Chapter 5 #2
I lift my gaze and meet his—two haunted eyes, sharp with ice and fire.
“It is not necessary for me to show them, for they can already see,” I say, each word a challenge that scrapes my throat raw but rings out clear and defiant for every soul present to hear.
The vine on my wrist sears with pain, but I ignore it.
I straighten my shoulders with confidence, and a comforting feeling consumes me.
It is nice to know I can still control my will if I try hard enough.
The tension breaks. The courtiers with their painted lips and powdered cheeks shift in their seats with audible disappointment.
Some hiss openly, their wishes for a spectacle dashed.
Others exchange glances, their contempt obvious; they wanted to see me falter, to see Lucien break me.
They want to see him control me as I am guessing he controls them.
Instead, I catch the fleeting hesitation in Lucien’s smile.
A longing was left unsatisfied, and frustration flickers across his features, making his expression almost striking in its vulnerability.
Lucien seems to let it go as the feast carries on, but something tells me this is not over.
I withdraw to the edge of the chamber, my jaw clenched.
The courtiers cluster in groups, casting sidelong glances, their whispers skirting across the table.
A woman with garnet earrings sneers, her lips curling as if my defiance left a sour taste.
A robust man watches me with blunt curiosity, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on a golden plate.
I refuse their invitations, their mockery, and their pity; I refuse to eat or speak.
I make myself a statue, frightened yet unbroken.
I will not break.
Suddenly, the room grows colder, as if reacting to my will.
Lucien stands, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table.
Goblets and platters disappear in the darkness; candles tremble, their flames shrinking low.
He does not raise his voice, but the command is absolute and heard throughout the room, “Enough!”
Without a word, as if some signal were given, every spirit at the table rises in perfect unison.
Silk and brocade rustle, jeweled clasps flash in the dying candlelight, and chairs scrape and groan against the marble floor with a sound like bones grinding.
The courtiers do not so much exit as evaporate, their forms unraveling into drifting shadows that slither along the walls, leaving only the chill of their disappointment in the air.
The servants move more quickly, sinking into hidden seams in the stone or vanishing behind panels I didn’t see before.
They are like phantoms returning to where they came from.
Their absence is so sudden, so complete, it is as if they were never truly here at all.
The great feast remains behind, grotesquely untouched, platters of meat congealing and juices pooling in crimson stains across the white linen.
The split fruit oozes as if freshly wounded, and the goblets are half drained, wine already thickening to blood in the candlelight.
I stand frozen, watching the spectacle decay and the rotted world that once was.
The air is heavy with the echo of obedience as the shadows crowd in to devour whatever warmth is left.
Lucien walks toward me, and I know punishment is coming. As he approaches, he seizes my arm and moves in closer. The mark on my wrist burns as the heat of him folds around me. “You play well before my court,” he says, his voice roughened. “But how long before you play true?”
I swallow, my throat dry, as I force its steadiness. Standing tall, shoulders back, I reply, “As long as I have breath.”
The pause from him is terrifying. And then he smiles.
Not a triumphant smile, not even a cruel one.
No, this smile is unsettling, as if I had vexed him in some way he refuses to admit.
And then his words cut the warmth like an icy knife.
He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Then breathe carefully, my pet.” He turns, takes his wine, and vanishes into the shadows.
Once he is out of view, I run from the great hall back to my room, surprised at how easily I find it.
The door to my chamber slams shut with a force that rattles the stone, though no hand touched it.
I lurch against its cold surface, my breath ragged, my entire body quivering with the fear I refused to let him see.
The illusion that he can’t see me in here allows me to now show my fear.
But somehow in the back of my mind, I know he can see everything, and he knows.
The mark on my wrist throbs hot and urgent, like a second heart, its pulse echoing the thunderstorm in my chest.
I stagger to the narrow window and stare out, desperate for a sign of escape.
Beside the garden below, I see nothing off in the distance.
There is no forest, no distant village, not even the promise of dawn…
only a suffocating blackness, as if the world itself has been devoured.
Behind me, the castle feels enormous and alive, its ancient walls closing in, and all that is left is this castle in all its darkness and ruin.
Every shadow stretches longer and heavier, charged with the secret presence of those who watched me fall and rise tonight.
I know they are out there in the hallways and chambers, spirits with breath and bone whispering, waiting. Their eyes are everywhere.
Memories of his voice slice through me like glass.
“Breathe carefully, my pet.”
I press my palm to the burning mark, anchoring myself in defiance. My whisper is a rebellion, meant for the living walls and any soul who listens. “Then I’ll breathe to defy him.”
Thick as velvet, silence unfurls through my bedchamber, but this time it feels different—less cruel, more intent—as if the castle itself has paused to hear my vow.
Every servant, every noble… every watchful witness is somewhere close, their presence heavy in the air.
For the first time, I feel an ancient hush shift around me, not with anger but with a hungry curiosity, awaiting my next breath.
Lucien
She denies me!
Not with screams or tears. That would have pleased me. Not with silence. That would have fed my hunger for despair. But with defiance. A single blade of truth thrown into my chest.
“They already know.”
Her words coil through me long after the spirits fade. My wine goblet sits untouched, wine black as sin, her heat still lingering on the rim where her hand nearly brushed mine. My claws dig deep into the wood of my bedpost, carving scars that resemble smoke in the candlelight.
The castle waits for my rage. It wants me to roar, to punish… to drag her trembling into the shadows until her fire gutters out. The roses hiss at the windows and rattle their thorns, begging me to bleed her.
But I do nothing.
I sit in silence, remembering the imprint of her gaze and how it burned into me. It unsettles me more than hatred ever could. For hatred is clean. It is my breath. It is my existence.
Defiance… The mere thought of it stirs something in me I no longer understand.
My chest aches around the thorns rooted there, as if her voice forced them to shift. And the curse hates it. I hate it. I feel the castle tremble, restless, displeased, and eager for her to break.
I bare my teeth in the silence. I will not admit it, not to the roses, not to the spirits. and especially not even to myself.
But for the first time in years, I am not satisfied.
I am starving.
The shadows stir and my hands tremble.
This was not part of the plan.