1. Adelina
Adelina
The pain hits before I recover from the last blow. It tears through me, sharp and deep, as though something has split open across my back, though nothing has. My fingers tighten around the carved bedpost, knuckles whitening as I drag air back into my lungs and force my voice to follow.
“Five,” I whimper. The searing burn of the whip makes my knees weak, and I lean into the bedpost to remain standing.
“Hold still!” my brother, the king, demands.
My body already knows what is coming. Every muscle locks tight, breath trapped somewhere behind my ribs as I brace for the next blow. The whip hisses through the air before it strikes my bare back again.
Pain explodes through me, sharp enough to steal the breath from my chest, but it doesn’t break the skin.
That is the point. The magic woven into the whip burns through me instead, burrowing beneath flesh and bone, lighting every nerve on fire with pain that lingers long after the strike itself has faded.
My arms tremble violently enough that the bedpost creaks beneath my grip.
My shoulders lock. Beneath my skin between my shoulder blades, my wings twitch instinctively, desperate to unfurl and shield me from another strike.
Most fae children learn to control that instinct before adulthood. Pain drags the reaction from me anyway.
I force them to remain concealed.
If they emerge, it will only anger him further. And if the whip strikes my wings instead of my back, it will be even more unbearable.
“Count, Adelina!” King Varek yells.
“Six,” I reply, my grip slipping.
The last four lashes are the hardest to survive. By then, the body begins anticipating pain before it comes, each breath tightening with dread before the whip ever falls.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
The final strike makes my vision go black. For one terrifying second, I think I might collapse before he allows it. My knees buckle, but I lock them straight, clinging to the carved bedpost until the polished wood digs into my palms.
“Now apologize to the queen for your ignorance!” Varek demands.
I drag in a shaking breath and turn, lowering myself to my knees beside the bed as I hold the front of my dress across my chest to keep it from falling.
“F-forgive me for m-my ignorance, Your Majesty.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking.
There is a soft shift of fabric, and jeweled shoes appear at the edge of my vision, but I keep my gaze lowered.
Queen Selvara.
I don’t need to look at her to feel the weight of her attention. It is always sharp and measuring. I can always tell when she is calculating.
“The crown prince arrives tomorrow,” she says smoothly. “You will remain in your room and study until it is time to dress.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” I answer.
My brother steps closer and crouches in front of me. A moment later, his hand closes around my chin hard enough to bruise, jerking my face upward.
I look into his blue eyes, and I shiver at the hatred filling them.
“Tomorrow matters,” he says. “If you are the reason this kingdom is embarrassed,” his voice lowers slightly, more dangerous for its softness, “if you cost us what this alliance offers, I will ensure the consequences are far beyond anything you have experienced so far. Do you understand?”
“Yes, m-my king,” I reply.
His eyes search mine for another long moment, confirming I have learned whatever lesson he intended to teach.
Then he shoves my face away. “Compose yourself.”
Their footsteps recede through my sitting room. The outer door opens, then closes behind them with a quiet click. Not a slam. My brother hides these things too well for that.
I don’t move. I have learned better than that.
Sometimes they return to see if I obey quickly enough.
Sometimes the punishment continues if they think I have relaxed too soon.
So I remain kneeling beside my bed, breathing slowly through my nose, fighting to stay conscious through the waves of pain and nausea.
I count. A minute passes. Then another. My vision swims.
I suck in another breath and glance around. The fire burns low in the hearth. My books remain stacked beside the window. Fresh flowers sit in the vase Freya arranged this morning. The room still looks like mine. Nothing suggests I was just whipped by my brother while his wife smiled and watched.
Then my arms finally give out beneath me, and the floor rushes toward my face. Cold seeps through the rug beneath my cheek as my body finally gives in to the trembling I have been fighting to contain. Every breath hurts, like the magic has settled somewhere beneath my ribs.
This isn’t my first punishment, but it never becomes easier to endure. Since the day my brother ascended the throne, I became his burden instead of his sister. And I have endured. Today was particularly brutal. Not the worst. But close enough.
“My child!” A familiar voice cuts through the haze surrounding me.
I drag my eyes open. “Freya,” I mumble weakly.
Relief hits so hard it almost hurts. No matter how old I become, some part of me still reaches for her the way a frightened child reaches for safety.
She kneels beside me, gathering me into her arms. Her pale hair is threaded with silver now, braided neatly over one shoulder, and faint lines soften the corners of her pale blue eyes.
She was once one of my mother’s closest companions before she became mine, and sometimes, when she looks at me too long, grief settles across her face like she still sees echoes of the queen I barely remember.
Her lavender wings fold behind her, muted with age but still beautiful beneath the candlelight. Fae age slowly, but the last century has begun to soften Freya around the edges.
“I’m here, Princess.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I mumble.
“Oh, little love.” Her hand glides shakily through my hair. “What happened?”
“The queen came to see if I was prepared for the crown prince’s visit.” My voice sounds distant even to myself. “I hesitated when answering one question. She said I wasn’t prepared.”
Something flashes across Freya’s face before she controls her expression.
“Stars above. I will hold my tongue before I lose it entirely, but you did nothing wrong.” She brushes damp hair back from my forehead. “Come now. Let us get you taken care of. Marra! Vera! Help me.”
Two chambermaids hurry in from the adjoining dressing room, where they must have been waiting just out of sight until the king and queen left.
Marra is young and nervous, while Vera moves with the composed efficiency of someone more accustomed to castle life.
Together they help Freya lift me to my feet.
Pain shoots through my body. I suck in a breath through clenched teeth, but Freya steadies me before my knees can buckle again.
“Slowly,” she murmurs.
The walk to the bathing room is only a few steps, but it feels far longer than it should.
By the time we reach the large copper tub, sweat clings to the back of my neck despite the chill lingering beneath my skin.
Vera rushes to turn on the taps while Freya and Marra carefully peel my dress from my body.
The moment the fabric shifts against my skin, pain ripples through me all over again. I swallow as the bile rises, threatening to spill over.
Steam curls through the chamber carrying the sharp herbal scent Freya always uses after punishments like this.
Lavender. Winter root. Frost thyme. Mint.
The warm water stings viciously when I first lower myself into the bath.
I bite back a cry, fingers tightening against the edge of the tub until the herbs finally begin taking effect.
Then, slowly, the trembling eases. I close my eyes as Freya washes my hair.
The warmth seeps gradually into muscles locked painfully tight, coaxing them loose one slow inch at a time.
The chambermaids move quietly around us, replacing towels, removing the dirty clothes, never speaking above soft whispers.
I’m not sure how long I remain there. Long enough for the pain to dull from unbearable to survivable. Long enough that I stop feeling like I might shatter apart with the next breath.
Eventually they help me from the bath, wrapping thick drying sheets around my body before guiding me toward my bedchamber.
They help me to the plush chair beside the fire, then dry, comb, and braid my hair loosely over one shoulder. Fragrant oil glistens faintly across my skin where Freya worked it over the lingering silver marks left by the whip.
“Drink, Your Highness.” She lifts a small vial to my lips.
The potion is bitter enough to make my stomach twist, but I swallow obediently anyway. Warmth spreads through me, softening the sharpest edges of the pain until I can finally unclench my jaw.
There are no wounds to bandage. No blood. Only faint silver lines striping my back where the whip struck. The damage lives deeper than skin.
I still carry scars from before my brother discovered this particular weapon. Thin white lines across my ribs and shoulders from punishments less refined than this one. These wounds are almost invisible. That does not make them gentler. I will feel them for days.
Freya’s potions help, but they never remove the pain entirely. Pain, like everything else in this castle, is something to be managed and endured.
Tears solve nothing here. Pleading solves nothing. The only thing that has ever lessened suffering in this castle is obedience and submission.
Normally, after punishment severe enough to leave me shaking, I would be granted a few quiet days.
Time away from the king and queen while the magic slowly faded from my body.
But tomorrow, the crown prince of Elyrion arrives.
Tomorrow I’m expected to stand before foreign royalty and smile as though none of this happened.
If I appear too recovered, there will be consequences. If I appear too weak, there will be consequences for that too.
Freya leaves only once I’m settled beneath the covers, with the fire dimmed low and the room quiet again.
The door closes softly behind her, a gentleness that feels strangely out of place after everything that came before it.
I listen to her footsteps fade down the corridor before allowing myself to shift slightly against the pillows.
Pain pulls across my back, dull and constant, a reminder that it has not yet left.
The crown prince arrives tomorrow. I will be dressed, positioned, spoken to only when necessary.
I’m expected to respond without hesitation, without error, without thought that is truly my own.
I stare up at the canopy above my bed, tracing the carved patterns with my eyes as I slow my breathing, and attempt to relax my tense muscles.
I know what I have been taught about Elyrion.
Their court values precision, restraint, and control that run deeper than strength alone.
Their rulers do not flaunt power. They wield it quietly, deliberately, until there is no room left for opposition.
Their crown prince is said to embody that completely.
A warrior shaped for command, cold and calculated.
They say shadows bend to him like living creatures.
That seasoned soldiers twice his age fall silent when he speaks.
That he can force obedience with a single command if he chooses.
Some claim entire skirmishes ended because men simply stopped fighting once he turned his attention on them.
Men like that are dangerous even when they are kind. Men like that are terrifying when they are not.
I don’t know how much of it is true. No one speaks of Prince Kaedryn carelessly enough for me to know what is rumor and what is fact. Information travels strangely through the castle, slipping beneath doors meant to remain closed, carried in lowered voices by servants who forget I am listening.
I always listen.
They say he does not hesitate. They say he does not forgive weakness. And whatever control defines his kingdom, it has not made him gentle. That much, rumor claims, he inherited from his father.
When I shift again before I can stop myself, pain drags through my back hard enough to steal my breath. I hold still.
I don’t know which version of him is true.
I don’t know if it matters. This is only a diplomatic visit.
That’s all I have been told. It should feel no different from every other ceremonial appearance I have endured over the years.
I will stand where I’m placed, say what I’m told, exist only long enough to serve whatever purpose is required before being returned here again.
Like a doll placed carefully back upon a shelf. Other than the rare ceremonial appearance required of me, I have not stepped beyond these rooms or the garden since my parents were buried.
I still remember the sound of the bells. The long tolls echoed endlessly. Snow covered the entire city that day, swallowing color until the world became nothing but white stone, black fabric, and grief. I remember thinking my parents would walk back through the castle doors if I waited long enough.
They never did.
The coronation followed soon after. Brighter.
Louder. Filled with the same watching eyes and endless expectations wrapped in something meant to resemble celebration.
I stood where I was placed. I said what I was told.
And afterward, I was brought back here to these rooms that somehow feel too large and too small all at once.
To this life that resumes outside the doors only when I’m needed.
Tomorrow should be no different.
If Prince Kaedryn is as controlled as they claim, then tomorrow will pass exactly as it should. I will stand where I’m placed, say what I need to say when I’m spoken to, and return here once it is over.
If he is not…
I stop the thought before it can fully form. Instead I focus on my breathing again.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Even.
That’s what is expected. That is what I will be. Even as something unfamiliar settles beneath it all. It feels too much like the moment before a storm breaks.
I close my eyes and let darkness pull me under, holding on to that feeling just long enough to recognize it.
And just long enough to wish I didn’t.