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For the first time, the soldier looked at her. His brow furrowed as if contemplating whether to answer. Then, with a slight nod of his head, he broke his own silence. “Five days,” he replied. With those words, he left her once again to the solitary confinement of her cell.

Anthea’s heart sank. Five days. She had been here five days already.

The silent soldier visited her four more times as regularly as a clock ticking until the day the rhythm broke. Instead of the soldier’s familiar form, the door opened to reveal three figures that immediately made her heart beat harder against her chest.

King Galodir stood at the door. This time he was flanked by Eldrion and Beldor.

Remaining in her corner, Anthea watched them warily. She had no idea what this visit meant, but she knew better than to hope it was something good. As the cold, rough stone pressed against her back, she felt the fear she’d managed to hold at bay during the soldier’s visits creeping in.

“Anthea,” Galodir took his seat on the single chair, “you could end all of this. Just tell us the truth, and you can leave this cell.”

“I am telling the truth,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’m a slave, I . . . I don’t know anything. You’ve made a mistake,” she added quietly. Her eyes flickered from Galodir to Eldrion beside him to Beldor at the door, fingers instinctively reaching out to trace the uneven shape of her healing wrist. “I am of no value to you.”

“What do you hope to gain from being deceitful?”

“I am not being deceitful. I am Prince Endreth’s slave—The son of the king of the Crimson court . . .” her voice trailed off, desperation lacing her words.

At the mention of Endreth, Galodir’s expression hardened, but he moved on to another subject, his gaze dropping to her injured wrist. “And your wrist. How is it?”

“It hurts.” Anthea wrapped her arms around her middle, shielding her aching wrist from their scrutinizing eyes.

Eldrion stepped forward. She flinched away from him as he crouched down. The warrior put his palms up as if to signal he meant no harm. Anthea kept her hands tucked away.

“Please . . . don’t. I haven’t done anything. I don’t know anything.”

“I am not going to hurt you,” Eldrion said, reaching for the elbow of her injured arm.

Anthea didn’t believe him one bit. Keeping her hand hidden, she just shook her head. “Please . . .”

“Silly girl, Eldrion is just making sure your hand is healing properly.” Galodir’s voice was filled with exasperation.

She still didn’t budge. Eldrion looked back to his king, who gave him an annoyed nod.

“Stop. No!” Anthea gasped out, her good hand flying out to his chest, trying to push him away as he tugged her injured wrist out for him to see. Eldrion’s eyes met hers, a stern warning in their gray depths as he traced his fingers over the greenish, swollen flesh. He examined her wrist, the rough pads of his fingers brushing gently over her skin. Anthea couldn’t help the tremble that escaped her. The pained grimace that crossed her face did not go unnoticed, but he didn’t waver.

“Seems to be healing,” Eldrion said. His voice was like gravel, rough and unemotional, yet there was a subtle undertone that was slightly . . . softer. “But the angle is wrong.”

Anthea looked down at her wrist again, her throat dry as she took in the misshapen limb. It did look wrong, very wrong. She swallowed hard, casting an anxious glance at Galodir. His jade eyes were sharp, thoughtful as he nodded at Eldrion’s analysis. A slow, sinking dread started to form in her stomach, curling around her gut like a stone.

“Beldor, go fetch Thalion.”

Anthea flinched as Galodir issued his command, her heart hammering in her chest. Eldrion met her eyes. The look in his eyes warned her of what was coming, and a tremor of fear coursed through her. She pushed harder onto his chest, desperately trying to get away from him.

“Try to stay calm,” he murmured, his voice eerily gentle. “I need to fix this. It will hurt.”

“N-No, please—” she started, but her plea was cut off—with a swift, calculated motion, he twisted, setting the bone back into place.

Her mouth opened in a scream: a raw, guttural cry that reverberated off the cold, hard stone around them.

The elf gripped her shoulders, steadying her. Anthea recoiled, recoiled from his touch, making him drop his hands and step away. As fast as she could, she scrambled away, away from Eldrion, away from the source of the pain: a cornered animal desperate to escape the predator’s bite—her body shuddering with tremors of pain and terror. Her tear-filled eyes flicked wildly between Eldrion and Galodir, looking for any hint of enjoyment in their faces, any tell-tale smirk or sneer. But all she was met with were expressions of cold indifference, their faces as unreadable as masks of stone. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps, each one tearing at her throat like shards of glass.

After a while, it could have been minutes or hours, the cell door opened again. Beldor’s familiar form was framed in the light from the corridor outside, accompanied by an unfamiliar figure. His name, he said, was Thalion, and he was a healer.

Thalion approached her slowly, as if he were approaching a wounded, skittish animal. He raised his hands, and Anthea couldn’t suppress a shudder as he gently laid them on her injured wrist. He began with magic, his hands hovering over her mangled limb, fingers moving in delicate, intricate patterns, lips whispering a silent incantation. The air around his hands shimmered slightly. His brow furrowed in confusion, eyes flickering in concern as he examined her wrist once more. “Her wrist is severely swollen,” he announced, his eyes never leaving it as he spoke. “There is a high chance of inflammation. For some reason, magic is not working on her . . .” His words hung in the air, a question left unasked. He looked up, meeting Galodir’s impassive gaze with a quizzical look. A quick shake of the king’s head was all it took for Thalion to understand. “I will need to treat her with herbs and physical remedies.” His gaze was steady, displaying no signs of intimidation under the king’s watchful scrutiny. “My King, I strongly recommend moving her to a proper room. The conditions in this cell could exacerbate the inflammation, possibly leading to a fever.”

“She stays in here,” Galodir declared.

Anthea’s head was spinning. She didn’t understand why they were doing this to her. Was it because she was human? Was it because they thought she knew something about the Crimson court? Or was it for another reason entirely? The questions burned within her, consuming her thoughts, until she could bear it no longer. Her voice was a bare whisper, a threadbare string of words barely audible over her ragged breathing. “Why . . . why are you doing this?” she asked, her gaze darting between the four elves.