Page 3 of Maneater

I was called countless things during my time at Hyrall, each one passed with judgment and offered without invitation: whore, harlot, siren, seductress, maneater .

Those names were meant to wound. And at first, they did.

A year had passed since I was called to serve the heir.

At just twenty, I was taken from my home to fulfill the Crown’s bidding.

In the early days, I found myself longing to have been called to Hyrall for poetry or music, perhaps even dancing.

But I was from the outskirts of Brier Len, a pauper, destitute and unworthy of the gentler female talents.

As many others did, I often wondered why the prince plucked me from the withering woods and placed me in his tower of stone.

In time, I came to realize that a greedy hand never rests.

Today marked one year since I became consort to the heir. One year since I last saw my family or walked freely in Brier Len. For a moment, I lost myself in the memory of how the snow had blanketed the ground outside my home that day.

For as long as I can remember, I was drawn to snowfall, how it floated down with whimsy, settling softly into mounds below. I could watch it for chimes, as if I were a spectator before a performance.

Snow was once a comfort. Now, I’ve grown as cold and unfeeling as it.

That snowfall marked the day Hyrall’s guards forced their way through our door. They delivered a letter sealed with the royal crest and announced my conscription to serve the heir.

From that moment on, the heir became my keeper, and I became his consort.

That was the day I made a vow, cold and certain, that he would regret ever taking me from Brier Len.

The sound of a key turning in the lock pulled me from my thoughts.

I turned toward the noise and saw a young steward enter my chamber.

He carried a wax-sealed scroll with a crimson tassel dangling from it.

Without a word, he walked past me and set the scroll beside my bed.

He fixed his gaze on the stone floor, head lowered.

Then he turned, locked the door behind him with a firm clunk , and left.

Once again, I was alone in my chamber.

There was a time I tried to speak with the stewards who brought the scrolls, but I quickly learned it was useless. No matter how persistent I became, they never acknowledged me.

I rose in silence and walked to the bedside. The fabric of my dress swept softly across the polished stone as I moved. I picked up the scroll, the parchment thin in my hand. The crimson tassel stirred something sour in me, and I stared at it vacantly.

Written on its tan surface was a single name. My name.

Odessa, it read.

This was an order .

The prince had chosen me to serve him tonight, just as he had on the previous three hundred sixty-four nights. The other courtesans spoke of it as a great honor to be the heir’s favored.

I felt otherwise.

Even so, the heir of Hyrall hated to be kept waiting.

I moved to my dressing chamber and searched for one of my silk robes. These robes weren’t robes in the traditional sense, rather, they were courtesan robes. The material of these garments were just as luxurious as they were lascivious. Each one had been handmade for me by Hyrall’s royal seamstress.

As an honor, I’d been “gifted” twelve over the course of my year serving the prince.

He regarded these silk pieces as gifts, but truthfully, I had earned every single one.

I wore them not only as a statement to the other courtesans, but as a symbol to the court itself. Robes like these were given only to a consort or courtesan who had exceptionally pleased their patron. Among the prince’s three other courtesans, I possessed the most.

Half of me was prideful, the other half was rueful.

The prince’s overt favoritism had clearly stirred resentment among the others, but it hadn’t bothered me in the slightest.

Inside the dressing room, I walked to the armoire and opened its wooden doors.

Robes in every color hung before me. Shades reminiscent of sunset skies to hues drawn from moonlit nights.

I studied the twelve robes lined along the iron rod, running my fingers through the silk until I stopped on one in deep plum.

Its fabric was studded with amethyst stones, arranged in an intricate design.

It was cruel, really. That the most beautiful clothes I’d ever owned came with such a price.

I undressed methodically, each practiced movement revealing a routine I had repeated three hundred sixty-four times before.

First, I slipped off my slippers. Then I reached behind to unfasten the strings of my corset.

With a slight shimmy, the dress fell in a ring around my feet.

I stepped out of it and removed my undergarments until I stood completely bare.

The prince despised excess clothing during service.

I counted the seconds in my head as the final minutes passed. From a small drawer in my vanity, I retrieved a vial of perfume. Dabbing a touch to my neck and wrists, I set it aside and slipped into the plum-hued robe.

The fabric hugged my skin perfectly, tailored to my exact measurements.

Its sheer material left little to the imagination.

I ran my hands over my torso, smoothing out the creases, and glanced down at the deep plunge along the chest. It was far from subtle, but it had been commissioned by the prince after all.

From the vanity, I picked up a porcelain brush and began to comb my hair.

Over the past year, I had developed a new sense of maturity.

My face had become fuller, my wavy hair had grown several inches longer, and my cheekbones had become more defined.

Like my mother, I inherited raven-black hair and matching obsidian eyes.

As for my expression, a young guard once said it wore a permanent look of indifference. He was executed not long after.

No other guard has dared to speak to me since.

My body had always been willowy, a quality that remained unchanged through time.

My breasts were modest, neither full nor ample, and the same was true for my backside.

Compared to the other courtesans here, my figure was lacking.

My lithe stature could have broken my confidence, but it was I who the heir summoned each night to warm his bed.

My service to the prince was unmatched, earned by merit alone.

I made certain of it.

The other women here were highborn, groomed for this life from birth.

I was not. That difference was what set consort apart from courtesan, pauper from noble.

They had sought out their roles, even desired them.

I had been thrust into this world to survive.

I was lowborn, a peasant from the outskirts.

And yet, I was the favored consort of the Crown Prince.

There were things the other girls were blind to: hunger, cold, fear. I, on the other hand, had endured all of that and more.

Every now and then, I caught myself wondering where I might be if I’d stayed on the outskirts of Brier Len.

Would I have ended up married to the cobbler’s son, like my father had insisted ever since my first bleed?

I’d been just a girl, but even then, I could see the cruelty in him.

Would I have spent my days bearing children I never wanted?

Struggling to feed a house full of hungry mouths with barely enough to survive?

Would his temper have left me with more misery than I live with now?

Now I sit in my private chamber, draped in jewels and the finest silks. My meals arrive on silver platters, and I sip rare wines from chilled goblets. At night, I sleep in comfort, wrapped in quilts stuffed with feathers from rare fowl.

Each evening, the prince summons me to his bed, and I fall into the arms of a man who desires me, who hungers for me.

I no longer feel the bite of hunger, the sting of cold, or the grip of fear. Instead, I experience pleasure, rapture, and gratification.

They told me no life in Brier Len would offer me such privilege. Perhaps it was true. Maybe I would have hated that life even more than the one I live now.

I gave myself one last glance in the mirror, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my temple. As I studied my reflection, I softened my expression into a gentle, lamb-like smile. The prince always liked me best this way at first.

Soft, quiet, demure.

On the vanity, a thick gold chain lay in a porcelain bowl.

I picked up the heavy chain, feeling its cool metal bite against my skin.

Clicking my tongue, I realized there was likely only a minute left.

Quickly, I wrapped the gold chain around my waist and fastened the ends together, creating a belt that rested just below my navel.

I gathered the skirts of my robe in my hands and flared them out behind me, letting them fan out as they brushed the floor.

Thirty seconds left.

I held my head high as I stepped toward the door, my fingers grazing the crimson tassel still resting on the bedside.

As I had for the past three hundred sixty-four days, I looped the cord around the gold chain at my waist, securing it in place.

I didn’t need to look to know the tassel now hung perfectly from my hip.

Without hesitation, I stepped to the chamber door and knocked once. I heard the familiar clink of keys as my guard came to unlock it. His duty, as always, was to escort me to the prince’s quarters.

Though I was allowed to wander certain parts of the castle by day, I was confined to my room each night, expected to be ready the moment I was summoned.

What a life I led.

The wooden door eased open on its hinges, revealing a guard in a bronze chest plate standing just outside.

As usual, he avoided eye contact, but that didn’t stop me from studying him.

He had a rough, weathered look, short, honey-colored hair, and a crimson cloak that marked him as a high-ranking knight.

A clear step up from the fledgling guard who had come before him.

He was replaceable too.

“Good evening, Sir Karst,” I said sweetly.

At my greeting, the guard grunted. Though his body stiffened, he kept his eyes fixed on the hallway, holding the door open for me. His reaction sent a ripple of satisfaction through my spine. Sir Karst was nervous, and with good reason. It was common knowledge as to why the last guard was gone.

I had spoken, and the prince had listened.

Unlike the fallen guard, Sir Karst was far more cautious, well aware of the danger in provoking my ire.

Over the months he had escorted me to and from the prince’s quarters, I had stolen the occasional glance. His presence was steady. Naturally, I didn’t expect him to falter tonight. He was committed to his role, and silence was his safest choice.

The rest of the walk passed in quiet. The path to the prince’s chambers was familiar, etched into memory after countless visits. Even with my eyes closed, I could’ve found my way.

The silence broke only with the soft click of my slippers against the stone as I approached the grand twin doors of the heir’s quarters. Seeing them, my heart quickened, and warmth spread across my skin.

Sir Karst stopped just short of the twin doors, and I stood still as he stepped forward.

With a firm hand, he struck the door knocker, the iron ring echoing sharply against the wood.

After a brief pause, a muffled voice called from within.

Without looking at me, Sir Karst gave a nod, then opened one of the doors.

Watchful, he silently signaled for me to enter.

I stepped into the prince’s quarters, the door clicking shut behind me.

The room was empty. The prince was nowhere in sight. His quarters, sprawling across nearly an entire wing of the castle, were quiet. I held back my impatience, knowing there was nothing to do but wait until I was summoned to his bedchamber.

Even then, he rarely made me wait long.

My life was constrained by a web of rules, each one controlling every part of my being.

Rules on what to eat, when to sleep, who I could speak to, how to fuck .

Soon, my fingers grew clammy, and every sense sharpened. I could hear each breath I drew, feel the flicker of candlelight from the sconces casting shadows across my skin.

But my anticipation wasn’t for the prince.

It came from a simple truth: I would escape Hyrall by the next winter solstice.