ELARA
The blood won't come out.
I scrub harder, my knees burning against cold marble. My hands are raw and red, but the stain spreads like it's alive. Dark. Fresh. Someone died here last night.
I learned a long time ago not to ask who.
"Faster, girl!" Mistress Cora's stick cracks across my shoulders. Pain shoots down my spine, but I don't cry out. Crying only makes it worse.
I'm Elara. No last name. Just Elara. I'm twenty-three years old, and I've been scrubbing floors in Ironhold Palace since I was six. This is my life. This will always be my life.
The throne room is empty this early. Dawn light creeps through tall windows, making the gold throne glow like it's on fire. I hate that throne. I hate the man who sits on it. But I keep my head down and my mouth shut, because that's how you survive.
"Your hair is showing again," Cora hisses, yanking my scarf off.
White strands peek through the black dye. My stomach drops.
White hair means cursed. Cursed means dead.
"I'll dye it tonight," I whisper, pulling the scarf back over my head.
"You better. And those contacts—if anyone sees your real eyes, I can't protect you."
My real eyes are violet. Wrong. Dangerous. The brown lenses itch and burn, but I wear them every single day. Cora gave them to me when I was little, along with the black hair dye. She's mean and cruel, but she's kept me alive.
I don't know why.
"Finish this floor before breakfast, or you don't eat." Cora's stick taps the marble. "And stay away from the library. I know you've been stealing books."
My heart pounds. How does she know?
She leans close, her breath sour. "Reading is for nobles, not servants. You want to get yourself killed?"
"No, Mistress."
"Then act like it."
She walks away, her footsteps echoing. I'm alone with the blood stain and my racing thoughts.
I shouldn't steal books. I shouldn't read them by candlelight in the attic. I shouldn't dream about anything beyond these walls.
But I do.
At night, when everyone sleeps, I climb to the highest attic and read stolen stories about heroes and magic and freedom. I imagine being someone else. Someone who matters.
Stupid dreams for a servant girl with no future.
I scrub until my arms shake. The blood finally fades, leaving only a ghost of a stain. Close enough. I dump the dirty water and hide the rags.
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.
The kitchens are busy with breakfast preparations. Cooks shout orders. Servants rush everywhere. Nobody notices me slip through the door and pocket a bread roll from the cooling rack.
"Thief!"
My blood turns to ice.
The head cook points at me, his fat face red with anger. "That girl stole bread!"
Guards appear from nowhere. They always do.
"Please, I was just—"
A guard grabs my arm, squeezing until I gasp. "Stealing from the royal kitchens? That's a whipping offense."
"Or worse," the cook says with a nasty smile.
They drag me through the palace. I try to stay calm, but terror claws at my throat. People get whipped for stealing. Sometimes they disappear completely.
But they don't take me to the whipping post.
They take me to the throne room.
My legs go weak. No. No, no, no.
The massive doors swing open. The throne room is full of nobles in silk and jewels. They turn to look at me—a servant in dirty rags, dragged before them like trash.
King Aldric sits on his golden throne, watching me with cold eyes. He's handsome in a terrible way, like a beautiful snake. Power radiates from him, making the air feel heavy.
"What's this?" His voice is smooth, bored.
"A thief, Your Majesty," the guard says, throwing me forward.
I hit the marble hard, right where I scrubbed blood this morning. The irony isn't lost on me.
"Look at me, girl."
I lift my head slowly. Keep your eyes down. That's the rule. But the King commanded, so I look.
His eyes narrow. For a horrible second, I think my contact slipped. I think he sees the violet underneath.
But then he smiles. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-three, Your Majesty."
"And unmarried, I assume?"
My mouth goes dry. Why is he asking this? "Yes, Your Majesty."
He leans back, fingers drumming on his armrest. "Perfect timing."
What does that mean?
"Commander Blackthorn has returned from the northern wars," the King announces to the room. "He demands payment for his military service. The treasury is... regrettably empty at the moment."
Murmurs ripple through the nobles. I stay frozen on the floor, confused and terrified.
"But I am a generous King," Aldric continues. "Commander Blackthorn shall have his payment. A bride from the royal household itself."
No.
"This girl will do nicely."
The room spins. Bride? Me?
"Your Majesty," a noble stammers, "she's just a servant—"
"She lives in the palace, does she not? That makes her part of the royal household." The King's smile is cruel. "Commander Blackthorn didn't specify what kind of bride he wanted."
I can't breathe. This isn't happening.
The throne room doors boom open.
Heavy footsteps echo across marble. Every noble turns. Every whisper dies.
A man enters.
He's tall and broad, covered in scars and road dust. His armor is dark, decorated with a silver wolf. His eyes are gray like winter storms, and when he looks at me, I feel stripped bare.
This is Commander Cassian Blackthorn. The Warlord of the North. The man who burns villages and shows no mercy.
The man I'm being sold to.
His gaze locks on mine, and something flickers in those cold eyes. Surprise? Recognition?
That's impossible. I'm nobody. I've never left the palace.
But he stares at me like he's seeing a ghost.
"This will suffice," he says quietly.
The King claps his hands. "Excellent! The wedding will be in three hours."
Three hours.
My entire life, gone in three hours.
Cassian Blackthorn walks toward me, each step deliberate. He stops close enough that I smell leather and steel and something like smoke.
He extends his hand.
I stare at it, my mind screaming. This is really happening. I'm being sold to the most dangerous man in the kingdom.
His eyes meet mine again, and this time I see it clearly—he knows something. About me. Something even I don't know.
"Take my hand," he says softly. It's not a request.
My fingers are shaking when I reach up.
The moment our skin touches, pain explodes in my wrist.
The leather band I've worn my whole life—my servant's brand—burns like fire against my skin. I cry out, trying to pull away, but Cassian holds firm.
His eyes widen. "It's you," he breathes.
What? What's me?
The King stands suddenly. "What's wrong?"
But Cassian doesn't answer. He's staring at my wrist, where the leather band is glowing.
Glowing silver.
That's not possible. Leather doesn't glow.
"Guards," the King's voice turns sharp with fear. "Stop them—"
Cassian yanks me to my feet and against his chest. "She's mine now," he growls at the King. "The deal is done."
And then he's dragging me out of the throne room while my wrist burns with impossible light and the
King shouts orders I can't hear over my pounding heart.
What's happening to me?
What am I?