Chapter Three
ELYSSARA
The woman half-drags, half-lifts me up the stairs, looping her arm around my ribcage and squeezing tightly right where I suspect the break is. I wince at the pressure, my broken bones protesting. But I don’t give her the pleasure of a reaction.
She kicks the heavy door open and nods to the guards at the top of the stairs. “Pick a traitor and hang them from the walls,” she grunts, jerking her head in the direction of the cells. He nods and descends swiftly.
My stomach roils, blood draining from my face.
These fucking bastards.
Will he choose the mother and her child who whimper in each other's arms? The young man who cries out for his brother in his sleep? The elderly gentleman who refuses to speak?
The woman notices my terror, leans closer, almost seductively, and whispers, “Time to scrub the Dravari off you, Gutter Rat. Death would be too kind.” She chuckles, low and arrogant, and yanks me forward.
I limp through the dark, heavy halls of the castle. No art, no statues, no furnishings. Nothing left that remembers beauty. Only empty, lifeless obsidian floors. The dim lighting from braziers burning low along the hallways casts eerie shadows, as if the walls themselves are sentient.
But behind the emptiness, I can see its grandeur—the kingdom that once was.
In the faint light, I can’t make out the details of the high, painted ceilings, but I can see enough to know all ten gods are depicted in their power—weapons drawn, divine magic poised at their fingertips.
Likely created when the lands were ruled by fair and just rulers; when art and music were an essential way of life.
When King Aurius reigned, perhaps. I stop myself before I can think of Kael—his face, his touch, his fucking lies.
My thoughts are interrupted by the woman pounding on a door with aggressive, entitled beats halfway down the hall.
“I have her!” she bellows, and the door creaks open.
Two armored guards stand rigid at the door, nodding acknowledgment to the woman. Across the room, three submissive maids drop into a low curtsy, averting their gazes.
“Rise,” the woman commands in a snarl.
“Yes, General Vessira,” they pander, quickly standing and smoothing their skirts in a fluster.
Vessira. I file that away in my mind for later.
“Scrub her raw. She needs to be presentable to His Majesty. I’ve heard she needs extra pressure around her ribs,” she sneers, unlocking the chains at my wrists. “Her dress is hanging.”
My dress?
“Don’t take the chain off her ankle—it’s her tag of ownership,” she winks at the guards, who don’t try to stifle their snickers.
I know it’s lillath—the seared skin underneath it tells me so.
So does the emptiness I feel inside—the absence of him.
The hollowness I feel with the Starbound tether suppressed and my magic once again bound.
“I’m surprised you don’t wear one, Vessira,” I spit her name like a curse. “His most loyal dog, and not even a collar to show for it?”
Her lips purse, fists bunching at her sides. I’ve hit a nerve. Good. If I’m descending, I’ll drag her down with me.
I keep going, “Or is that what the Mark on your neck is for?”
She huffs an exhale and looks to the maids. “You’ll call her Gutter Rat—understand? No exceptions.” She turns towards the door, coiled tight. “And I want as much of the bitch’s skin on show as possible,” she throws over her shoulder, and slams the door on the way out.
A cruel smirk kicks up the side of my mouth. I landed the blow.
But the victory is short-lived. Reality crashes in, hard.
The maids usher me towards the ornate bath steaming in the corner. A deep, obsidian tub and obtrusive clawed feet embellished with gold stares back at me, contrasting with the dark walls and thick drapes blocking all light.
“Please remove your clothes, miss,” one maid whispers. A guard clears his throat expectantly, and the maid swallows and corrects herself, “Remove your clothes, please… Gutter Rat.”
If I weren’t about to be stripped and humiliated, I might’ve pitied the maid with a conscience.
Though my compassion is buried under decades of survival.
I slowly peel my tattered leathers from my body, the belt of Skaedor’s heir, my tunic, until I’m stripped down to my underthings.
The ones Kael gave me. The ones he tenderly removed.
Starsdamn him. He is everywhere. I feel the prickle of tears flooding my eyes, but I refuse them.
Not here. Not now. I untie the laces of my corset and remove the straps and scant fabric, leaving myself exposed to the room.
One maid does her best to shield me from the indecent eyes of the guards, and I appreciate the gesture, even if it doesn’t spare my dignity. Do I even have any left?
I climb into the bath, dropping low into the water. I hiss as the soap and water climb into my cuts and wounds.
The final maid lifts my arm and begins to scrub with the hard, scratching bristles of a bathing brush, removing the dungeon’s grime from my skin.
And I do what I’ve always done when I hurt too much: I take myself away. To another place, another life. One where I’m not me, and this isn’t real.
They comb. Pluck. Scrub. Until my skin glows red, raw and polished, like something to be displayed.
“You may get out now…,” the maid looks to the guards who are eyeing her with intensity. “Gutter Rat,” she adds with a whisper.
I stand, and the women rush to wrap me in a large robe, uncomfortable with the guards leering at me. I tuck the kindness away. Perhaps they can be of use if they so obviously oppose this treatment.
“Miss Hilda will apply cosmetics, and Miss Tura will style your hair. Please, take a seat here,” the other maid whispers. She leads me to a small, polished onyx vanity with gold filigree lining the mirror.
“What’s your name?” I croak, bones aching, throat parched.
She pulls out a small bench seat, upholstered with pitch-black velvet. “Fern,” she squeaks, terrified and meek.
I sit, and my own reflection stares back at me. Mottled bruises, small cuts, and the freckles that race over my nose that Kael loved.
The women set to work—Tura weaves my hair into a twisted coronet that resembles a crown atop my head, and Hilda coats my lashes in dark paint, rims my eyes with kohl, stains my lips a deep, dark crimson, and contours my cheeks with a bronze-hued rouge.
I’ve never seen myself like this—so delicate. So clean. So regal.
“Time for your dress,” Fern murmurs, cutting her sentence short so she’s not forced to call me Gutter Rat.
She leads me into a chamber big enough to house a family in the Virellin slums. A wardrobe. An entire room to store clothing and footwear.
A singular black gown sways in the wardrobe.
And that’s when I realize.
The color of The Shadow Wastes.
The crown braid.
The formal dinner.
He wants to dress me as his queen.
And every bone in my body trembles at the thought of what he might do with his crown.