The King was married.
Mica tripped and reached out, grasping for an anchor when her hand curled around the sleeve of one of the servants.
He whipped around and snarled, baring his canines at her. "Release me, human."
The word – human– spat out such venom she instantly recoiled from him whilst cradling her arm as though he had burned her.
"Sorry." She muttered glancing away whilst trying to keep her composure amongst the line of servants on either side of her.
Each and every one had features distinct and unique, sharply contrasting from her own.
Fur where skin was meant to be.
Eyes rimmed yellow.
The sharpened tips of ears that swivelled in the air scoping out the sound of the king and queen's arrival.
And they knew she was human as well by the wide breadth they kept from her.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the next, breathing through her mouth and blinking hard to prevent focusing on the dull throbbing pain of her chest. Time slipped between her fingers like fine sand in this kingdom, days or weeks might've passed and she would never know due to her being bedridden.
One thing remained constant in her mind, however.
"I will escape this place." She chanted on and on, grasping to the thread of hope that her chance would come and she would be able to leave.
Where will you go?
Anywhere far away from him.
… and where would that be…
The voice came unbidden and light as a feather in her ear.
Mica flinched, her head whipping around for the source when a howl echoed from the other side of the door. The sound of marching boots approaching up the steps, and then silence.
The servants about her shifted nervously and grew still as stone as the doors slowly pried open like jaws yawning wide. A set of guards, tall and severe looking, rough and violently scarred walked in.
Behind them was the queen.
Mica tilted her head sideways and stared from her periphery at the tall slender woman who glided across the floor on steps noiseless as a shadow. She didn't walk but drift, as if escorted forward by a gentle hand on her back.
Silver threads of hair were neatly drawn up and back, pinned away from the sharp cuts of her face. She was neither docile looking nor timid but had eyes that glinted like a knife's edge and a mouth, soft and wide.
Her dress was made of delicate fabric that held fast onto the slender shape of her frame. Beaded and nearly translucent as gossamer thread that wound up the stem of her neck.
Mica stared for a beat longer then hastily dropped her gaze when a darker, more substantial figure appeared behind her.
They did not walk side-by-side but rather with her leading and him following like a sentinel.
Her heartbeat leaped up her throat. She grit her teeth against the flare of heat on her brand and focused on her bare toes which curled into the cold floor.
How were they all able to walk barefoot and not feel an ounce of chill?
The queen passed her by in a whisper, her scent trailing behind like an afterthought.
But that was not what kept her on edge. His scent reached her before the casting of his shadow which fell upon her like the shade of a wing. Mica squinted at the ground noting how his own pacing had slowed just briefly.
He did not look in her direction but she felt all his attention shift and linger.
… where would you like to run to, my flighty bird…
Her lips pursed into a stubborn unyielding line.
Wouldn't you like to know.
Startled by her own internal reply Mica's eyes widened, perhaps expecting a retaliation but the chuckle, when she heard it, was low and indulgent.
She peered up from between her lashes at his retreating figure. The broad length of his back was clad in a dark cloak and a wolf's hide clipped onto his right shoulder with its teeth bared and pressed into the garment.
Once they disappeared with the royal guests into the dinner chamber, the servants began to scatter about heading for their rightful places. Mica stood about aimlessly, wondering where to go when a rough palm curled around her bicep, yanking her in the direction of the dinner.
"You will be serving the King tonight."
She stared at the bald woman, her ears in specific tainted brown fur, and failed to perceive what exactly was happening.
"Huh."
A look of irritation crossed the woman's face, her nostrils flared with the sharp exhale before pressing a cold vase embalmed in gold and embroidered with delicate almond flowers all about.
Mica tensed with the jug and peeked down at its contents; blood red wine that was cold to the touch and slightly heavy in her arms.
Before she could clarify what was to happen, the doors to the dining flung open and servants began to mill in balancing trays of food in all varieties and flavors heading for the long table with guests.
At the head sat the King and his queen on a table isolated from the rest.
Mica stood dumbfounded.
"Well." The lady hissed behind her, jabbing a sharp elbow at her side to get her moving. "Go and serve the King."
Mica took a hesitant step forward and then another, slowly weaving through the crowd of servants whilst making her way to the top. Her gaze flickered from the jug to the high table where the King sat with his head inclined in the direction of a commander who was speaking lowly by his ear.
The queen's attention was snagged on a tray of appetizers.
Inhaling a steadying breath, Mica stood a few feet behind the King's high-backed throne and studied the top of his head, wishing the shadows would grow longer and conceal her.
As if sensing her presence, she watched his bare hand– no longer gloved– reach for the golden cup by his empty plate. The length of his fingers bore scars deep and aged.
He tapped the base of his cup with a blunt nail, a quiet gesture..
Mica pretended not to see. Her whole body had grown taut and still. She found the woman's eyes at the edge of the dining room who watched with cheeks flushed from outrage.
"What are you doing?" The woman mouthed while waving a palm at the king's cup. "Fill it."
Mica cleared her throat and shuffled forward towards the edge of his throne whilst clasping the jug. It sloshed in her grasp and for a wild moment she thought it would tip over and spill on him.
But it didn't.
The King raised his cup to her though his face was forward.
Carefully tipping the jug she watched it pour steadily until his voice halted her.
"Enough."
She began to step back back but the hand remained outstretched; a silent invitation… to what?
… drink…
"Huh." She asked incredulously.
The queen glanced absentmindedly in her direction then away waving forth another entree.
… have a sip, my little lamb…
She was about to refuse but suddenly it made sense; the cupbearer had the first sip to ensure it was not poisoned.
Her hand was trembling as she reached for the cup, careful not to brush against his bare fingers, she lifted it to her mouth and took a mouthful. It burned her throat and went down heavily.
Mica concealed the cough whilst handing it back to him hastily. She pretended to wipe her mouth and stepped back watching as the King turned the delicate stem of the glass in his hand.
A line of curiosity deepened between her brows at the action until she noticed his finger tracing the rim gently, turning it until the spot where her mouth had touched it; where her saliva glistened.
He paused.
Then lifted the glass to his lips and drank from where she did.