Nyra didn't sleep that night. She tried—tried to force herself into the oblivion of sleep, to will her body into stillness—but her mind wouldn't let her. Every time she closed her eyes, thoughts clawed their way to the surface, relentless and merciless. Was she afraid? No, she told herself. Fear was weakness. And yet, the unease sat like a stone in her gut, refusing to be ignored. She lay on her back, staring at the cracked ceiling of the barracks, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on her like a chain wrapped around her throat. Presented. The word churned in her head, twisting into something ugly, something suffocating.
She had spent years surviving under Lord Varthen's rule, enduring the labor, the beatings, the cruelty. At first, she had raged against it, fought back with everything she had—only to have that fight beaten out of her, day by day, lash by lash. Then came the numbness, the cold acceptance of her reality. But beneath it all, anger still simmered, quiet but unyielding, waiting for the day it could burn everything down. But this? This was new. She had never been summoned before. Slaves were tools, nothing more. They weren't called upon unless they were to be punished, discarded, or—her stomach twisted—used.
No. She wasn't going to let herself spiral. Not yet.
A soft rustle beside her drew her out of her thoughts. Riven had shifted in his sleep, one arm slung protectively over Seraph, his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness. Lucky bastard. He could sleep through a thunderstorm. Nyra envied that about him—his ability to shut the world out, to pretend, even if just for a few hours, that they weren't trapped in this living hell.
She rolled onto her side, her fingers absently tracing the rough, uneven floor. She didn't get the luxury of escape. Her mind wouldn't let her. Every time she closed her eyes, thoughts came crawling in—shadows twisting into cruel possibilities, each one worse than the last. What did they want with her? Why now? She had been here for years, invisible among the suffering. What had changed?
The night stretched on, endless and suffocating. At some point, she must have dozed off, but it wasn't restful. Her dreams were restless, filled with half-remembered whispers, flickers of a past she had long buried. When the barracks door creaked open before dawn, she was already awake.
She felt him before she saw him.
Kierian.
Her stomach clenched instinctively, a cold tension settling in her gut. She didn't need to see him to recognize the shift in the air—the way the room seemed to shrink under his presence, the way the other slaves went rigid, pretending to sleep but listening intently. Her body coiled, not in fear, but in preparation. Kierian never came without reason, and whatever his reason was this time, she doubted she'd like it.
"Rise and shine, Vale. It's your big day."
His voice was lazy, amused, but the sharp edge beneath it wasn't lost on her. Nyra didn't move at first, glaring at him from beneath her tangled hair. She knew better than to expect kindness from Kierian. He was a man who played by his own rules, and right now, she was the game.
"Piss off."
He chuckled. "Tempting, but Lord Varthen might take offense if his little guest of honor doesn't show."
Nyra clenched her jaw, shoving herself upright. Around her, the other slaves stirred, watching in silence, their gazes filled with unease. They knew. Just as she did. This wasn't normal.
Seraph sat up beside her, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something dangerous beneath her calm. "If this is some kind of trap, I hope they've thought it through," she murmured, her voice soft yet laced with warning. "She's not going alone."
Kierian tilted his head, considering her for a moment. "No, she's not." He gestured to the door. "Both of you. Let's go."
Nyra blinked. That was unexpected. Seraph wasn't supposed to be involved. Which meant either Varthen had changed the rules or Kierian had decided to play his own game. Neither option was good.
Riven stirred then, pushing himself upright, his hair a mess of auburn tangles. "Gods, do you ever sleep lightly?" he muttered, rubbing his face before blinking blearily at Kierian. "Or do you just enjoy creeping in like some shadowy bastard at the worst possible moments?" "And what about me?"
Kierian smirked. "Didn't realize you had a royal invitation too, thief."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "I'm not letting them take her—"
"Stand down, Riven," Seraph said, her voice low but firm. "We'll be fine."
Nyra shot her a look, but Seraph only gave a slight shake of her head. A warning. Not here. Not now.
Riven looked like he wanted to argue, his hands clenched into fists, but he stayed quiet, though his glare could have burned a hole straight through Kierian's skull.
Kierian watched them with mild amusement, like they were an interesting puzzle he had yet to solve. "Smart boy," he said before turning back to Nyra. "Time to move."
Nyra exhaled slowly, then rose to her feet. The silence in the barracks was deafening now, every pair of eyes trained on her and Seraph. Some of the younger slaves looked confused, unsure of what this meant. Others—those who had been here long enough to understand—only looked away, as if pretending not to see would spare them from whatever fate awaited her.
The walk through the estate was different this time.
Nyra cast a sidelong glance at Seraph, lowering her voice. "Why are you coming?"
Seraph didn't look at her, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "Because I need to."
Nyra frowned. "That's not an answer."
Seraph's expression remained unreadable, but her voice softened. "You don't have to face this alone."
Nyra wanted to argue, but she didn't. Because despite the unease curling in her gut, despite the looming dread of what awaited them, she found herself grateful. Usually, she was shoved, dragged, pushed along like cattle. But this time, she walked freely, her hands unbound, the weight of unseen chains pressing heavier than any rope ever could.
The halls of Varthen's estate were as grand as they were cruel. Marble floors that had never seen dirt, chandeliers glittering with gold. This wasn't a palace, but it might as well have been. The nobles lived in excess while the people beneath them starved. It had always been this way. It always would be.
Nyra kept her face blank, but her mind was racing. Why Seraph? Why now?
Seraph, for her part, was silent, her steps measured, her expression as serene as ever. But Nyra knew better. She could feel the tension radiating off of her friend like a coiled spring. She was ready. Waiting. If things went bad, Seraph wouldn't hesitate.
Neither would Nyra.
As they neared the doors to the great hall, Kierian slowed, stepping in front of them. Nyra's pulse spiked, her body tensing on instinct. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her breathing even, but her hands clenched at her sides, ready for whatever came next. Her gut told her this moment mattered—that whatever lay beyond those doors would change everything. "Last chance, Vale," he murmured. "If you have any regrets, now's the time to let them go."
Nyra arched a brow. "That supposed to scare me?"
His smirk widened. "No. Just wondering if you're smart enough to know when you're walking into the lion's den."
Nyra met his gaze, unwavering. "If I'm in the lion's den, Kierian, then they should be afraid of me."
His eyes gleamed with something unreadable, but he said nothing more. Instead, he pushed open the grand doors, revealing the hall beyond.
Nyra stepped forward without hesitation. Whatever was waiting for her, she'd face it the same way she had faced everything else in this wretched place.
With her head held high.
And her teeth bared.
The great hall was a world away from the filth and decay of the barracks. It was vast, towering with polished obsidian pillars and intricate gold inlays that stretched across the marble floor in delicate patterns. High above, chandeliers of cut crystal bathed the room in flickering light, their reflections dancing off the polished surfaces like ghosts of something long lost. It was beautiful in the way a beast's open maw was beautiful—dazzling, sharp, and deadly.
Nyra had been in the estate before, dragged through its halls on errands that barely required a second glance from the nobles who resided here. She remembered the first time she had been forced inside—barefoot, carrying a bundle of linens that weighed more than she did. She had tried not to stare at the grandeur, at the paintings and statues depicting long-dead warriors and rulers, at the velvet-lined corridors and polished silver trays filled with food she would never taste. But she had stared. And for that, she had been struck across the face, a sharp reminder that she wasn't meant to admire, only to serve. Now, years later, she was back, but this time, they were staring at her. But this—this—was different. The air itself felt heavier, thick with unspoken expectations and silent judgments.
Lined along the hall's edges, nobles stood draped in silk and adorned with jewels, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright disinterest. They looked at her like she was a curiosity, something dragged in from the dirt and dressed up for spectacle. A trick to amuse them. A novelty.
Nyra clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to shrink under their gazes. Their eyes crawled over her like insects, some filled with disdain, others with mild intrigue, as if trying to decide if she was worth their attention. A few bore something sharper—predatory amusement, as if they were waiting for her to crack, to show weakness. Like she was an animal being paraded before the highest bidders. Don't look small. Don't look afraid.
At the far end of the hall, seated upon a raised platform lined with plush velvet, Lord Varthen lounged in his throne-like chair, his fingers idly drumming against the carved armrest. He was a man who had always reminded her of a vulture—lean, cruel, and patient. His dark hair, streaked with silver, was slicked back, revealing sharp cheekbones and calculating eyes that gleamed with amusement.
Kierian led her and Seraph forward, his footsteps echoing through the vast chamber. Nyra's skin prickled with every step, the weight of the nobles' stares pressing against her like a blade at her back. Beside her, Seraph moved with eerie calm, her violet eyes unreadable, her posture so composed she might have been carved from stone.
The silence stretched unbearably, broken only by the whisper of silk as the nobles adjusted their stances, shifting just enough to get a better view. The sound slithered through the hall, soft yet insidious, like the rustling of snakes in the dark. Nyra's gut twisted, her instincts screaming at her. This isn't just a summons. This is a show.
"Ah, Vale," Varthen drawled as they reached the foot of the platform. His voice was smooth, practiced, the kind that slithered under your skin and festered. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to run."
Nyra tilted her chin up, her voice flat. "And where exactly would I go?"
Varthen chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, Vale, don't act like you don't know your place. Slaves don't run. They rot. Or did you fancy yourself capable of escaping my little kingdom?" He leaned forward, his smirk deepening. "No, girl, you were never meant to go anywhere. You were meant to be found."
A ripple of laughter passed through the gathered nobles. Mocking. Amused. Like she was nothing. Her hands twitched at her sides, itching to drive something sharp between his ribs. Not yet.
Varthen's smirk deepened. "You always were sharp-tongued. One of your more unfortunate traits. But perhaps that will change soon."
Nyra stiffened. What the hell does that mean?
Before she could snap back, a new voice cut through the space, smooth and amused.
Seraph shifted slightly beside her, barely noticeable, but Nyra caught the way her fingers curled subtly, as if bracing for impact. Kierian, too, went unnaturally still, his usual smirk flickering, just for a breath. Whatever was about to be said, they both knew it carried weight.
"This is the one?"
Nyra turned toward the speaker—and froze.
A man stood off to the side, near the throne, draped in fine dark silks embroidered with silver threads that shimmered beneath the chandelier's glow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his deep brown skin marked with subtle scars that only added to his presence. He carried himself with the effortless confidence of a man who commanded power, the kind that didn't need to be announced—it was simply felt. But it was his eyes—piercing, amber-gold—that stole the air from her lungs.
They were the same as hers.
The breath in her chest turned to ice, her fingers curling involuntarily. Recognition hit like a punch to the gut, even before her mind caught up with what she was seeing. The room blurred, its details warping at the edges as her breath hitched. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out every other sound, every murmur of the nobles, every breath Seraph took beside her. For a fleeting moment, she forgot how to move, how to breathe, how to exist. It was as if her body had turned to stone, locked in a moment of realization too enormous to fully grasp. But then, her fingers twitched, curling into fists, grounding herself in the sharp sting of her own nails digging into her palms. Breathe. Focus. Don't let them see.Something deep in her blood, in her very bones, whispered a truth she couldn't yet put into words.
Seraph shifted beside her. Not visibly. No one else would notice. But Nyra did. A slight inhale, a subtle tilt of her head—she had noticed it too. The resemblance.
"Yes, Your Majesty. This is the one," Varthen said, his tone oozing with amusement.
A slow, suffocating silence followed.
Your Majesty.
Nyra barely registered the words, but they repeated in her skull like the toll of a death bell. Your Majesty.
Seraph exhaled sharply beside her, barely more than a breath, but it was enough for Nyra to feel the tension radiating off her friend. "Holy shit," Riven would have said if he were here. Nyra almost wished he was. Instead, all she managed was a barely audible, "No..." under her breath, the word slipping out before she could catch it. But the truth sat there, undeniable, suffocating her like a weight she couldn't shake.
Her stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that made her legs feel unsteady. The air around her seemed thinner, harder to grasp, like she was standing at the edge of a precipice and the ground beneath her was crumbling. Her pulse pounded in her ears, deafening, drowning out everything but those two words. Your Majesty.
Her knees locked, rigid with the instinct to either flee or fight. But she did neither. Instead, she forced herself to stand tall, even as a cold sweat pricked at the nape of her neck. This wasn't just a noble. This wasn't just another monster playing games with her life.
This was the King.
And she had his eyes.
The King.
Her throat tightened, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Her body was a battlefield of emotions—confusion, rage, disbelief. But more than anything, she felt exposed. As if the entire hall had been waiting for this moment.
The King's gaze swept over her, lingering, searching. His expression didn't change, but there was something behind those amber eyes—not indifference. Not cruelty. Something else.
She forced herself to breathe, to shove the storm of emotions into the pit of her stomach. Don't react. Don't let them see.
The King finally spoke. "You're certain?"
"Beyond a doubt," Varthen said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "She's been here for years, hidden in plain sight. A rare thing, for one of your blood to be left among the filth." His smirk sharpened. "A mistake, of course. One I was more than happy to rectify."
Nyra's fists clenched. A mistake? That's all I am to them? The words seared through her, igniting a fire that threatened to spill over. Every part of her wanted to lash out, to spit venom back at them, to remind them that she was flesh and blood, not some discarded scrap they could now claim. But another part, the one that had kept her alive in this wretched place, whispered caution. She was surrounded, outnumbered, and whatever this game was, she wasn't the one in control. Not yet. So she swallowed the rage, letting it coil deep inside, waiting for the moment she could use it.
She wanted to speak—to snarl, to demand answers, to do something—but her tongue felt heavy. What could she even say? What would it change?
The King studied her for another agonizing moment before shifting his gaze to Seraph. "And her?"
Varthen gave a dismissive wave. "An attachment. Loyal, it seems. Dangerous, perhaps. But nothing we can't handle."
Nyra bristled, stepping slightly closer to Seraph before she even realized she was doing it.
Seraph's voice was barely a whisper. "You alright?"
Nyra didn't answer right away. Her throat felt tight, her mind still reeling. "No," she muttered finally. "You?"
Seraph let out the faintest exhale, her gaze still locked ahead. "Not even close." Seraph remained still, unreadable. But she hadn't taken her eyes off the King.
The silence stretched, thick as tar.
A single, sharp inhale broke the silence, but Nyra couldn't tell who it came from. The air was thick, pressing in from all sides, suffocating in its intensity. Every noble, every servant, every guard stood frozen, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Then, finally, the King spoke again.
"I will decide that for myself."
Something in his tone—subtle, barely perceptible—made Varthen's smirk falter for the briefest of moments. A flicker of something Nyra almost missed.
Unease.
And that was when she realized—
The King wasn't amused.
He was angry.
He turned his gaze back to Nyra, his amber eyes burning into hers, unreadable and piercing all at once.
She lifted her chin. She wouldn't bow. Not to him. Not to any of them.
A part of her braced for the inevitable—for a slap, a command, for someone to seize her by the throat and force her down. But none of it came. Instead, there was only the thick, suffocating silence, stretching between them like an unspoken challenge. And in that silence, something unexpected bloomed inside her—not fear, not defiance, but power. For the first time, it was they who waited for her.
If he wanted something from her, he would have to say it.
The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the room like an unseen noose. Every eye was on Nyra, waiting, anticipating—judging. The weight of their expectations pressed against her like a hand at her throat, demanding something she refused to give.
The King still hadn't looked away.
His golden eyes bore into hers, unreadable, unrelenting. The longer he stared, the heavier the air became, thick with something unspoken. There was no cruelty in his gaze, nor was there warmth. It was something far worse. Recognition.
Nyra forced herself to breathe evenly, to not react. To not look away.
Varthen finally shifted in his seat, breaking the stillness. "Your Majesty, I had hoped you would find this discovery… enlightening."
Nyra scoffed, her voice edged with bitterness. "Funny, I don't recall being lost. But I suppose it's easier to claim a discovery when you've ignored something long enough."
The King exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before leaning back slightly. "Enlightening?" The word was drawn out, as if he were tasting it, testing it. "That would imply I was unaware."
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles. Nyra caught the quick, almost imperceptible twitch in Varthen's jaw before the man smoothed his expression back into cold amusement.
"Ah," Varthen mused, his voice betraying none of the tension tightening his grip on his chair's armrest. "Then you are already aware of her? I must admit, Your Majesty, I was under the impression that her existence had gone unnoticed."
The King's gaze flickered to him, slow and deliberate. "Unnoticed? No." A pause, measured and dangerous. "Abandoned? Perhaps."
Nyra's fingers curled at her sides. Abandoned.
The word rang through her skull, louder than the murmurs of the nobles, louder than the blood rushing through her veins. That's what this was to him? A simple abandonment? As if she were nothing more than a forgotten trinket, misplaced and now found?
A cold fury seeped into her bones.
Seraph shifted beside her, and for a moment, Nyra thought she might say something, but she remained silent, watching.
Varthen let out a chuckle, hollow and slick. "A rather tragic misunderstanding then. I only sought to rectify such an oversight."
Nyra's lips curled into a sneer. "An oversight? That's what you call it? Keeping me caged like an animal while you decided what to do with me? How generous of you to finally notice."
Varthen's smirk barely wavered, though a glint of condescension flickered in his eyes. "Come now, girl. You make it sound so dramatic. You were kept safe, well-fed, and provided for. Hardly the life of an animal, unless you count the ones who bite the hand that feeds them."
"An oversight." The King repeated the words slowly, his tone void of amusement. "Tell me, Lord Varthen, how does one rectify an oversight?"
The hall fell to a deeper silence, if such a thing was possible. Even the distant crackle of torches felt muted beneath the weight of the question.
Varthen, to his credit, did not falter. "By ensuring she is given proper station. By ensuring she is no longer wasted among the filth."
Nyra felt the words like a lash across her spine, but she didn't flinch. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
The King studied her again, his expression betraying nothing. "And what station do you propose?"
Nyra let out a dry laugh, the sound sharp in the silence. "I don't need a station. I've survived just fine without one." She met the King's gaze, unflinching. "Or do you only see worth in people when you can put them in a cage of your choosing?"
The King's expression remained unreadable, but his golden eyes narrowed slightly. "Survived?" He echoed the word as though it amused him. "You mistake endurance for survival. There is a difference, girl. A dog can endure starvation, but that does not make it a wolf."
Varthen's smile widened. "Why, by your side, of course. Where she belongs."
The King's gaze flickered to Varthen, his expression cooling into something unreadable. "And you presume to know where she belongs?" His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable weight behind it, a quiet warning beneath the surface.
Varthen hesitated, his confidence barely wavering. "Your Majesty, I only meant that her rightful place should reflect her true standing. Surely, you would not see her wasted where she has been?"
The King was silent for a long moment, his golden eyes sweeping back toward Nyra. "Rightful place..." he murmured, as if testing the phrase. "And yet, I wonder, Lord Varthen—do you truly believe you are in a position to decide that?"
The room stirred with barely-contained whispers, some hushed gasps escaping the more dramatic nobles. Nyra felt Seraph stiffen beside her, but her own body remained rigid, frozen in place.
By his side?
What in all the hells does that mean?
For the first time, something flickered in the King's gaze. Something dark. "You presume much, Lord Varthen."
Varthen gave an elegant shrug. "I only seek to place things where they should be."
"And if they do not wish to be placed?" The King's voice dipped into something deeper, something far more dangerous.
Varthen hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. "Then it is our duty to guide them."
Nyra's blood turned to fire. Guide? Is that what they called it? Dragging people from the dirt, twisting their fates into something that served them?
She let out a quiet, bitter scoff under her breath. "Call it what you want, but let's not pretend this is about anything other than control."
Varthen chuckled, shaking his head. "Control? My dear, you give yourself far too much credit. This is about order. About placing things where they belong. The world functions on structure, and I simply ensure that structure remains intact."
The King, however, tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. "And yet, you seem to understand that control is what drives everything, girl. A rare clarity." His voice lowered just enough to make her spine stiffen. "But tell me—what do you think happens when someone refuses to be controlled?"
Her voice cut through the hall before she had the chance to stop herself.
"I don't belong to any of you."
A shocked silence followed.
The nobles gasped, whispers flaring like sparks in the air.
"She truly doesn't know her place," one noble muttered, his voice dripping with amusement.
"Or she's too foolish to care," another sneered, casting a sidelong glance at the King, waiting for his response.
A third voice, lower and more thoughtful, murmured, "Or perhaps she's more dangerous than we realized." Varthen's expression barely flickered, but his fingers tightened against the carved wood of his chair. Seraph shifted beside her, slow and deliberate, as if preparing for something unseen.
But it was the King's reaction that mattered most.
And he smiled.
Not wide, not amused. But there was something sharp at the edges of it, something dangerous. Something almost... approving.
Varthen cleared his throat, his own smile turning rigid. "Your Majesty, you must understand, she has been raised without guidance. Without refinement. She does not understand—"
"She understands perfectly," the King interrupted, his voice a blade through the tension. "She understands more than you give her credit for."
Varthen's nostrils flared, but he bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Your Majesty."
Nyra didn't dare breathe, her pulse pounding against her ribs like a caged beast.
Then the King stood.
The motion was slow, deliberate. Every eye in the room followed him as he stepped forward, descending from the platform, each step echoing across the marble.
He stopped before Nyra, mere feet away.
"Your friend will remain," the King said. "For now."
Nyra's spine stiffened. A surge of panic, hot and uncontrollable, clawed at her chest, battling with the fury simmering just beneath her skin. Not Seraph. Anyone but Seraph.
"Why?" Her voice cut through the hall, raw and sharp. "Why does she have to stay? If you're taking me, she comes too."
She felt every eye in the room lock onto her, waiting for the inevitable backlash, waiting for the King to remind her of her place. But Nyra didn't care. She wouldn't leave Seraph behind. Not without knowing what that meant.
A murmur rippled through the nobles at her boldness. Some looked amused, entertained by the defiance of a slave who didn't know her place. Others whispered behind raised hands, scandalized by her audacity, glancing nervously at the King to see how he would react. A few watched with sharp interest, their gazes calculating, as if weighing the potential consequences of what had just been spoken. The King regarded her in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, the tension in the room coiling like a viper waiting to strike.
"This is not a negotiation," he said finally. "Your place is no longer here. Hers is."
Nyra took a step forward, her chains rattling against the polished marble. "That's not good enough. If you expect me to follow, I won't do it without her."
The King exhaled slowly, tilting his head. "You are in no position to make demands."
Nyra's jaw tightened. "And yet, here I stand, making one. Funny how that works."
A few nobles gasped at her audacity, whispers crackling like sparks through the hall. The King's expression didn't shift, but something darker flickered behind his golden eyes.
"You mistake boldness for power," he said, his voice calm, almost amused. "But tell me, girl, do you believe that defiance alone grants you leverage?"
Nyra held his gaze, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of it. "I believe that those who don't fight get trampled. And I have no intention of being beneath anyone's boot."
Nyra clenched her fists. The King let out a slow exhale, as if weighing her defiance. "How very bold," he murmured, his tone unreadable. "But boldness does not make you untouchable."
Nyra's lips curled slightly, something close to a smirk.
Tension crackled through the air. Every noble watched, breath held, waiting to see if the King would punish her defiance. Beside her, Seraph remained eerily still, but Nyra could feel the tension in her stance, the minute shift of her weight—ready, just in case. Her violet eyes flickered toward Nyra, a silent exchange passing between them. A warning. A reassurance. But neither moved, locked in a moment that could shatter at the King's next word.
Then, unexpectedly, he let out a low chuckle, though it carried no true amusement—only a razor-sharp edge of something unspoken. "Interesting." His gaze lingered on Nyra, measuring, weighing. "You speak as though you have a choice. That fire of yours—" he tilted his head slightly, voice dropping to something almost thoughtful "—it will serve you well. If it does not consume you first." The word was slow, deliberate, as if he were turning it over in his mind, testing its weight. His golden eyes flickered toward Seraph, lingering for just a breath too long before shifting back to Nyra. "Your loyalty is noted. But she stays."
There was a finality to his words, yet an underlying warning laced beneath them, a subtle reminder that defiance had its limits.
Nyra's teeth ground together. Helplessness clawed at the edges of her mind, colliding with her fury in a vicious storm. She wanted to fight, to demand an answer that satisfied the unease curdling in her gut, but the logic of the moment held her still. Not now. Not here.
She turned to Seraph, her throat tight, searching for something in her friend's eyes—assurance, defiance, anything. Seraph, despite the weight of the moment, gave her a small nod. A silent promise. We will find a way.
The King gestured toward Kierian. "Take her to the chambers."
Kierian smirked as he stepped forward. "Well, Vale, looks like you're moving up in the world."
Nyra gave him a dry, humorless smile. "And yet, somehow, it still feels like being dragged through the dirt." She yanked her arm from his grip, her chin tilting up defiantly. "Hope you enjoy this moment, Kierian. It might be the last time you get to smirk down at me."
Nyra shot one last look at Seraph before she was pulled forward, her pulse pounding, her mind racing. Was this the last time she would see her? Was this the final moment before they were torn apart for good? The thought struck like a blade to the chest, but she forced herself to swallow it. No. Not like this. Not without a fight. She didn't know what lay ahead, but she knew one thing—she would not let them decide her fate without a war.
Whatever came next, she would be ready.
The air in the chamber was heavy, laced with the scent of burning embers and the faint metallic tang of blood. Nyra's boots scraped against the polished stone floor as Kierian led her deeper into the vast corridors of the estate, his grip firm but not rough. Yet, despite the controlled restraint, she knew better than to mistake it for leniency.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of voices and the faint flickering of torchlight against the walls. A draft snaked through the corridor, carrying the damp chill of stone and something faintly metallic—blood, perhaps, or rust. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, as if an unseen presence trailed them just out of sight. Nyra clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her unsettled. Nyra forced her breathing to remain steady, though her pulse still pounded from the confrontation. The King's words echoed in her skull, tightening like a noose around her thoughts. That fire of yours—it will serve you well. If it does not consume you first.
Kierian's smirk hadn't faded since they left the hall. "You certainly know how to make an impression, Vale."
Nyra turned her head slightly, her silver eyes glinting in the dim light. "Is that admiration or amusement? Hard to tell with you."
He let out a low chuckle, his grip momentarily tightening before he released her. "A little of both, perhaps. Most people would've pissed themselves back there. You, on the other hand—" he glanced at her, eyes filled with something unreadable "—you acted as if you belonged in that room."
Nyra scoffed, rolling her shoulders. "Funny. I don't recall asking to be there."
Kierian's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he gestured toward an iron-clad door at the end of the corridor. "Welcome to your new accommodations."
She eyed the door, then him. "Charming."
Without another word, he pushed it open, revealing a chamber that was neither a prison nor a luxury suite. Nyra's muscles tensed instinctively as she stepped forward, her eyes scanning every corner of the room. The walls were solid stone—no obvious cracks or weak points. The single, narrow window had thick iron bars embedded deep into the frame, mocking any thought of escape. Her gaze flicked to the heavy wooden door, now ajar, and then back to Kierian. He was watching her, amused, as if waiting to see how long it would take her to assess her situation.
Her pulse remained steady, but her mind raced. If this was meant to contain her, she needed to know how. Every exit, every vulnerability. Because one way or another, she wouldn't stay in this cage forever. It was spacious, adorned with dark stone walls and thick tapestries that muffled sound. A single bed stood against one wall, beside a table stacked with books and parchment. A washbasin, a change of clothes—functional, but not indulgent. A single window, narrow and barred, overlooked the vast stretch of the city beyond.
Nyra stepped inside, her body tense. "So what now? Do I wait here like a good little pet until someone decides what to do with me?"
Kierian leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "For now, you wait. The King will summon you when he sees fit."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what if I don't feel like waiting?"
He grinned. "Then you'd better make peace with those chains, because I doubt defying him will earn you any favors."
Nyra exhaled sharply, running a hand through her dark hair. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on her, but she refused to let it show. She needed to think. She needed to plan.
She took a slow step toward the table, dragging her fingers along the parchment. The pages were thick, worn at the edges, the ink smudged in places as if handled by many before her. A faint layer of dust clung to some, untouched for what seemed like years, while others bore fresh creases and annotations. The rough texture of the paper beneath her fingertips sent a shiver through her, an unsettling reminder that these records—whatever they were—had been deliberately placed here for her to find. Notes, maps, records of noble families—why? Was she expected to study? To learn something specific? Or was this another test?
Kierian watched her for a moment longer before pushing off the doorframe. "Get some rest, Vale. You'll need it."
"I don't sleep well in cages," she muttered, eyes still scanning the contents of the room.
"Then you'll fit right in here," he said, smirking before pulling the door shut behind him. A distinct click followed, the unmistakable sound of a lock sliding into place.
Nyra stood there for a long moment, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. Anger simmered beneath her skin, burning hot and restless, but beneath it, something sharper took root—determination. They had taken her from one cage and placed her into another, but they had underestimated her. Let them think they held the leash. Let them believe she was contained. She would play their game, for now. But the moment an opportunity presented itself, she would make sure they regretted ever thinking she was theirs to control. The reality of her situation settled in like a stone in her gut. Trapped, but not broken. Contained, but not conquered.
She turned toward the barred window, stepping closer. The city stretched beyond, its lights flickering like distant stars—mocking in their freedom. The world outside moved on, indifferent to the girl locked away in the heart of it. Voices drifted from the streets below, faint laughter, the clatter of carts, life continuing as if she were already forgotten. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Did they even know she existed? Did they care? The city stretched beyond, its lights twinkling like distant stars, indifferent to the girl locked away in the heart of it. Somewhere out there, Seraph was still inside that cursed hall. Somewhere out there, the life she had known—bleak and brutal as it was—had been ripped from her grasp, leaving only uncertainty in its wake.
She pressed a hand to the cold stone beneath the window. One way or another, she would find a way out.
But not before she figured out exactly why she was here.
And what the King truly wanted from her.