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And now, she was glued to Endreth’s side, clad in a flimsy black number that bared her thighs and back. Once again being paraded around in the sea of elven nobles in a stone castle.

It seemed the novelty had run out—no one really paid any mind to her, no one spared her a glance. It was as if she was invisible, an impersonal attachment to the Crimson prince. Endreth, on his part, kept her close, his arm wrapped around her waist, as they walked up the grand staircases that led to the Iron fortress’ grand hall. She kept her eyes on the polished stone steps that reflected the shimmering light of the chandeliers above.

“There you are.” Aegonar grasped Endreth’s shoulder. He leaned closer to his brother and whispered something Anthea couldn’t hear.

“Where am I supposed to leave her?” Endreth asked. Anthea knew he was wearing a mask. But it was still disheartening to hear the cruelty in his voice.

“I don’t know. You wanted to bring your pet. Sort it out and join us at the table.” Aegonar said, while gesturing to her. The perfect façade of indifference and arrogance graced his features.

Endreth let go of her waist and grabbed the golden chain attached to her collar. She had forgotten how humiliating, how dehumanizing it felt to be showcased like that. Anthea kept her head bowed, eyes fixed to the ground, as she followed him.

They stopped at one of the colossal stone columns lining the grand hall.

“Stay here!” He attached her chain to a hook, and left her there.

Anthea lifted her eyes for the first time since entering the hall. She watched as Endreth walked toward the large banquet table on one side. Aegonar was already there. So were Vaelor and Galodir. They were conversing with the Iron king—the youngest of Isluma’s kings—Erandel Laerthinath. Endreth had told her he had ascended to the throne recently. Well—recently for the elves at least. His father had been killed by rebelling human slaves no more than forty years ago.

A crowd was starting to gather around her, anticipating, waiting. They were all facing the makeshift stage between the dance floor and the banquet table.

Anthea felt her stomach churn, bile rising to the back of her throat.

Six human slaves were being led to the stage, hands bound behind their backs. Five men and one woman, dressed in all white. Aegonar had warned her, had told her about the sacrificial ritual of the festival. He had ordered her not to react, not to turn her face away—lest it would offend their hosts. She glanced at Endreth again, standing beside the High King. Her heart dropped. He had to stay there and she had to face this alone.

The humans were forced on their knees.

Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn away, to shut her eyes, to shield herself from the impending horror.

Then, a palm pressed against her bare back.

Anthea stiffened, swallowing her scream.

“It’s me,” Eldrion’s hushed voice murmured.

“Eldrion,” Anthea whispered, stepping back, feeling his warmth against her back. “I can’t . . . I can’t watch this.”

“I’m here. You’re not alone.” He gripped her waist, pulling her closer. He had snaked his hand inside her dress from the open back, making sure it stayed hidden from the prying eyes by the black flowing fabric. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her trembling heart as an elven cleric, face covered in black hood, stepped onto the makeshift stage. The hall went so silent Anthea could hear the faint rustling of the cleric’s robes and the heavy breaths of the bound humans. The cleric raised his hands, pale and steady, fingers outstretched toward a large window that framed the two large moons, glowing brilliantly against the dark night sky.

“In the sight of Laleth, and of Rakúlien, we gather,” he began, his voice a deep resonance that carried through the room. “Laleth, we beseech your blessing, Great Mother of the Night. As the cold grips Isluma, watch over us, protect us.”

Anthea felt a shiver run down her spine, her eyes flickered to the six bound humans. She couldn’t imagine the terror coursing through them. Eldrion pulled her closer, pressing his fingers more firmly to her side.

“Rakúlien,” the cleric continued. “God of Death, God of Destruction. We ask for your mercy. Please accept our gifts. May their blood and their screams quench your thirst for the winter ahead.”

She felt a cold dread wash over her, her fingers clutching the fabric of her dress. She glanced around, noting the mix of anticipation and indifference on the faces of the attending elves.

The cleric started chanting, a haunting melody that echoed through the vast hall with eerie resonance. He approached the first human, nodding to the guard. He waited until the guard gripped the back of the human’s head and yanked it upward. Then, he dipped his fingers into a dark, viscous liquid and drew a dotted loop on the captive’s forehead.

The symbol seemed to shimmer and dance, its form twisting and melding with the light.

The guard forced the next human’s face up. Defiant green eyes scanned the crowd and landed on her. Anthea’s thoughts raced, searching desperately for a way, any way, to do something and change the grim fate awaiting the humans on the stage.

A squeeze on her waist stopped her track of thoughts. She couldn’t do anything. Not now, not here, not for these humans. But the next ones—the next ones she would save. She just had to prevail in that cave. She would do it; she could do it—she had to.

The chanting stopped.

All six had been marked.

“Prince Althar,” the cleric addressed, bowing slightly. “We are honored by your willingness to partake in this most sacred of rituals.”