Chapter 3 - Arvoren

We return to Millrath in the late afternoon. My courtiers bring her to me at dusk for presentation.

It has been a long week. My sword hungers for blood, and despite myself, my body hungers for a mate, a woman I have awaited acquainting myself with since first I saw her.

I considered bedding her on the long journey south, on long nights spent listening to her weep like a child in her wagon, bound at the wrists and feet. But she was filthy, and I knew, somehow, that the continued suspense would cow her, unsettle her.

I don’t want a feisty mate.

My courtiers show no sign of exhaustion as they enter my underchamber. Their shadows are long and twisted, stretching across the marble floor of the throne room like grasping hands. The air hums with a tangible tension, the echo of work boots on stone and the murmur of aristocrats and servants around me gone silent.

I sit in the shadows, half-hidden by the ornate, blackened ironwork that forms the crest of my throne, and watch as the handservants drag her forward.

She’s smaller than I remembered. Slim, almost frail-looking, with her head bowed and dark hair tumbling in a tangled curtain around her scarred face. They have changed her clothes and cleaned the blood from her face, but she still looks exhausted and unkempt. But even like this—half-broken, wrists bound with rough rope that bites into pale skin—there’s something about her. She has an aura I cannot describe.

I have met lords, sorcerers, criminals, murderers, kings and thieves. None have had the energy she has.

“Majesty.” The captain of my guard steps forward, bowing low, his voice reverberating through the still air. “We’ve brought the witch, as you commanded.”

I lean forward slightly, my gaze narrowing. The scent of smoke and sweat still clings to her, mingling with the faint, coppery tang of blood. Her dress, little more than a peasant’s shift, torn and muddied, is stained with the ash of a place that no longer exists. It has been a long journey for her.

“Lift your head,” I command, my voice echoing through the chamber. There’s no kindness in it, no softness. I am a conqueror. She must know this. I do not coddle or coax. I command.

She doesn’t obey.

A ripple of shock travels through the gathered courtiers, a faint rustle of disbelief. I feel a slow smile curl at the edges of my lips.

“Lift. Your. Head ,” I say again, each word laced with steel.

And this time, she does.

Slowly, painfully slowly, she raises her head and looks up at me.

Her eyes—Gods, those eyes—are like storm clouds in a winter sky: a tumultuous, seething gray that seems to shift and deepen the longer I look at them. They flash with defiance, with a raw, undiluted rage that catches me off guard.

There’s no fear there. No pleading. Just fury.

And beauty, too, though it’s a strange, almost otherworldly kind of beauty. She has the look of something wild and untamed, with her high, delicate cheekbones and lips stained the color of rose petals. Two long, pale scars lance down the side of her face, faded but deep. Her skin is so pale it seems to glow in the dim light, and a faint flush blooms across her cheeks, making her appear fragile and fierce all at once.

She’s a creature of contradictions. A thorned rose.

For a moment, our eyes lock, and I feel a strange, unwelcome something stirring deep in my chest. I’ve looked down on countless women over the years, nobles and peasants alike, some weeping, some trembling, all of them afraid. I’ve seen the terror in their eyes, the desperate hope that I’ll spare them.

But not this one.

This girl—this witch—is different.

She lifts her chin, the faintest quirk of a smile ghosting across her lips, as if daring me to do my worst.

“I am no witch,” she murmurs.

And then, before anyone can react, she spits at my feet.

The hall erupts. Gasps of shock. Murmurs of disbelief. Someone cries out. My guards step forward, hands on their swords, but I raise a hand, and they halt, eyes flickering uncertainly between me and the girl.

“Leave us,” I say softly.

Silence falls. The courtiers hesitate, glancing at one another in confusion. But then, one by one, they begin to file out, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them.

The guards follow, casting wary looks over their shoulders. I feel my soldiers’ stares on my back. But they will not dare interject.

Within moments, the throne room is empty, save for me, the girl, and the flickering shadows.

I rise slowly from my throne, the cold metal of my crown a weight on my brow. My boots ring sharply against the stone as I descend the steps, each stride measured and deliberate. She watches me approach, her eyes still locked on mine, unblinking.

I’m twice her size. That alone should terrify her. But of course, it does not.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous.

“Arvoren the Tyrant,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse but steady. “Where I’m from, people say you’re afraid of your own shadow.”

I move my hand. It’s hardly an inch—the faintest flicker of my fingers, like casting a spell. A flex of my potential power, but no real threat in it, just the barest movement.

Despite herself, despite all her bravado, the girl flinches so hard she topples to one side, skittering back from me.

It takes only a single moment for the flush of shame on her face to deepen. It takes all my willpower not to laugh at the display, at her bare weakness.

She takes a slow, deep breath. Then, gingerly, she pushes herself back up onto her knees, raising her gaze to meet mine once more.

Something tightens in my chest. The fear is gone from her face like it was never there. There is not a trace of it now. Only that same defiance, the simmering fury that makes her eyes blaze like twin coals.

“I should kill you for that,” I murmur, my voice silk-soft.

“Then do it,” she whispers back, chin tilting upward. “Go on. Prove that you’re as much of a coward as they say you are.”

My jaw clenches. Rage stretches its tendrils up inside me, hot and unwieldy. My fingers twitch for my weapon. I could rend her to pieces.

And then in her eyes, I see the truth of her desire.

She wants me to kill her. She’s daring me to. And yet … there’s no trace of resignation in her face. No acceptance of death. It’s as if she knows—somehow—that I won’t.

And that, more than anything, intrigues me.

I crouch before her, so close I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the fine tremor in her fingers.

Her breathing quickens as I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“You think you’re brave,” I say softly. “You think your defiance makes you strong. But you’re wrong, little witch. You have no idea what true strength is.”

She glares at me, her breath warm against my face.

“I am no witch,” she insists once more. Her pink lips are just as small as the rest of her.

I want to shut them up.

Ha . There it is. She knows precisely what I want and what I would do to get it. There it is again, that delicious fear.

I smile then, a slow, predatory smirk. “Oh, I will teach you what it is to live in this place. You’ll learn.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, but I catch the slightest hitch in her breathing. I reach out, tilting her chin up with one gloved hand, forcing her to hold my gaze.

“You belong to me now,” I say softly, each word a promise and a curse. “You will bear my heirs. You will kneel at my feet. And you will break, witch, no matter how strong you think you are.”

She shudders, and I feel a thrill of satisfaction—until I see the glimmer in her eyes, the flicker of something across her face. Not fear, but something else.

Pity.

My smile falters. She sees it, and the ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.

“Is that what you want?” she whispers. “A woman to carry your children and warm your bed? How pathetic.”

Rage flares hot and blinding, and I redouble my grip on her chin, forcing her head back. But she just stares up at me, unblinking, unafraid.

“You will obey,” I snarl. “I can burn you to ash. And I shall, should you waste my time. I can make you wish you had never been born.”

My punishing hold on her tightens. Her lips part, and for the briefest moment, I see something flicker across her face, something like pain. But then she blinks, and it’s gone.

“I’ll die before I give you what you want,” she whispers.

Our eyes lock. For a single instant, a moment which seems to last a million, we are foes fighting to our death. She raises her sword against me and wills me to crumble and break.

If I don’t defeat her first, she will defeat me.

I release her roughly, rising to my feet. Whatever madness she has, it is some sorcery, witch or no. Am I becoming demented? Is this her affect?

I don’t let it show on my face. She stays where she is, kneeling on the cold stone, her gaze never leaving mine as I call for my men.

“Take her to the East Wing and have her cleaned thoroughly,” I order the guards as they re-enter, my voice clipped and hard. “And make sure she’s kept under guard at all times. No one is to speak to her without my permission. She will be treated as a prisoner and slave. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Majesty,” the captain says, his voice strained.

They lift her to her feet, dragging her away, but she keeps her eyes on me until the very last moment.