Chapter 5: The Prince's Arrival
The heavy oak doors groaned inward, not with ceremony, but with the shove of a mailed fist. The cacophony of the hall—the clatter of dishes, the murmur of a hundred courtiers, the skirl of minstrels in the gallery—died as if severed by a blade.
He entered not as a supplicant, but as a conqueror surveying subdued territory.
Prince Corbin of Kier was a tall man, but it was a lean, attenuated tallness that reminded Hermione of a frost-killed sapling—all hard angles and brittle prominence. His hair was the colour of old ash, swept back from a high, pale forehead. His eyes were the true shock: a colourless grey, like water over slate, reflecting the torchlight but emitting none of their own. He wore Kier’s colours, but where her own gown was crimson and silver, his doublet was the grey of a winter sky, slashed with silver that looked less like adornment and more like the gleam of a knife edge.
He did not look at the king. He did not acknowledge the bowed heads. His gaze went unerringly to the high table, to the splash of crimson that was Hermione, and pinned her there.
Behind him flowed his retinue, a river of grey and steel: more soldiers, advisors, the hatchet-faced Durance, and Scribe Lyle, who already had his slate in hand. Their boots made a single, synchronized sound on the marble, a martial heartbeat that swallowed the hall’s silence.
King Aldric rose, his own presence formidable, but Hermione felt a strange, dislocated pity for her father. He was a lion in his own den, but this was a wolf, and wolves travelled in packs.
“Prince Corbin,” Aldric’s voice boomed, straining for a warmth it could not find. “Valdoria welcomes you.”
Corbin stopped at the foot of the dais. A faint, chilly smile touched his lips, not reaching his eyes. “King Aldric. Your hospitality is noted.” His voice was surprisingly smooth, a low baritone that carried without effort. It was the voice of a man used to being listened to, and to disposing of what he heard.
His gaze slid back to Hermione. “And this is the asset in question.”
The word hung in the air. Asset. Not ‘princess’, not ‘bride’. Inventory.
Hermione felt Elara’s stillness behind her left shoulder, a statue of poised attention. She could smell the faint, clean scent of the bergamot oil from her bath. It was the only real thing in the room.
She rose. The crimson velvet was heavy, a fortress. She inclined her head, the motion precisely calibrated between courtesy and pride. “Prince Corbin. I am Hermione of Valdoria.”
He mounted the dais steps, one, two, three, until he stood before her, too close. The smell of him reached her—cold leather, iron, and beneath it, a faint, cloying scent of myrrh, like something preserved. His eyes travelled over her face, her hair, the high collar of her gown, with a dispassionate thoroughness that made her skin feel flayed. It was worse than Lyle’s examination. This was not clinical. This was ownership being asserted.
“The portrait was competent,” he said, as if rating an artist. “It failed, however, to capture the tension in the jaw. You are… apprehensive.” He reached out a hand. He wore a single, heavy silver ring carved with a predatory bird, its talons gripping the band. His fingers, long and pale, closed not on her hand, but under her chin. The metal was cold against her skin. He tilted her face up, turning it slightly toward the torchlight. “Apprehension can be becoming. It suggests a mind that understands consequence.”
Every instinct screamed to pull away. To smash the wine goblet on the table into that pallid, assessing face. She held still. She let him manipulate her head like a sculptor adjusting a bust. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father’s knuckles whiten on the arm of his throne. She saw Elara’s breath catch, the only sign of her existence.
“I am mindful of the significance of this alliance,” Hermione said, her voice steady, each word a chip of ice. “My apprehension is for the weight of duty, not the company.”
A flicker in the grey eyes. Surprise, perhaps, that she could speak. His thumb stroked once, almost thoughtfully, along her jawline. The touch was intimate and utterly impersonal. “Duty is the backbone of kingdoms. I am pleased to find you have one.” He released her, turning slightly. His gaze fell on Elara. “And this is the accessory my scribe documented. The… composure-slave.”
Elara sank into a deep curtsy, her eyes fixed on the floor. “Your Highness.”
“Rise. Let me see the tool that keeps my investment from crumbling.”
Elara rose. Corbin circled her, a slow, predatory orbit. “The chain is a nice touch. Aesthetic, yet unequivocal. Tell me, girl. What is the primary technique you employ to steady your mistress’s nerves?”
Elara’s voice was a humble monotone. “Herbal infusions, Your Highness. Specific pressures at the temples and wrists. Controlled breathing. It is a science of humors.”
“A science.” Corbin’s smile was thin. “And do you find her humor… balanced? Or does she trend toward the melancholic? The choleric?”
He was digging, with a surgeon’s precision, for the weakness Lyle might have missed.
“The Princess has a sanguine disposition, disciplined by royal training,” Elara responded, her answer bland as oatmeal. “My role is merely maintenance of an already stable foundation.”
Corbin stopped in front of her, looking down. He was taller than her by half a head. “Look at me.”
Elara lifted her gaze. Her amber eyes met his watery grey. Hermione, watching, felt a bolt of terror. In those eyes, she saw not submission, but a fathomless, still depth. A careful nothing.
“You are tolerably pretty,” Corbin pronounced. “For a utility. See that your… science… does not involve any unorthodox methodologies. The princess’s education in certain arts is mine to oversee. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Your Highness.”
“Good.” He turned away, dismissing her as one would a well-calibrated scale. “Now. Let us eat. We have details to finalize.”
The feast was a masterpiece of strained opulence. Boar stuffed with apricots, peacocks re-dressed in their feathers, towers of pastry that wept honey. Hermione tasted none of it. It was ash in her mouth. She sat between her father and her betrothed, a jewel set between two grinding stones.
Corbin ate sparingly, with fastidious elegance. He spoke to Aldric about tariffs, about disputed borderlands, about the quality of Valdorian iron ore. Each topic was a probing finger testing the strength of the kingdom’s walls. Aldric’s answers were gruff, defensive. The power was shifting across the table with every exchanged sentence.
Halfway through, Corbin leaned slightly toward Hermione. His shoulder brushed hers. A deliberate contact.
“You are very quiet,” he murmured, for her alone. The noise of the hall covered his words. “The scribe reported you were adequately responsive. I find you… opaque.”
“You find me what my station requires me to be, Prince Corbin,” she said, staring at her plate.
“Your station requires you to be my wife. That entails conversation. That entails… accessibility.” He took a sip of wine. “Tell me, what do you know of Kier?”
She forced her mind to work. “It is a northern kingdom. Renowned for its silver mines and its scholarly libraries. Its military traditions are… rigorous.”
“Rigorous.” He savored the word. “A polite way of saying ruthless. We are a people who understand that survival is the highest virtue. Sentiment is a luxury that dead men cannot afford.” He set his goblet down. “You have a slave who is sentimentally attached to you. The scribe perceived it, despite your little performance. That is a luxury. It is also a vulnerability. In Kier, we correct vulnerabilities.”
Her blood ran cold. She chanced a glance at him. He was watching her, his expression mild. “How?”
“Through discipline. Through re-education. Or through removal.” He picked up his knife, traced the edge with a fingertip. “I am considering which is most appropriate. Her usefulness to your composure is noted. But her influence… that must be quantified and controlled.”
“She has no influence,” Hermione said, too quickly, the lie brittle.
His grey eyes held hers. “You just flinched. Your breath changed. For a tool, you are remarkably defensive. That is data.” He smiled. “Do not worry. I will make my determination after I have experienced the full scope of your… prepared state. Tonight.”
The final two words dropped between them like stones in a still pond. Tonight. Not the wedding night, weeks away. Tonight. After the feast.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of noise and fear. When the last platter was cleared and the minstrels struck up a sprightly tune, King Aldric stood.
“Prince Corbin! The evening is young. Let us retire to the cedar salon for spiced wine. The court can dance.” It was a blatant attempt to control the timeline, to insert a buffer.
Corbin rose languidly. “An excellent suggestion. Princess, you will accompany us. Your attendant may follow. I wish to observe your interactions in a more private setting.”
It was not a request.
The cedar salon was a smaller, wood-paneled room where her father conducted informal business. A fire crackled in the hearth, battling the eternal castle damp. Servants brought spiced wine in hammered silver goblets. Elara stood by the door, a sentinel in gray.
Aldric and Corbin took chairs by the fire. Hermione remained standing, feeling like a child before magistrates.
“The marriage contract,” Corbin began, accepting a goblet but not drinking. “My scribes have prepared an addition. Given the… unusual preparation the princess has undergone, a clause guaranteeing her continued suitability is required.”
Aldric frowned. “Suitability was confirmed by your man today.”
“Physical suitability, yes. Behavioral and temperamental suitability is an ongoing condition.” Corbin’s gaze slid to Hermione. “The clause states that should the princess, at any point before the formal wedding or during a probationary period of one year after, display signs of melancholia, hysteria, or undue attachment to persons or things not of Kier, the alliance may be voided, with reparations to be paid by Valdoria.” He sipped his wine. “The reparations would be substantial. A third of your annual yield from the eastern silver veins.”
Hermione heard her father’s sharp intake of breath. It was not a clause. It was a leash, and a financial sword poised above their necks. Undue attachment. He was spelling it out.
“That is highly irregular,” Aldric sputtered.
“So is gifting a princess a pleasure-slave to placate her before a political marriage,” Corbin said softly, his words a surgeon’s needle finding the exact nerve. “We are both men of practical solutions, Aldric. My solution is to insure my investment against emotional devaluation. Surely you understand.”
The silence stretched, broken only by the spit of the fire. Aldric looked from Corbin’s impassive face to Hermione’s stricken one. He was trapped. Refusal would betray weakness, would suggest he knew the attachment was real and feared the clause. Acceptance was selling her—and Elara—into a prison of constant observation.
“I… understand,” Aldric ground out. “The clause is acceptable.”
“Excellent.” Corbin set his goblet aside. “Now. The second matter. I wish to speak with the princess. Alone. In her chambers. Her attendant may wait in the antechamber.”
“Prince Corbin, the propriety—” Aldric began, standing.
“—is defined by the contract you just agreed to,” Corbin finished, his voice hardening for the first time. “I am not one of your simpering southern lords who worries about whispers. I am to be her husband. I will assess my property in its intended environment. Now.”
His cold eyes held Aldric’s. The wolf against the lion. The lion, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, looked away.
“Hermione,” her father said, his voice thick with a shame he would never voice. “Accompany the prince to your chambers.”
Her feet were blocks of stone. She moved. Elara, her face a perfect blank, opened the door. They walked, a terrible procession: Corbin first, then Hermione, then Elara, with two of Corbin’s personal guards falling in behind. The walk through the castle was a death march. Courtiers, seeing the prince’s face, melted from their path.
At her chamber door, Corbin paused. He looked at Elara. “Wait here. You may enter only if called.”
He opened the door and ushered Hermione inside, closing it firmly, leaving Elara in the cold, torch-lit corridor with the two expressionless guards.
Her chambers, her sanctuary, were violated by his presence. He walked in slowly, taking inventory. His eyes moved over the canopied bed, the writing desk, the vanity with its pots and brushes, the fur rug before the cold hearth. He stopped at the vanity, picked up a silver hairbrush, weighed it in his hand, set it down.
“Adequate,” he said again, that damning word. He turned to her. “Now. The slave told my scribe she uses touch to calm you. Specific pressures. Demonstrate.”
Hermione blinked. “I… do not understand.”
“You are the recipient. You know where she touches you. Show me. On yourself.”
Humiliation, hot and sharp, lanced through her. He wanted her to mimic Elara’s intimacy, to perform it for him as a diagnostic. To reduce their stolen language to a pantomime.
“At the temples,” she whispered, raising trembling hands to her own head.
“No. Not like that. As she does it. With the intent. Pretend I am her.”
She could not. Her hands froze in the air. She stared at him, her breath coming in short gasps.
He sighed, a sound of mild disappointment. “Defiance. Or incapacity. Both are flaws.” He walked toward her. “Very well. I will illustrate the kind of touch that is appropriate.”
He stopped before her. He did not touch her face. Instead, his hands went to the high, embroidered collar of her gown. His fingers, deft and cold, found the hidden clasp at the back of her neck. He unfastened it. The velvet parted slightly. He hooked a finger inside the collar and pulled, not hard, but with implacable force, drawing her a step closer to him.
“In Kier,” he said, his voice conversational, “we believe control is the highest form of affection. To know a thing completely—its strengths, its breaking points—is to truly value it.” With his other hand, he traced the line of her collarbone, exposed by the opened collar. His touch was light, exploring. “Your skin is fair. It will mark easily. That is good. Marks are a record. A history.”
He leaned closer, his myrrh-and-iron scent enveloping her. His lips did not touch her skin, but hovered near her ear. “You will learn to receive my touch without trembling. You will learn to provide responses that are measured and correct. The slave taught you to gasp, I assume? To writhe? Those are the responses of an animal, or a pleasure-slave. You are a princess. You will respond with… acknowledgment. A sigh. A deliberate relaxation of the muscles. Controlled. Elegant. Do you understand?”
She was shaking, a fine, constant vibration. She nodded, a jerk of the head.
“Verbal confirmation is required.”
“I understand,” she choked out.
“Good.” He released her collar, but did not step back. His hand came up and cupped the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the intricate coils of her hair. It was not a caress. It was a firm grip, establishing hold. “Now. I will kiss you. You will demonstrate appropriate, wifely receipt. Not the passion of a mistress. The accepted gratitude of a vassal receiving her lord.”
He bent his head. His lips were cool and dry. They pressed against hers with absolute certainty, no exploration, no request. It was a seal, a brand. She stood frozen, her eyes wide open, staring at the intricate embroidery on his doublet. She tried to remember Elara’s instructions—be a flower, be a ledger entry—but this was different. This was annihilation.
He pulled back, his grip on her neck tightening momentarily. “Unacceptable. You were a statue. Try again. And this time, close your eyes. Part your lips, slightly. As if accepting a sacrament.”
Tears of fury and shame burned behind her eyes. She closed them. She felt him draw nearer again, felt his breath on her mouth. She forced her lips to part, a millimeter.
She forced her lips to part, a millimeter.
It was enough. His mouth covered hers again, a slow, deliberate claiming that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with dominion. His tongue touched the seam of her lips, a cold, insistent probe. She opened for him, the taste of spiced wine and something metallic flooding her mouth. She made herself still, a vessel receiving an offering she did not want. A low, measured sound hummed in his throat—approval.
He broke the kiss, his hand still a cage at the back of her skull. His grey eyes scanned her face, reading her like one of Lyle’s slates. “Better. The technique is crude, but the principle is grasped. You learn.” He released her suddenly, turning to survey the room again as if the kiss had been a tick on a checklist. “Now. The bed. Sit.”
The command was so flat, so devoid of any emotional color, that it bypassed her fear and sparked a dangerous, clear rage. She did not move. “You said assess. Not consummate.”
He glanced back, a faint eyebrow raised. “I said assess. The contract clause regarding your temperament hinges on your responsiveness. Your physical responses are data. Sit on the bed. I wish to see how you arrange yourself. Your posture tells me of your submission, or your latent defiance.” He smiled, a thin crack in glacial ice. “The scribe’s report suggested flexibility. I wish to observe it.”
This was the violation Lyle had only hinted at. A performance. She was to pose for him. To demonstrate her trained suppleness like a horse showing its gait. Her eyes flicked to the door. Elara was just beyond it, standing with the guards. Useless. A tool locked in a box.
She walked to the bed, the crimson velvet whispering accusations with every step. She sat on the edge, her spine rigid, her hands clenched in the fabric of her skirt.
“No. Not like a soldier on watch. Recline. Prop yourself on your elbows. Look toward the window, as if gazing at a moon you cannot see.”
Each instruction was a wire tightening around her. She shifted, leaning back onto her hands, turning her head toward the dark, leaded glass. The position arched her back, thrust her chest forward, made her feel exposed and staged.
“Legs. Uncross your ankles. One knee bent, the other straight. Yes.” He walked a slow circle around the bed. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “The slave has trained your body well. There is a conscious grace to your stillness that is not innate. It has been practiced.” He stopped at the foot of the bed. “What did she have you do? On this fur rug? Describe it.”
Hermione’s breath hitched. She stared at the window, at the distorted reflection of the room’s firelight in the black glass. “She… performed her service.”
“Specifics. Did she use her hands? Her mouth? Did she speak to you? What words?” His voice was calm, inquisitive. A scholar dissecting a strange custom.
“I do not recall.” The lie was dust in her mouth.
“You recall. Your pulse is hammering at your throat. I can see it from here.” He took a step closer. “The clause, Hermione. Undue attachment. Withholding information is a form of attachment. It is a loyalty to a shared secret. It makes the secret a third entity in our marriage. I will not have it. Tell me, or I will have the slave brought in and you will tell me while she kneels on that floor with a knife at her neck. The master-at-arms, Durance, enjoys that particular method of interrogation. He says the throat jumps so prettily under the blade.”
The image was so vivid, so precisely cruel, that a whimper escaped her. He had her. He knew the exact shape of her fear. “She… used her mouth.” The admission was a defeat, sour and small.
“Where.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Everywhere.”
A long, silent moment passed. She heard the soft sound of his gloves shifting as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Interesting. And did you enjoy this… comprehensive service?”
She said nothing. Tears leaked from her closed eyes, tracking hot paths to her hairline.
“Your silence is an answer. You did. You thrived on it. You allowed a slave to worship you. That is a dangerous precedent. It inverts the natural order.” He moved again, coming to stand beside the bed, looking down at her. “A princess should be worshipped only by her prince. The slave’s role was to prepare the vessel, not to become the object of devotion. This error will be corrected.”
He reached out and took a lock of her raven hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “From this moment, her touches are for maintenance only. Her eyes will not hold yours. Her voice will not soothe. She is a implement, like your hairbrush. You will not confide in her. You will not seek comfort in her. When I am present, you will not look at her at all. Do you understand the correction?”
A sob broke from her, harsh and ragged. It was the annihilation of the only real thing she had. “I understand.”
“Verbal confirmation is required for contractual terms.”
“I understand!” The words were a strangled cry.
“Good.” He dropped the lock of hair. “Now. One more assessment. I will touch you. You will demonstrate the appropriate, wifely response. Not the gasp of a slut. The accepted sigh of a consort. Control. Elegance.” His hand, still clad in fine leather, moved to the opening of her gown. His fingers slipped inside, over the frantic beat of her heart, down to the curve of her breast.
Outside, in the corridor, the air was tomblike. The two Kier guards were statues, their eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Elara stood between them, her body held in perfect, servile stillness, but her mind was a vortex.
She could hear nothing through the thick oak door. That was worse than screams. The unknown painted horrors more vivid than any sound. The prince’s words echoed in her. Correction. Removal. He would strip them of everything, even the silent language of glances they had forged. He would break Hermione into a docile, hollow thing, and he would discard her, Elara, like a used rag. Or worse, he would keep her, a twisted reminder of his control.
The plan she and Hermione had concocted—the performance, the stolen moments—was ash. It was a child’s defense against a siege engine. They needed a weapon. Not a political one. A real one.
A memory surfaced, sharp and clear as a shard of glass. Years ago, when she was newly acquired by the castle and sent on endless, lost errands through the older, disused wings, she had gotten turned around. Down a spiraling staircase slick with damp, behind a tapestry frayed to mere threads, she had found a warped door that looked like a wall. A faint, sweet-rotten smell of herbs and something metallic had drifted from beneath it. A low voice, singing tunelessly in a language that prickled the skin, had followed. She had fled, her heart a wild bird, but the location had been etched into her mind: the bottom of the west tower, behind the tapestry of the drowned king.
A witch. Every castle had stories of one. A kept secret for the things royalty could not ask of priests or physicians.
Elara’s eyes, lowered to the floor, flicked to the left guard, then the right. Their discipline was absolute, but they were focused on the threat outside the princess’s door. Not on the slave within the castle.
Hermione was buying time, however horribly. She had to use it.
She let her shoulders slump, a subtle shift into a posture of weary resignation. She took a small, shuffling step back, then another, as if seeking the wall for support. The guards did not react. Another step. The corridor here was dim, the torches farther apart. She was at the edge of their peripheral vision.
She turned, with the slow, unhurried motion of someone resigned to a long wait, and began to walk down the corridor. Not away from the door, but parallel, toward a shadowed arch that led to the servants’ back stairs. Her steps were silent on the runner. Five paces. Ten.
“You.” The voice was a hammer in the quiet.
She froze, her blood turning to ice. Slowly, she turned. The guard on the left was looking at her, his hand on his sword hilt. “Where do you go?”
Elara dipped into a low curtsy. “Forgive me, sir. The Princess… when she is distressed… she often requires a specific tea from the stillroom after such audiences. To prevent megrims. I thought to fetch it now, to have it ready. It takes time to steep.” She kept her voice a meek, worried thread. “I only wished to be prepared for my mistress’s needs.”
The guard stared at her. The lie was plausible, servile, and acknowledged his prince’s distressing impact. He grunted. “Be swift. If you are not back before the prince exits, you will be punished.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She scurried away, the picture of obedient haste.
Once through the arch and down the tight, turning stairs, she ran. Her soft shoes slapped against cold stone. The servant passages were a labyrinth of sighs and forgotten dirt, but she knew them. She flew past storage rooms smelling of onions and damp wool, past the warm, doughy breath of the night kitchens, into the older, colder arteries of the castle where the walls wept moisture and the air tasted of age.
The west tower was a gutted shell used for storing broken furniture and empty casks. She slipped through a doorway hidden by a collapsing shelf, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The spiraling stairs were here, darker than memory, the steps uneven and slick. She descended into a darkness that smelled of wet stone and earth.
The tapestry was there, a ghost of itself, the drowned king’s face a mildewed blur. She pressed her ear against the wood behind it. Silence. Then, a scrape. A muffled clink.
She found the hidden latch, a metal ring cold as a dead man’s finger, camouflaged in the carving. She pulled. The door resisted, then opened with a groan that seemed to travel up through the very bones of the castle.
The smell was the same: overripe herbs, bitter minerals, the iron-tang of old blood, and underneath, the sweet, corrupt odor of decaying flowers. The room was small, circular, crammed with hanging bunches of desiccated plants, shelves of cracked jars holding murky fluids and unnamable shapes, a rough-hewn table stained with a galaxy of spills. A single candle, its flame an unnatural, steady blue, guttered in a draft that shouldn’t exist.
At the table sat the witch.
She was older than the castle, a woman made of knots and parchment. Her hair was a wild tangle of grey and white, her eyes black as beetle shells, reflecting the blue flame. Her fingers, stained dark and crooked, were peeling the skin from a root that wept clear, viscous sap.
“The princess’s little shadow,” the witch rasped, without looking up. Her voice was the sound of stones grinding together deep underground. “You have the stink of terror on you. And desire. A costly combination.”
Elara shut the door, leaning against it. She had no time for rituals or niceties. “I need your help.”
“Everyone who finds me needs help. The helping is what costs.” The witch set the root down, wiping her fingers on a filthy cloth. She finally looked at Elara. Those black eyes saw too much. “You want a love potion. A silly, sweet thing to make her choose you. It won’t work. The bonds of crown and contract are stronger than vervain and honey.”
“Not love,” Elara said, the words coming in a desperate rush. “I need a spell. On Prince Corbin. The man who will marry her.”
The witch’s thin lips curled, revealing brown, spaced teeth. “Ah. Removal? A slow sickness? A sudden, tragic collapse? That is more expensive. It requires rarer ingredients. Parts of the prince himself.”
“No! Not death.” Elara pushed off the door, stepping into the room. The blue candlelight made her skin look cadaverous. “I need him… changed. I need him to fear her. To be docile in her presence. To be submissive to her. To see her not as an asset, but as a… a power he cannot challenge.”
The witch went very still. The only sound was the pop of the blue flame. “You wish to bend a prince’s will. To invert the natural hierarchy. That is not a spell. That is a rewiring of the soul. That is a theft of his fundamental being.”
“Can you do it?”
A long, assessing silence. “The price would be catastrophic. For me. For you. For perhaps even her.”
“Name it.”
“The sacrifice is irrevocable.”
“I understand.”
“And my payment? I do not work for the satisfaction of a slave’s heart.”
“What do you want?”
The witch’s gaze traveled over her, and for a fleeting second, Elara saw a hunger there that had nothing to do with flesh. “A memory. Your happiest one. The one you cling to in the dark. The one that smells of sunlight and safety. I will take the taste of it, the color, the feeling. You will know it happened, but it will be like a story told about someone else. It will have no warmth left.”
Elara thought of the only thing that qualified: a fragment from before the slavers. A small courtyard with a lemon tree. Her mother’s hands, whole and unbroken, lifting her to touch a sun-warmed fruit. The scent of citrus and dust. The feeling of being weightless, and loved, and safe.
It was a ghost that had sustained her for two decades. To give its essence away was to kill the ghost.
She thought of Hermione, behind the door, being unmade by cold hands and colder instructions.
“Take it,” Elara said, her voice stone.
The witch nodded. “The prince’s token. You have it?”
Elara reached into the hidden seam of her sleeve. She pulled out a single, long, ash-blonde hair, snagged from Prince Corbin’s cloak when she had curtsied in the hall. She handed it over.
“Clever shadow.” The witch took the hair. “Now. Your part. Sit.”