Coin's enforcer. The one who handles discipline.
Lucky fucking me.
"The Solyne tribute." He stands, moves around the desk. Tall. Broad. Built to break things smaller than him, and I'm considerably smaller than him. "I expected someone more... impressive."
"Join the club." It comes out flat. Quiet. Shut up shut up shut up—
He circles me slowly. I track his hands—both empty, both loose at his sides. His footsteps are heavy on the stone floor. He's not trying to be quiet.
"You spoke out of turn in the Concord." He's behind me now. I don't turn. My shoulders are screaming at me to move, to run, to do something other than stand here waiting. I don't move. "Embarrassed my representative. Made House Coin look foolish."
Still don't answer.
"When I give an instruction, you obey. Immediately. Without question." He's in front of me again. "Kneel."
My knees lock. Just for a second—this stupid, involuntary refusal that I know is going to cost me. But my body doesn't give a shit about consequences right now. My body remembers every time I knelt for my father and got hit anyway.
Kairis's eyes narrow.
The first blow catches me across the face. Same cheek Daiven hit. The pain layers on top of the existing bruise and I stumble sideways, catch myself on a chair.
"Kneel."
I straighten up. My vision swims. Blood is running from my lip again, dripping onto the expensive carpet.
I don't kneel.
His hand closes around my throat. Not squeezing—not yet. Just holding. Reminding me what he could do.
"You have spirit." He sounds almost amused. "I'm going to enjoy breaking it."
He lifts.
My feet leave the ground. The pressure builds—enough to cut off air entirely. My hands come up automatically, grabbing at his wrist, useless. The room narrows. My pulse fills my ears. I can feel it pounding in my face, my throat, everywhere his hand isn't letting blood flow properly.
"You belong to Coin now. Your body. Your obedience. Your compliance." He brings his face close to mine. His breath smells like mint. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll beg for the privilege of kneeling."
He drops me.
I hit the floor hard.
My hip.
My elbow.
My head cracks against stone and everything goes white. Then I'm gasping, throat burning, hands shaking against the tile while the room spins.
Stand up. Stand up stand up stand—
I get my feet under me. Push up. My legs want to buckle but I lock them, force myself vertical, force my spine straight even though everything hurts and my vision keeps graying at the edges.
Kairis watches me with the same bored look all powerful men have.
"Take her to the intake room," he says to the handlers. "Standard processing. I'll continue her orientation tomorrow."
They grab my arms again—right on the bruises—and I let them. Fighting now would be stupid. I've made my point, whatever point that was, and pushing further just means more pain for no gain.
Pick your battles.
Survive until you can't.
The corridor tilts as we walk. My legs aren't working right. The handlers half-drag me, and I focus on keeping my feet moving, on swallowing the blood still pooling in my mouth, on not throwing up on anyone's shoes.
More stairs.
My head throbs where it hit the floor.
The intake room is cold. White tile. A drain in the center of the floor. Two women in Coin's livery wait with buckets and rough cloth.
They strip me without ceremony. The dress my father bought for the Concord session—gets tossed in a corner. I stand naked under harsh light while they scrub me down with water that's just this side of freezing.
I've been cold before.
I've been stripped before, by servants who thought I wouldn't tell anyone.
This isn't new.
Just more hands on a body that stopped feeling like mine years ago.
One of them mutters something about the bruises. The other shushes her.
Right.
Can't comment on the merchandise. Bad form.
They dress me in Coin's colors—gold thread on cream silk. A collar of ownership disguised as jewelry. The clothes fit perfectly.
The handlers return. New route this time—through corridors that get progressively more ornate. Heading toward the guest wing. The gilded cage where they keep the valuable ones.
The room they put me in is beautiful.
Silk curtains. A bed the size of my childhood bedroom. Gold fixtures on everything—the lamps, the mirror frame, the handles on the wardrobe doors. A balcony overlooking the gardens, locked from the outside.
I tested it.
The door locks behind them as the servants leave.
I stand in the center of the room and breathe.
My throat aches.
My face throbs.
The bruises on my arms have gone from red to purple, finger-shaped shadows that will yellow before they fade. My lip has finally stopped bleeding, but I can feel the swelling starting, my mouth gone lopsided.
Tomorrow, Kairis will continue my orientation. Whatever that means. Nothing good. But that's tomorrow, and today already used up everything I had.
I cross to the mirror and look at myself.
Same green eyes, same brown hair they've pinned up in some elaborate style I'll rip out. Same freckles my father calls imperfections.
Same bruises.
Different hands.
I sink onto the edge of the bed. The silk is soft against my legs. Everything in this room is soft, designed for comfort, and I want to tear it apart with my teeth.
I should be thinking about survival. Mapping the estate, identifying allies, finding the cracks I can exploit. That's what smart people do in cages—they plan their survival.
Instead I'm thinking about him.
The god of House Discord.
I keep circling back to it, and I keep telling myself to stop. He stood up. That's all. He stood up because Daiven hit me. Gods don't do that. Not for mortals. Not for anyone, probably. Politics maybe. Some power play I don't understand.
They do call him the Mad God for a reason.
That makes sense. That's the obvious answer.
Except he had an erection.
A very large one.
My face goes hot. The whole chamber noticed. He didn't even try to hide it.
My stomach flips.
No.
What the fuck.
Stop.
He's a god. I'm a debt payment. Whatever happened in that chamber has nothing to do with me. This is stupid. He's probably done this before, gotten off on violence, gotten off on—
But.
He stood up.
My chest aches.
Not tears.
I don't cry.
Haven't cried since I learned it just makes my father angrier. But my throat is tight and my eyes burn and I'm so fucking tired of being surprised when someone treats me like a person.
That's pathetic.
I know it's pathetic.
Doesn't make it less true.
I lie back on the silk sheets and stare at the ceiling. Gold leaf patterns. Stars and moons. The kind of craftsmanship that takes months, all of it looking down on a girl who's about to be broken into something useful.
Tomorrow, Kairis will hurt me again. And the next day. And the day after that. Until I kneel. Until I beg. Until I become whatever Coin wants me to be.
That's the plan. That's how this ends.
But I keep seeing silver eyes. Keep hearing the crack of Daiven's nose breaking against a god's forehead. Keep feeling this stupid warmth that won't fade no matter how many times I tell myself it doesn't mean anything.
It doesn't change anything. I know that.
It shouldn't matter.
It matters anyway.
I hate that.