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“So what if I can? What difference does it make?”

“It makes a great deal of difference. In the hands of the wrong person, knowledge can be . . . dangerous.”

“And you think I’m the wrong person?”

“I think,” Endreth began, pausing for a moment to consider his words carefully, “that you are an unknown variable, a curiosity if you will. One that needs careful management.”

“Management?”

He inclined his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You are resourceful, I’ll give you that. You have managed to keep your ability to read a secret. How many books have you stolen?”

“I borrowed?—”

Endreth raised a single eyebrow at her.

“Three books —I borrowed three books.”

“You took my books, even though you didn’t have explicit permission. I can see you have a thirst for knowledge. I can respect that?—”

“But?”

“But,” he continued, regarding her thoughtfully, “we cannot have you wandering around learning things you should not.”

“You can’t keep?—”

Endreth raised his hand, silencing her. “Do not worry. To ensure you will not be overly bored in your free time. I will grant you access to books, but they will be books I provide.”

Her first instinct was to protest, to fight against this blatant attempt at controlling her learning. But she bit her tongue, realizing outward defiance would get her nowhere. Instead, Anthea forced a smile on her face, attempting to seem grateful. “I appreciate your generosity, My Prince,” she said, though the words tasted bitter in her mouth.

His smirk told her he wasn’t fooled by her act. “I thought you might.”

The moonlight slipped through her tiny window, painting the room with its ethereal glow. It was quiet. Anthea laid on the stiff bed, her body tucked under a too-heavy blanket, her eyes wide open. She traced the path of the crack in the wooden ceiling beam with her eyes.

The elven princes’ offer echoed in her head. Knowledge, resources, protection; all words laced with the venom of hidden chains. Her instincts screamed at her—Endreth had a total control over the narrative, painting her a picture of this new world through his eyes, his perspectives. He would only share what he thought helped control her best—she was sure of that.

The book Endreth had given her first was a thick, dusty tome, its leather cover worn from age. It was titled, in a flowing script: The Duties and Decorum of Elven Servitude. Endreth’s gift—if one could call it that—was as arrogant and sarcastic as the elven prince himself. Yet, she had plastered a gracious smile on her face and thanked him as she had accepted it.

Sleep was a distant dream, elusive and unattainable. Her mind was too loud, too alert. She really wanted a drink.

In the first couple of days, Anthea had checked the kitchen for any sort of alcohol—desperate to quiet her thoughts at night. But she had not been in luck. It seemed it wasn’t readily available for the servants, only reserved for the nobles or special occasions. She rolled onto her side, her eyes finding the faint outline of the small mirror on the wall.

She needed a way out—a way out from Endreth’s portrayal of this world, from his chains. She needed another source of information, someone who would show her this world from a different perspective—unfiltered and raw.

Anthea was more sure than ever she just had to befriend one of the servants, earn their trust. It would be difficult—the elven servants had given her the cold shoulder from the beginning—their noses turned up at the presence of a human in their midst. She had really tried in the beginning, had tried to make small talk while peeling vegetables, had tried to start a conversation with servants eating their meals at the same times as her. But it had become clear to her quite quickly they weren’t interested in indulging her. Having no one to talk to made her feel even more estranged and isolated. But at least one of them was bound to crack. At least one of them would have to look past her status as a human slave. She just had to try harder. She knew how to build bridges. Anthea had done it before—she could do it now.

Over the next few days, Anthea buried herself in the text, her eyes painstakingly following the words that prattled on about the duty and place of a servant. The degradation was explicit, the blatant disdain and superiority woven into the fabric of every sentence. She would often catch herself gritting her teeth, her fingers gripping the parchment a tad too tightly as she wrestled with the simmering anger within her.

The book painted a clear picture of the social structure within Isluma. Servants here weren’t just individuals doing jobs; they were a part of a caste system—a rigid, unyielding chain that bound them to their birthright. It was a chilling reality—a reality where someone’s fate could be decided at their birth and there was no escape, no room for dreams or aspirations beyond their predetermined roles.

It made her stomach turn. She found herself stopping more often than she wanted to, her chest tight with a whirlwind of emotions—anger, frustration, a sense of overwhelming helplessness?—

Did Endreth expect her to act like this?

Despite the bitter aftertaste of every page, Anthea began to see glimmers of silver in the worn, dust-coated lining. The book was an unexpected window into the lives of those trapped within the claustrophobic confines of servitude. With every page, she gained a deeper understanding of their customs, their trials, and the silent codes that governed their existence. A glimpse into their world was like piecing together a puzzle; it gave her invaluable insight into how they functioned, where their loyalties lay, and how best to connect with them.

Under the dim, flickering light of the torches, Anthea cautiously slid onto the bench next to a female elf. “Do you know what’s in this stew?” she asked, gesturing to the concoction in her bowl. She had chosen Alyra, a young elf who had acknowledged her more than others, who had hinted at a warmth beneath her icy exterior, who had even started to greet her with smiles during the dinners.

“Hahmut,” Alyra replied after a moment. Noticing Anthea’s quizzical expression, she added, “It’s fish—the fishermen bring it fresh from the sea every morning.”