Chapter 14

I wake the next morning with a feeling of dread. I'm to work for the priests again today. Yesterday had been one of the best days of my life, a day where I didn't just exist, but actually lived . I'm still not sure what to make of Jacob. He's not at all what I expected. In public he always seems so removed from everything that's going on around him, or he's lost in a book. However, when he was showing me around the library, I saw someone who was playful and kind. As soon as we had left and were in public, he returned to the more distant prince I've heard whispers about.

Grayson had retired to his rooms late, so late he missed the evening meal, but Jayne kept me company. He was in a dark mood when he did finally return and had simply bid me good night before retreating to his bedroom. I went to bed myself after that, but I hadn't slept well, the combination of the soft mattress and dreams of Priest Rodrick laughing as his guards beat me and the elf watching with dark, furious eyes.

Getting out of bed, I pick out a book at random off the small bookshelf that is built into the wall of my room and curl up on the bay window seat. I flick through the pages, tracing some of the words with my fingers. I can't read, but I make up my own stories, and I am completely lost in a world of my own making when Jayne comes to help me dress for the day. Garbed in the same simple, but well-made dress I had worn the day before last, I sit in front of the mirror as Jayne brushes through my dark, straight hair.

Ready for the day, I walk into the dining room, finding Grayson already sitting at the table, reading a stack of papers with a serious expression.

"Good morning," I say softly, not waiting for him to look up before taking my seat opposite him at the table, helping myself to porridge with a spoonful of honey. Looking up from whatever he's reading, his face seems to darken even more as he sees me in my maid dress. It's nicer than anything the maids wear, but it's what I've come to call the simple, well-made outfit, as everything else he has me dressed in exudes wealth.

"Morning. How are you feeling today?" he asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral, but I get the impression he's wearing one of his masks again, as his eyes spark with anger.

"Fine," I mutter, as I stir my porridge absentmindedly. "I'm working for the priests again today?" I already know the answer, but I have to check, trying not to look as disappointed as I feel as I see him nod out of the corner of my eye. We fall into silence as he sips his coffee, watching me as I take a small spoonful of my breakfast. I'm not really hungry, my stomach churning with nerves, and Grayson's foul mood only makes it all the more unappetising.

"If you would tell me what they have you doing, I might be able to do something to help," he probes, his voice dangerously calm, but I simply shake my head, not meeting his eyes.

"I can't." He makes a noise of displeasure before turning back to his papers. We sit in awkward silence as I play with my food and he pretends not to watch me as he drinks his coffee.

"I heard that you spent the day with Prince Jacob yesterday." This time my gaze does shoot up, and I see his eyes narrow as he notices my reaction. Tilting his head, I can't help but compare his expression to that of a predator stalking their next meal, except I'm the meal.

"Yes?" The word is light, innocent, but why don't I feel that way? I've done nothing wrong, simply been shown parts of the castle by one of the princes, yet Grayson is making me feel like I'm guilty of something.

"You should be careful, the princes are not to be trusted." His comment is interesting. As one of the high magicians, he serves the king and princes, so to state they can't be trusted is a bold and dangerous thing to say. Taking a sip of water from my glass, I avoid his intense gaze again, shrugging my shoulders slightly.

"I'm still learning who I should and shouldn't trust."

Grayson makes a pained noise and I look up to see an expression I can't quite work out. It looks like anger and betrayal mixed into one before he quickly wipes it away into that mask of cool anger.

"I hope that wasn't aimed at me." When I don't respond, I see a crack appear in his mask as he puts down his cup, leaning toward me. "You know you can trust me, right? I rescued you from execution!"

"I know—" I try to explain, my feelings tangled in my chest as I attempt to sort through my insecurities, but he cuts me off before I have the chance.

"Remember who their father is, that he enslaved you and ordered your death." His voice is cold and cruel now, much like how I had imagined him to be, every inch the high magician. As if I need reminding, I know that every breath I take is on borrowed time. I shouldn't be alive, it's only by the grace of the Great Mother that I am still here. My whole life changed in the space of minutes, and I'm still half convinced that I'm in a dream and I'll wake any moment with those hated chains around my ankles.

Pushing away from the table, I leave my barely touched porridge and walk towards the door, hearing him sigh and begin to follow me.

"Clarissa, where are you going?"

Frustration pulses through me like I've never felt before, and with an anger I didn't know I possessed, I turn again to face him.

"Whatever the priests have planned for me will be far more pleasant than this conversation." My words lash out like a whip, and they almost seem to hurt him physically as he winces, falling back down into his seat, rubbing his hand over his face, messing up his hair in the process.

"I'm sorry," he mutters behind his hand, before dropping it and looking at me with his own frustration clear in his blue eyes. "I just feel so useless. I want to help, but I can't . I'm tied in ways I can't even begin to explain."

Watching him, I can almost feel his self-loathing as he leans back in his chair, scowling at the pile of papers at his side. Do I trust him? Yes, despite what I said to him, I do trust him. It's a fragile, newly formed trust, and I still half expect someone to jump around the corner and tell me this is some sort of elaborate joke. I wait by the door for a moment longer, but with a quiet sigh I return to the table, taking my seat opposite him and picking up my glass.

"Okay," I say softly, not bothering to expand or explain, and from the look of quiet relief he gives me, I know he feels the same.

"Okay," he replies, going back to his breakfast.

The walk to meet Priest Rodrick is tense and silent, the only noise is the clicking of our shoes on the stone floor, almost in time to the beat of my thundering heart. Once we reach the chapel, Grayson pulls the priest to the side and has a tense, heated conversation before he storms out with barely a goodbye. Whatever the priest said to Grayson really wound him up, and from the smug grin plastered on his face, he knows it.

For once, the priest is silent as he leads me deeper into the castle, but from the sick, satisfied glances he keeps shooting me, I can tell he is enjoying my discomfort. Discomfort which turns to fear with each step taking us closer to the elf. Part of my brain is screaming at me to turn and run. After all, I'm not wearing chains anymore, I could take my chances with the guards. Dressed like this, they would pause before reaching for their crossbows, but…no, I've seen the guards train, they are ruthless—shoot first, ask questions later. I wouldn't stand a chance.

"Go." Rodrick's voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I realise we've reached the hidden staircase. Swallowing the bile that's threatening to make an appearance, I take a deep breath and step into the hidden alcove, and slowly start to descend the stairs. When I reach the bottom, the same guards lead me into the locked underground room, and the roaring sound of the forge and a hammer hitting metal greets me, a wave of heat making sweat bead on my skin.

I debate not going into the room, knowing I'm going to end up getting hurt either way, but the thought that they could take me away from Grayson if I don't comply has me stepping over the threshold. There are some things worse than death, and I know Grayson is saving me from many of those, not to mention I'm beginning to like the mage.

As soon as I enter the room, the pounding of the hammer stops, and although part of me is screaming not to do it, I raise my eyes to see the elf is glaring back at me. It's a long distance, so I shouldn't be able to see his expression, but I can feel his disgust. Scurrying into the cubby, I collect my supplies and take a moment to breathe and calm my racing heart.

Returning to the same place in the room from the other day, I ignore the dagger-like stare of the elf and frown down at the floor. There is a patch where the marble of the floor is starting to peer through, but there's still muck coating it and the surrounding area, so I set to my task. Last time I mopped the floor first and ended up turning the dirt to mud, which made my task that much harder, so I decide to sweep the floor first, removing as much of the surface dirt as possible. However, this means I have to leave my little corner of relative safety.

You've survived in situations far worse than this. He's a prisoner, just like you. Get on with it, my inner voice chimes, and I realise that it's right—I have survived worse than this. The elf might hate me, but he hates the guards more.

Gripping onto my broom as if it's a weapon, I begin to sweep, refusing to let him terrorise me. I'm acutely aware of his presence and ignore that tugging pull I feel every time I'm near him. A couple of times I think I see him raise his hand to his chest, rubbing at a spot just under his collarbone, but every time I lift my head to look, he's studiously ignoring me.

After the first hour, I realise I'm waiting for something to happen—what, I'm not sure—but when it doesn't come I find myself falling into a trance. The work is menial, I don't really need to focus, and as I switch from sweeping to mopping the rest of the dirt ground into the floor, I switch off. Although as a slave you're always alert, waiting for the next task or punishment, you begin to tune out of the tasks, your mind taking you somewhere more pleasant. You have to, otherwise the reality of your life would drive you mad. So although I'm aware of the elf, that pull in my chest telling me where he is even when I'm not looking, my mind starts to drift.

I lug my second bucket of clean water over to the spot I've been cleaning when I start humming under my breath. It's quiet, and I'm far enough from the elf that he shouldn't be able to hear, especially over all the noise he's making as he pounds the metal against the anvil. I don't know where I learned the song, perhaps from one of the other slaves, or from some long-lost part of my past, but it comforts me. If there are any words to it, I don't know them, but the tune is lilting and always struck me as magical. When I hum it, I feel strong, protected, like I've got someone watching over me, and even if that's all stuff I've made up in my head, it helps me through my days.

I'm so caught up in my task and the song that I don't realise the ring of metal on metal has stopped. The elf seems to have a routine, putting the metal into the forge and then working it on the anvil only to repeat the whole process until it suits his standards, so it's not unusual that the hammering halts. However, I should have noticed when he was quieter than usual.

"What are you singing?" I almost drop the mop when he speaks, my head jolting up so quickly that my neck screams in pain as I jerk a muscle. He's watching me, his slanted, feline eyes tracking my every movement. I think about not responding, I don't owe him anything, after all, but seeing his frustrated expression makes me pause. He doesn't want to talk to me, that much is obvious, but he can't hide his curiosity, and it's clear to see that's annoying him.

"I don't know," I reply honestly.

I could elaborate, tell him that the song comes to me in my dreams, always when I'm at my lowest, like the Mother knows I need to hear it. But I don't, I simply stare at him. I wish I wasn't, but I can't seem to pull my eyes from him. He's shirtless, wearing only a leather sash that crosses over his chest with various tools hanging off it, his dark leggings hugging his legs. Tattoo's cover his chest and back, some are words, all in a twisting font that seems to wrap around his body. I don't recognise the letters as our own, so even if I could read, I still wouldn't be able to understand what they say. On his back, he has a large tattoo of a huge, twisting tree. I want to see it up close, see the detail and run my fingers along the—

What are you thinking? He's an elf, the enemy! my inner voice chides, and I rip my eyes away, lifting my mop once more as I drop my head, using my hair to hide the furious blush covering my cheeks.

"It's one of the songs from the mountain tribes. I recognise it." My mop stills, his words reverberating through me. The mountain tribes, formidable people who are used to living in harsh conditions. Their warriors are renowned for their ferocity in battle, and as a people they're very protective of their women. How would I have learned a song from them? The Kingdom of Arhaven doesn't have the best relationship with them, although I don't know why. I once saw their party of dignitaries they sent to the peace talks several years ago. I had been scrubbing the ground in the front courtyard when they arrived, covered in furs and emitting a vibe that felt anything but peace-like.

Why is the elf telling me this? He doesn't have to give me this information, I haven't asked for it, so why would he do this? Frowning to myself, I continue with my task, my thoughts twisting with the new information I have, and the confusing elf who gave it to me. Silence stretches between us, and the shuffling of chains and banging of metal begins again, so I know the elf has returned to his work. I'm not sure how long we continue like this for, but I have refilled my bucket of water several times before he speaks again.

"Your injuries—they're healed?" Blinking at his sudden words, I realise I had zoned out, my thoughts completely caught up on the mountain people. I don't know why, but I've always been fascinated by them, and now I find that I've been hearing their song in my darkest hours, it's making me think.

I don't reply, but I can feel his gaze burning into me, so I stop mopping and when I glance up, I see he's watching me once again. His expression is confusing. Whilst his words were carefully neutral, like he was just asking about the weather, he looks angry, no, furious, enough so that I flinch away when his eyes flick up to meet mine. What have I done to invoke that kind of hatred? Is it because I'm human? Is it as simple as that?

Don't play coy. You hate him because of his race as well, you shouldn't be so surprised. Sure, we're mortal enemies, but it's not hate I feel towards him, I don't know what I feel. Scared, anxious, curious… My feelings are just so tangled that it's difficult for me to separate any of them. Does that make me a traitor to my own people?

I certainly don't like him and don't want to be around him, but that's because of how he acts, not because of his race. Why should I blindly hate someone who hasn't done anything to me just because we are told to?

I don't know what he sees as I go through this thought process, as something in his face changes, almost a flash of surprise before he's scowling again and turns away to work on his task.

"Yes." My voice is quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the roaring of the fire in the forge, but his head whips up as he catches my words. "High Mage Grayson healed me."

He contemplates what I said, shifting his weight as if he can't stand still. "A mage healed you? A high mage at that." His words are more to himself than a real question for me. He seems to mull over my words before something in him snaps and he grabs the unfinished sword from his workstation. In a movement too quickly for my human eyes to track, he appears in front of me, sword pointed at my chest. "Who are you?" he demands, suspicion lining his face, his voice sharp. Instinctively, I jump back a step, but I don't run away, some deep part of me knowing he won't hurt me. I don't know where this feeling came from, he's not exactly exuding calm.

"I'm no one." I'm proud of myself that my voice doesn't shake as I face down the elf. I push the truth of what I'm saying into the words, I am no one. Giving me a fake name and dressing me in pretty clothing doesn't take away that fact, no matter what Grayson keeps telling me.

"A high mage wouldn't heal a nobody, you must be important," he comments, but even he sounds unsure, my calm appearance throwing him off. Most people wouldn't be composed when facing the threat of death, but then I'm not most people. As a slave, I spent every day wondering if this would be the day I died, so I'm embracing these brief periods of freedom, even if it's temporary. Taking a deep breath, I step forward so the tip of the blade is just touching the delicate skin beneath my collarbone.

"I've faced pain and death every day of my existence, you don't scare me." Again, my voice is steady, even though my traitorous body begins to tremble under his stare. Hearing the truth of my words, he drops his arm down to his side, the unfinished sword still clutched tightly in his grip.

"Are you being punished?" His slightly accented words are laced with confusion, as if I'm a puzzle he can't work out.

Pushing up the cuff of my dress I show him the marks on my arm, the slave number and black X's that mar my skin. "I'm just as much a prisoner as you are." Judging from the shocked expression on his face, I've surprised him. Feeling self-conscious under his intense stare, I pull my arm back to fix the cuff of my sleeve, but his hand darts out and grabs my wrist. A gasp escapes my lips, his hold firm but not painful as he turns my wrist over, his thumb rubbing over the raised brands, then the Goddess mark above it. That sensation of power rolls through me again, the strange pull I feel toward the elf igniting in my chest. Our eyes meet and fire, determination, and an emotion I can't name greet me in his gaze.

"A slave." His words are so quiet I almost don't catch them. The elf shakes his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something else when the sound of booted feet marching towards us has us both backing away. As soon as he lets go, the pull lessens, but the feeling of power, of strength, stays with me for a moment, lingering, like it's giving me the chance to remember what this feels like.

The elf returns to his work just as the soldiers enter the underground room. Looking down at the patch of floor I've scrubbed, my gut clenches as I see how little of it I've actually managed to clean—less than a quarter of the room.

"You call this clean?" The voice makes terror flood through my system as the guard repeats the same words from the last time I was here. He circles me and I finally get a good look at him. He's wearing the green uniform of the royal guards, but his jacket is lined with gold, showing his seniority. Scanning the room, his eyes narrow on the elf before coming back to me, suspicion making his otherwise handsome face look cruel. "You're alive and—" His eyes run over my body, lingering on my breasts, making me blush, but I refuse to hide my face. "Alive and unharmed."

Spinning on his heel, he stalks towards the elf, his every step promising violence until he stops just in front of the work bench. He's either brave or stupid getting that close to his prisoner and goading him, or he trusts in the aim of the guards who are now standing in the doorway, their crossbows aimed at the elf.

"What's the problem, filth? We give you a new plaything and you leave it alone. You killed all your other minders, what's different?" he spits, provoking the elf who looks frozen. Not frozen in fear, but frozen with a quiet rage, his eyes promising retribution, but the senior guard doesn't realise or doesn't care. "Is it because she's a girl? Pretty thing. Shame really." Clicking his fingers, the two guards from before come forward and grab my arms, dragging me back, putting space between the elf and me.

My heart hammers in my chest, my breaths ragged and uneven. I know what's going to happen, but that doesn't stop the fear from threatening to swallow me whole. Something in my chest shifts, an undeniable pull, and my eyes flick up to the elf who is watching me carefully. He doesn't say a thing, he doesn't even move, but I feel like he's trying to tell me something, to be strong, like I had been with the sword pressed against my chest. I knew he wasn't going to hurt me and that assurance made me brave. But no matter how much I wish it was otherwise, I'm not strong. Shaking my head, I tear my gaze from the elf and look around for any signs of mercy, but am met only with unforgiving expressions. That warm, tingling sensation I'm beginning to associate with my Goddess mark fills me, and a sense of calm washes through me

"Stay strong, daughter."

Gasping, I look around to see if anyone else heard the lilting, comforting voice of the Great Mother, but quickly realise she has only spoken to me. Whatever her plan or reasoning, she needs me to experience this, it's all for some greater purpose. At least, that's what I tell myself. I have to believe that my suffering is for a reason.

Taking a deep breath and drawing courage from the fact the Mother is with me, I meet the eyes of the elf just as the first booted foot kicks into my leg, causing me to fall to the ground. The cry that escapes me is filled with shock, pain, and anger, so much anger. As I lie on the dirty marble floor, their sharp kicks and jabs shattering my body, that anger builds and twists. They may break my body, but they won't break my mind.