Chapter 1 #2
Why would someone like him give a single damn about a human seamstress with no family, no fortune, no power?
Before she could ask, Valea stepped closer and caught her arm, far stronger than any mortal woman could to be.
“Come,” Valea commanded, voice even but sharp as a whip crack. “There is much to be done with you.”
Maris’s mind spun, fighting to hold on to a sliver of sense.
“Why?” she blurted, voice cracking.
Kael’s eyes found hers one last time. Something flickered there, buried deep, so fast she almost missed it —regret maybe, or a shadow of something else.
Before she could protest, Valea was already pulling her through a side corridor where the chill grew deeper and the rose scent thickened until it turned almost cloying.
Maris twisted to look back but Kael was already turning away, cloak flaring behind him like the sweep of tendril shadows, lost in the darkness of that terrible, beautiful hall.
Maris tried to memorize the path Valea dragged her through, but the corridors twisted like a nest of serpents, each archway identical in its brutal, cold elegance.
Black marble polished to a mirror sheen, torches burning with that odd, silver flame, casting shadows that danced and seemed to watch her.
Her footsteps echoed across the stone, occasionally muffled by carpets woven into intricate landscapes or battle scenes. As she walked, she could almost taste the scent of those ever-present flowers, syrupy sweet, but undercut with something sharp and rotting, like petals left too long in water.
Valea didn’t speak until they reached a set of heavy doors inlaid with thorn shaped iron locks. She opened them with a fluid grace that sent a chill down Maris’s spine.
"Your chambers my lady," she said, the title weighed down with disdain.
Inside, the area was large enough to swallow her tiny tenement apartment twice over.
The walls were hung with tapestries so richly dyed they seemed to bleed color: deep crimson, indigo, black.
A sitting room greeted them first, then within a side room a fire flickered in a massive hearth carved from onyx, throwing dancing shadows against a bed crowned with carved roses.
Everything was beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like a snake wearing a jeweled crown.
Valea’s voice cut into the hush.
“Strip.”
Maris flinched. “What?”
“You will bathe. You reek of the human grime, and no one will speak to the King’s guest if she stinks of gutter filth.”
Maris’s stomach twisted. Shame flushed hot through her, followed quickly by anger.
“I’m not . . . filth.” She spat.
Valea stepped closer, close enough that Maris could see faint lines etched around her mouth, the only clue to her age.
She began to study Maris’s face with clinical precision.
The girl’s pale green eyes, ringed with an eerie silver starburst that no one ever seemed to notice in the candlelight of Eryndor, reflected the flames of the hearth now.
Valea’s own darkened red eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing something hidden in them.
“Unusual,” Valea murmured, but did not explain further before commanding, “I will not ask again, remove your clothing.”
Maris swallowed, fists clenched at her sides, then forced herself to obey.
Her fingers shook as she untied the laces of her plain blue dress, her fingers tracing the many patches she had mended.
When it fell to her ankles, she felt the cold bite of the air against her skin and hated how small, and pathetic she felt under Valea’s gaze.
Porcelain doll, her mother used to call her. But right now she felt like a rag doll, ready to be torn apart.
Valea barely reacted. With a flick of her hand, two other wraith-like women appeared from the shadows. They were nightbound as well, pale as moonlight, their faces eerily identical twins. They carried silver pitchers and bowls, their movements trailed by wisps of shadows.
Warm water steamed as they poured it into a deep copper tub carved with more roses and moons. The scent of crushed herbs drifted up , lavender, and mint.
The twins began to scrub her down with cloths that felt too rough against her fragile, half-starved skin.
They worked in silence, eyes lowered, though every touch was clinical, mechanical.
Maris tried to sink into her own mind, to block out the humiliation, but the scents and sensations overwhelmed her — hot water biting her skin, the sharp sting of soap in old wounds on her palms, the faint reek of smoke still clinging to her hair from Eryndor.
One of the twins rinsed her hair with a basin of fresh water that smelled faintly of rose oil, combing out the knots with long, spidery fingers until her scalp burned.
When they were done, the two wraiths disappeared into the shadows. Valea stepped forward with a black robe lined in red silk. She held it out without a word, and Maris forced her shaking arms through the sleeves, shivering at how the fabric whispered across her skin.
The robe was far too fine for someone like her, it felt like a reminder that she was property now, no matter what Kael called her.
Valea gestured toward a carved chair near the hearth.
“Sit.”
Maris obeyed, wary.
Valea studied her for a moment, eyes as hard as stone.
"I understand your wish to know your purpose here,” she said finally, voice calm as a blade slipping between ribs.
“The King has his reasons, but it is best not to question them, for your own sake.”
Maris’s heart stuttered.
“I didn’t ask to be here,” she managed, tears threatening.
Valea tugged a little too hard on her hair, forcing her to meet those cold, ancient eyes.
“No one asks,” she said. “The nightbound do not give gifts freely, human. Remember that.”
The words landed heavy as a tombstone, pressing the last of Maris’s breath from her lungs.
Valea finished combing her hair and stepped back.
“You will stay within your rooms tonight. A meal will be brought. If you try to leave, you will be returned to this room by force.”
Maris’s throat closed. Returned by force.
Valea turned for the door, her skirts swirling behind her, and with a last measuring glance, she was gone.
The room felt cavernous once the door shut. The fire popped and hissed, its glow turning the carved roses on the bed into bleeding shadows.
Maris stood, hugging the robe tighter around herself, taking stock of what she could see. There was no lock on the inside of the door, only a heavy iron latch on the outside. The high windows were barred in black iron vines.
A prisoner.
She stepped toward the bed, its silken covers shining faintly in the firelight. Everything about this place the scent of roses, iron, the dizzying height of the ceiling, the murals of fae and vampire battles etched into the walls screamed danger, like a fairy tale turned into a coffin.
Maris crawled onto the mattress, curling up on her side.
She shut her eyes, clutching the sleeve of the borrowed robe to her mouth to muffle her tears, wondering what she had done to deserve the eyes of a monster King, and what price she would be forced to pay.
Maris did not know how long she laid curled in that enormous bed, the fire crackling at her back, the robe’s silk clinging to her damp skin.
She had tried to stay awake, afraid of what might come for her in the dark, but exhaustion had a heavy hand.
When the door creaked open, she bolted upright, heart hammering.
She didnt know how much time had passed — minutes or hours.It was one of the twins again, carrying a tray so artfully arranged it looked like something painted in a noble’s feast: steaming meat glazed with something crimson, a small loaf of white bread, a wedge of soft cheese, and a goblet of wine so dark it might have been blood.
The twin set it on a low table near the bed without a word.
Maris stared. She had never seen so much food in her lifetime. Her stomach clenched, torn between hunger and suspicion.
“Thank you” she asked, voice raw.
The twin looked up, eyes the color of ice, expression flat as stone. The wraith spoke in a voice almost too soft to catch:
“It is safe.”
Maris swallowed hard, trying to trust that. But every fiber of her being screamed not to that this was a place of monsters, and nothing here could be trusted.
Still, her hunger betrayed her. Her hands trembled as she broke off a piece of bread and lifted it to her mouth. It was warm, crusted on the outside, almost impossibly soft inside, and she nearly wept at the taste.
The meat was perfectly roasted, spiced with herbs she could not name. It felt wrong to eat so well after so many winters of thin stews and burned loaves in Eryndor. But it was food, and she was still alive.
As she ate, the twin remained unmoving by the door, like a silent, patient shadow. Maris could feel the woman’s eyes on her, studying, measuring.
Finally, when the last bite was gone, the twin stepped forward to remove the tray, her movements as graceful and silent as before.
“Sleep,” the twin said. “You will need your strength.”
“For what?” Maris rasped.
The twin paused, lids lowering slightly, as if pitying her.
“Tomorrow you meet the full court.”
Then she was gone, leaving Maris alone with the dying fire.
The hours crawled by. Every sound from the halls, distant footsteps, the creak of iron hinges, a cry that could have been laughter or pain set Maris’s heart pounding.
She tried to sleep. Tried to pretend she was safe, back in Eryndor with her family, before the plague. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Kael’s face beautiful, terrible, unreadable and felt the iron grip of his hand around her wrist.
Why?
The question spun endlessly through her mind, as unstoppable as a prayer.
At some point, exhaustion crushed her at last. She dreamed of roses with teeth, of her mother’s voice calling her my little porcelain doll, of wolves prowling the edges of black stone gates.
When she woke, it was to pale light filtering through the barred windows, catching on the velvet curtains until they glowed faintly red, like old blood.
Her mouth was dry. Her body ached from sleeping so tense. But she was still alive.
A knock at the door made her flinch.
This time, it was Valea who entered, her black gown sweeping around her ankles. Her face was as unreadable as ever, though Maris thought she saw a faint hint of surprise that the girl was still in the bed and had not tried to break a window or run.
“You will rise and get dressed, it is well past midday.” Valea ordered.
Behind her, the twins waited again, carrying an armful of dark cloth that shimmered with an oily sort of shine, a gown, Maris realized, cut in a style nothing like the homespun dresses she’d ever known.
“The entire court will see you today,” Valea continued, tone as cold as a blade. “The King has requested you be presented.”
Maris’s throat closed up.
Presented. Like a prize hound, she thought bitterly.
But she was too tired, too confused to fight. She let them guide her up from the bed, into a basin of steaming water to rinse away the sweat of the night, and then into the new dress.
The fabric was so dark it seemed to swallow the light, fitted tight across her chest with sleeves that flared at the wrist in graceful, floating layers. Tiny seed pearls had been sewn into the neckline, like tears frozen in place.
When she saw herself in the polished standing mirror, Maris barely recognized the woman staring back , black hair combed until it gleamed, porcelain skin pale glowing, and those pale green eyes with their silver starbursts around the pupils, shining strange and otherworldly in the low light.
The color looked almost too bright, too clear, like starlight, and it made her feel more a stranger in her own body than ever.
“I look like a ghost,” she whispered.
Valea’s mouth twitched, the barest hint of a cruel smile.
“Appropriate,” she said, and turned to leave.
Maris hesitated only a second before following, her slippered feet brushing across the heavy carpets. Her stomach twisted with dread as Valea led her back through the thorn-lined corridors, toward the hall where a King awaited, and beyond him, a world she could not escape.