Chapter Seventeen
ELYSSARA
The maids comb through my tangled, filthy hair, but this time, they gently soak my skin in the bath and tend to the scum under my nails with tenderness—no sign of the vicious scrubbing or demeaning nicknames they were forced to use last time. No sign of any guards in the room, either.
No, Vessira ordered them out. She granted me the privacy I demanded—like a good dog who obeys her master.
My muscles and senses soften for the first time since I’ve been in this Starsforsaken place, relishing a few heartbeats to rest.
“Are you okay, miss?” Fern asks hesitantly.
“No,” I answer honestly, and offer no further explanation.
It’s the truth: I’m not okay. I may have magic that will save me from death, but will it give me life? Will it give me my friends? Will it mend my heart? Will it fix what’s been broken?
I know it worked this time, but I had the element of surprise on my side, and only a single opponent. But me against a prepared Marked army? No chance. I may have won this little battle, but I’m far from winning the war.
“Lean forward, please, miss—I need to get to your back,” Tura says, and I brace for her reaction, but I lean forward without resistance.
They all suck in a breath at the sight. Hands clap over mouths, and glances are exchanged.
I don’t know what it looks like, but I know what it felt like—it can’t be pretty. Correk’s reaction already told me everything I need to know: the brand is nothing compared to the rest of it. A jagged, patchwork of skin and scars.
“Wh— What have they done to you?” Hilda whispers from behind me, floored.
She skims her fingertips lightly over the brand, and slowly traces the scars inflicted by the blade of nightmares.
They’ve seen my scars—on my thighs, my arms, my chest, but they’re sparse.
Child’s play. My back is Vessira’s masterpiece.
For a brief moment, I let the maid trace my scars; a tenderness I allow myself to receive, for I have no idea how long it will be until I’m afforded another.
I close my eyes, leaning into her touch.
Her kindness. And for a moment, I pretend her hands are those of my mother.
I’ll take care of you, Little Star. I imagine her speaking the words, and I’m transported to our home in Virellin, a fire crackling in the hearth.
We didn’t have much, but we had each other.
We had love. I claw at the memories that become more and more distant, begging them to stay—to sharpen.
Hilda sniffles behind me, breaking me from my memories.
I notice the faint tremble of her hands as she roams my body, searching for understanding in the scars themselves, as if they hold stories that will make sense of this madness.
But I’ve searched, and there’s only more madness to be found in scars left by people I’ve never wronged.
I turn to her, knowing that this is my chance—my only opportunity.
I look to them all, my gaze moving between them, “I know your true king—he is working to free you all.” I have to believe he is.
I have to believe Maldrak is deceiving me for his own gain, and that Kael is good in all this. Isn’t he?
Or, at the very least, I’ll say what I must to get out of here.
“Maldrak took the throne when Aurius was killed by Prince Kael. He is the true king,” Tura says, though her voice lacks conviction. It’s meek and mild—a regurgitation of court chatter.
“No. You’ve been lied to. I know the truth,” I say through gritted teeth, and my throat constricts as I fight off tears. Because I need them to believe me. I need to escape. But I need their help to do it.
My mind flashes to Starlit Grove and the Obsidian Crown. The visions of Maldrak killing Aurius, his brother, in cold blood.
The maids look surprised; lips pursed, brows raised. But there’s no disdain on their features, no outright rejection of my words, so I press on.
“Maldrak killed Aurius. He framed Kael. Kael is the true king,” I plead, my voice a desperate croak.
“No,” one of the maids breathes, refusing to accept my words, but I can see her mind battling with a deeper knowing.
“I am trying to bring the realms back into harmony. I mean you no harm. Will you help me get back to Kael? To help him complete his mission and restore the throne?”
Tura swallows thickly, her fear palpable. “Those who stray from King Maldrak’s rule do not make it past the castle gates, miss. Have you not seen the heads that line the causeway on spikes? We cannot.” I hear her words, but I feel her heart beneath it—she wants to help me.
She shakes her head with vehemence, but I can see the truth: she’s scared.
“He’ll never know you helped me,” I implore. “I just need to know exits, patrol shifts, anything that can help. A weapon, perhaps?” I try to keep the desperation out of my tone, but I fail. It comes out like a plea. I’m not beneath it—I’ll beg.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes, and stands up, smoothing her skirts anxiously.
“Surely you cannot want this life,” I beg, clinging to the conversation like it’s a life raft in a storm. “Surely you do not believe living in a rotted kingdom with a tyrant on the throne is right? That this is how it’s meant to be?” The words come out in a swift, anguished jumble.
The maids say nothing. Either too afraid to speak… or because they’re listening. So I push further.
“You can’t believe a king who claims to love his people would line their streets with heads for daring to question him, can you? Tyrants always call it protection when what they mean is control.”
“He says it’s to keep us safe from The Decay,” Hilda whispers weakly.
The water ripples with the force of my breath. I fucking snap.
“Do you feel safe? Do you feel protected? Open your eyes! Power always rewrites its own crimes as safety,” I bite, teeth bared.
They trade loaded looks I can’t interpret. But they don’t reject me. They don’t stop me. So, I keep going, just like I always do; enduring.
“Zerynthia still lives,” I say, voice broken and raw.
Fern lifts her eyes from the floor, curiosity blooming. But she doesn’t speak.
“Beyond The Decay, Zerynthia exists. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
The Riverian Jungle, Thornewood, Starlit Grove!
They exist, and they’re beautiful. Thriving, alive, vibrant.
This,” I throw my arms around wildly, gesturing to the gloom and darkness of the decaying Wastes, “is not how it should be. There’s so much more, and I need to fix it. ”
I hold the woman’s gaze.
Her brows pinch together, as if she’s trawling through my every word.
She opens her mouth to speak, but she stammers, tripping over herself.
“If I can just get out, get to your true king… I can fix this,” my voice rasps like steel over stone.
All three of the maids look at me desperately, like they want to believe me, to help me, to live differently.
But fear wins out.
“We don’t have long. Commander Vessira will be back and she’ll do to us what she did to you if we don’t have you ready in time,” Tura says apologetically.
This isn’t about getting dressed. It’s about the only chance I had—and it’s gone.
A sob rises in my throat, thick and fast.
But I push it so low it burrows down with the hope I’ve buried, too.
Hilda rinses my back with care and tenderness. A whimper escapes me at the sensation because despite myself, my mind conjures thoughts of Kael—of his touch at the inn in Galreth, and the way he handled me like I was sacred. Something holy.
And that sob crawls back up, insistent, unrelenting.
It wracks my body. My heart breaks and bleeds at once, carving an abyss into my very insides—a graveyard for the versions of myself who thought I could change the realms and unite Aevryn.
“Please, miss, I beg you,” Hilda starts, “we need to get you ready.” Her voice is compassionate and kind, but I don’t miss the urgent terror that stirs just beneath the surface.
I climb out of the bath, the lump in my throat heavy and thick. “What does Vessira have planned for my appearance tonight?” I ask Fern frostily, hoping the change of topic will distract my bleeding heart.
She looks down at her feet, apologetic, and says, “She’s requested your hair to be worn long and the dress has been selected and hung in the dressing room, miss.”
I give a wordless sound of acknowledgment, and wrap myself in a robe, making my way to the room where a single gown sways on the hanger.
A gown with a high, choking neckline, long slender sleeves and a silhouette that will hug the full length of my body stares back at me.
Black, of course, and bejeweled with gems that will make me glint like a chandelier.
And that’s when it hits me—
She wants my scars covered.
Like a dirty little secret to be kept.
An unsullied, pure queen for Maldrak to treasure.
But that’s not me.
I am broken, bruised, and bleeding—the Queen of Dravara that he’ll never silence. I will not walk to my demise quietly. I will leave bite marks, gouge with my claws, and draw blood before I ever do what I’m fucking told by any man who believes women were made to be ruled.
I turn to the maids, shoulders pinned back, standing tall, defiance radiating off me. “I will not hide my scars for him,” I speak the words like law.
They may not be able to help me out of here, but I won’t submit.
No. I will not come to heel.
The maids don’t say anything, but I am unflinching.
I stand tall, refusing to shrink in a world that wants me to be less. Quiet.
“I won’t do it. You can refuse to help me dress in the way I want—tell Vessira I forced you to stand down. Or you can get me ready to dine with the false king who oppresses you,” I bite, defiance thrumming through my words.
Because I wasn’t born to appease men and play their silly games. I was born to rule them.
Fern stares up at me, something new and raw glinting in her eyes, “I know what to do.” As if defiance can suddenly breed, her eyes narrow in conviction.
She murmurs hushed plans to Hilda and Tura, busying herself with tasks.
I sit at the vanity while the women work my hair, layering cosmetics on my face, while Fern works in the dressing room.
A knock sounds at the door, and a tentative yet burly voice projects into the room, “The Lightborne is required in the dining hall.” Not Gutter Rat this time, or leering eyes, or crude remarks. No, this time there’s trepidation in his tone.
It’s time.
“I’m ready,” Fern breathes, cheeks flushed with effort and exertion. She waves us into the dressing room, where the once-modest gown has been transformed into something entirely new.
The sleeves have been removed.
The neckline torn and sewn low, a deep cut cleaving through the corset.
Fern reaches for it, spinning it in her hands to reveal an open back with nothing more than slim ribbons to hold the dress in place.
“You will not have to hide, miss,” she breathes, holding up the dress for me.
“It’s perfect,” I murmur, squeezing her arm, and she looks proud. Honored.
“My mother was a seamstress,” she says, cheeks reddening under my attention.
“So are you,” I say fondly.
She opens her mouth to speak, stumbling over her words. She takes a steadying breath. “I believe you,” she whispers.
She looks around at the other maids, and they give her a small nod.
“We all do. We just… can’t get you out.” She turns her eyes down to the floor, shame or devastation falling across her face.
“We are unable to leave the castle. We don’t even know the way out.
The king hasn’t let us leave since we arrived. ”
I clench my jaw so tight my molars threaten to crack.
This fucking bastard.
But fury is an old friend. Always welcome.
“Time for dinner,” I snarl, eager to stare down at the man who wields power like he earned it.
The maids help me into the dress.
Silk slips over my thighs, seams brush against my scars, and ribbons whisper through eyelets, securing the dress in place.
I move towards the tall mirror in the corner of the dressing room, and I just stare at my own reflection.
Twin braids woven with black leather fall down my back. The kind of braids female warriors wear when going into battle. War braids.
My eyes are smudged with thick black kohl, layered to intimidate. War paint.
My skin, exposed—a statement of defiance. But more than that, it’s a message: I will not be controlled. I will not come to heel. I will not submit.
“You’re a vision, miss,” Tura says in awe.
“No. I’m a warrior,” I say, and I stalk towards the door to meet my fate. “I’ll say you had no hand in this. If anyone asks, I did it all myself and forced you to obey.”
They nod, knowing what they’ve done is treason. Just as I reach for the door Fern whispers, “Bring us the true king.”
The room stills.
I place my hand on the handle, draw a steady breath.
Then I step over the threshold.
Time for battle.