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“I don’t give a flying fuck who you are! You could’ve seriously hurt me—if that, if that spell had worked?—”

“Let’s see if we can make it work, shall we? It’ll be interesting to watch your insolent lips peel?—”

Before Aegonar could follow through, Endreth’s hand shot out, landing heavily on his brother’s shoulder. His cold, measured gaze met Aegonar’s fiery one. After a moment, the older prince huffed in irritation, throwing a scathing glare toward Anthea before spinning on his heel.

“Discipline the human, Endreth,” he growled, his voice echoing in the now quiet chamber before the door slammed shut behind him.

Anthea was quick to grab a chair and place it between her and the remaining elf in the room.

Endreth seemed to study her for a moment, his eyes drilling into her, assessing her defensive stance. His lips were pressed into a thin line, the disdain in his eyes apparent. Without a word, he turned his back to her, striding toward the bookshelf lining one wall of the study. His fingers skimmed over the spines, before pulling one free. He tossed it toward her.

Anthea caught it, the leather bound tome almost slipping from her trembling hands. It was the same book he had given her before—the one about disciplining slaves. She glanced from the book to his towering figure.

“Read the book,” Endreth snarled, the anger in his voice sending shivers down her spine. He stepped closer to her. “Understand this—if I wished to, I could do every single one of those things to you. And you would be powerless to stop me.” Then, with a wave of his hand, he added, “You are dismissed for today.”

Anthea stood rooted to the spot for a brief moment, clutching the dreaded tome close to her chest. Then, she lifted her chin and without a backward glance fled the room.

Her room felt colder than usual, the chill of Endreth’s words still lingering in her bones. Anthea sank into the worn, wooden chair by her small table, the book clasped tightly in her hands.

It was old, the cover scarred and worn from years of handling. The candlelight flickered as she read, the words on the yellowed pages detailing methods for disciplining disobedient slaves—some magical, some terribly physical.

She did not fear the magical ones—these would probably not work on her. But the physical ones . . . were the nightmares that set her blood to ice. Whippings, forced isolation, pushing a body to its physical limits only to restore it with magic and begin again—the horrors detailed were beyond what she had imagined. She shuddered as she read of the intimate humiliations reserved for pretty slaves, lending them to brothels as if they were property to be rented out. The very thought made her skin crawl in revulsion. But in the dread that consumed her, she found a thread of comfort—Endreth had said if he wished to—this made her think that he didn’t actually want to inflict any of the things described in this book, offering her a sliver of solace in her otherwise grim reality. Yet, the warning had achieved its purpose—she would be checking her tongue more often, particularly in Aegonar’s presence—just in case.

“My parents,” Alyra’s pale blue eyes were shimmering in the soft glow of the torches, “were also servants. We were a part of the Nephrite court. Anthea, it was so different from here—the terrain is rocky, covered in velvety moss and dense forests, full of gnarled trees older than the oldest elf. Beautiful lakes and bubbling rivers?—”

“And how did you come to be here at the Crimson court?” They had been eating their evening meal together—a habit of sorts—when she had asked about Alyra’s family.

“I decided to journey here after my parents passed,” Alyra stated simply. “I had heard tales of the white sandy beaches of the Crimson court . . . and, in truth, there was nothing left for me in the Nephrite court.”

“What were they like, the Nephrite court?” Anthea asked, her fingers curling around her mug of steaming tea. The limited knowledge she had about Isluma, had come from the few books she had managed to take in the beginning. Anthea hadn’t dared to borrow more. She didn’t wish to test her theory about Endreth’s unwillingness to actually punish her. And Aegonar . . . he probably wouldn't even hesitate.

Alyra seemed to ponder her words, her fork idly drawing patterns on her plate. “King Galodir, he is a proud elf, head held high with the weight of his lineage. His love for his family is renowned, that much is certain. And he has no mercy for anyone who threatens it.” There was a pause as Alyra’s gaze seemed to focus on a point far beyond the stone walls of the castle, her mind adrift in memories. “The queen—she is kind and so incredibly smart. She is well loved by the people.”

“Did you work in the castle?” Anthea leaned forward on the worn, wooden table that separated them.

“Yes,” Alyra responded, coming back to the present with a slight shake of her head. “I served in the Halls of the Jewels.” There seemed to be a flicker of longing in her eyes. “The castle is nestled among the mountains. You have to understand. Our mountains are not mere rocks and dirt. They hold a wealth of gems and jewels within their bosom. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds . . . and nephrite. The nephrite jade is our namesake, and it is abundant in our land.” The elf maiden’s eyes sparkled. “The Halls of Jewels is a sight to behold. The walls of the castle are lined with nephrite jade, glimmering in the light of the ever-burning torches. The hallways are encrusted with various other precious stones, each room a spectacle of light and color. It’s like walking through a dazzling starlit night every day.”

“How long has it been since you last saw it?” Anthea quietly observed Alyra as the elf maiden gently twisted a strand of her long, white hair around her fingers.

“It has been . . . a century at least.” She looked back at Anthea, her pale eyes held a hint of something unreadable. “Time is different for elves, you know.”

“But you still think of it as home?” Anthea set her tea cup down on the table with a soft clink, and leaned back in her chair. “You speak about the Nephrite court with such fondness, like it’s more home to you than the Crimson court.”

Alyra’s laughter was a light, musical sound, echoing around the otherwise silent room. “No, dear Anthea. The Crimson court is my home now. Time and distance have a way of dulling old loyalties and affections.” Her long fingers were playing with her hair more absently now. Her gaze was steady as she held Anthea’s, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Still—”

“Does Prince Endreth hurt you? Or . . . is he gentle with you?”

She hadn’t expected that. Her eyes studied Alyra’s—a pair of cool, pale blue orbs filled with concern. She sighed softly, looking down at her hands. “He . . . he . . .” she swallowed audibly, formulating her response. Thinking of which answer would serve her best—she made her choice. Sympathy can be a powerful ally. “He can be intense, rough even,” she whispered, looking back up at Alyra, letting her gaze falter slightly, purposefully allowing vulnerability to seep into her expression.

Alyra’s face seemed to soften even more. She reached across the table, her cool hand gently resting atop Anthea’s. “I’m sorry.”

Anthea simply offered a weak smile in return, wondering if she had made the right choice.

8

The study was silent as Endreth drew the last word of the spell. An inhuman cold swept through the room, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It felt strong, and for a fleeting moment, she was afraid her immunity would fail her.