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“My lady, it’s time to get ready for your lucky day,” the largest of them announced, his booming voice echoing off all the walls of the prison. To her left, the mad boy awoke from his sleep and waited with curious eyes for the drama that was undoubtedly about to unfold.

Wren merely stared at the four men—four because two hadn’t been enough to get her to the throne room the previous day—and made no effort whatsoever to move. She was even more exhausted than the night before, her voice all but gone after singing tirelessly to the dragon for hours.

And all for nothing.

When the Verlanti warriors approached her, she rose and stood her ground. She would become the bride to the Beast of the Barbarians but she wouldn’t make it easy.

“Don’t make this more difficult than it already is,” one of the guards insisted, irritation plain as day on his face. “The wedding is going to happen, whether you like it or not.”

“In what world would I like it to happen?” Wren bit back, snarling and jerking away from the man’s touch when he reached out for her. She took a step back and then another, forcing the soldiers to come farther into the cell.

“You should be honored to wed Prince Arrik!” another of the guards spat out, his green eyes snapping with anger. “You’re just a wild bit of tarte. You don’t deserve him.”

How ridiculous. He was a monster who invaded neighboring kingdoms and laid waste to all that he saw. “I was under the impression that he was ill-begotten,” she quipped. “Surely, his station is lower than mine…”

The guard grunted and stepped closer.

Wren shifted just a little bit farther back, and then a little bit farther back again, until all four guards were in the cell with her.

“Let’s get this over with,” the green-eyed elf growled before coming at her. Wren kicked out, knocking him out of her path in order to avoid the other guards. His eyes widened as he slipped on the slimy stones. In one agonizingly slow second, Wren could do nothing but watch—alongside the other guards, and the boy two cells over—when he lost his footing and fell into the water.

Oh no.

The water bubbled immediately, and though Wren waited for the man to erupt from the surface to scream at her in outrage, he never did.

The water grew silent, and the man was gone.

By the tides.

Wren retreated from the edge of the water, seeing with her own eyes just how quickly the carnivorous fish had reappeared once the dragon had gone, and the rapid work they made of living flesh. Nausea rolled in her stomach.

That was not a bucket of chum. It was a whole living, breathing man. He did not even have a chance to defend himself.

Perhaps it was because of this, or perhaps it was because the small amount of exertion required to send the guard to his doom had tired Wren out, but she did not fight the other three guards when they took hold of her and silently led her out of the prison.

She shook and glanced over her shoulder at her abandoned cell. What had she done? Wren hadn’t meant for anyone to die.

The guards seemed shaken by what they had just witnessed; there were no jibes or comments thrown her way regarding Wren’s state of undress as they walked up several sets of stairs to a handsomely varnished, hardwood corridor. She stumbled, feeling off-kilter.

They made a left turn, then, a little farther along, another left, before entering through a door that led them to the right. After that, Wren lost count of the twists and turns the journey took her. The Verlantian Palace was truly a labyrinth.

Finally, the guards came upon a door which lay open in wait for them. They tossed her inside as if they could hardly bear to touch her, then slammed the door shut behind her without another word. She slipped on the stone floor and caught herself against the left wall.

Wren winced against the sunlight streaming in through huge, floor-to-ceiling windows, which were surrounded on all sides by all manner of plants. Then, once she got used to that, her eyes became dazzled by torches set within sconces burning in impossible colors. Emerald green. Sapphire blue. Deep, deep red, like Wren’s own hair. The flames made the room seem to glitter and pulse, which felt bizarre and entirely unreal to her.

What is this place?

Dizzy from the lack of food and sleep, she took a staggering step or two into the opulent room; it took all the strength from within her not to collapse to her knees and pass out. A man had died, and no one had batted an eye.

It was at this point that two hard-looking women approached her, their arms thick with muscles.

“Who are you?” she asked.

They ignored her and ushered her farther into the room. She yelped as they stripped her down and hauled her to a bathtub set in the center of the room. Wren hissed as the hot water covered her skin. She considered struggling but wanted to enjoy her bath. It had been weeks since she’d bathed properly. And honestly, she was bone tired. Perhaps this one small luxury of basking in steaming hot water would enable her to get through the horrible day to come.

She settled into the tub and wrapped her arms around her legs. The servants began pouring water over her hair and Wren closed her eyes. The last time she’d bathed, her mother had helped. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she blinked them back.

Opening her eyes, she took in the room once more, scanning the huge selection of plants and trees that filled the air with the pleasant smell of crisp herbs and plant life. They were largely tropical and so entirely unfamiliar to her, and their shiny, thick leaves reflected all the different-colored flames in an entirely hypnotic way.