“My liege,” Lord Whitney’s voice wavered, bowing before King Hazen. He clutched a pile of papers to his chest like a shield. It was quite sad, really, that such an older man would be afraid of someone so young. But appearances could be quite deceiving. “I am here to bear a report from this morning. There was a… um… a package stolen from the Olka Spectacular.”

  King Hazen’s loud voice boomed in response, filling the wide office. “You may proceed.”

  “Yes, sire.” The lord’s shaking fingers sorted through the documents, handing a copy to the King. “This is the report that the guards on duty turned in. According to the report, a package of significant interest was stolen. A bevrodraach.”

  The King’s fists pounded against the oak table, making the golden goblets jump and spill their wine. “MY bevrodraach!?”

  “My King…” Melanthea leaned close, sweetly whispering into his ear. She let honey drip into her words, something she had figured out would calm his nerves. “There’s no need to get so distressed. All will be set right soon enough.”

  The King immediately sat back, relaxing into the sound of her voice. “Yes, thank you, My dear Melanthea. We’ll be done with this nonsense shortly.”

  Lord Whitney cleared his throat, earning a glare from the King. “Yes, yes,” King Hazen snapped. “Orson, you may go. Bring him in on your way out.”

  The silence that followed was almost unbearable, the King’s empty green eyes tracing up and down her body. Then, the doors to his office burst open once more. A huge crimson-bearded man, freshly beaten by the looks of the wound on his forehead, fell to his knees in front of the King. Terror rolled off of him in tangible waves. Melanthea felt her eyes widen, taking in the man. He was obviously Edorilian, by the looks of him. He was one of her kin, matched in the fiery red hair and deep purple eyes. She met his gaze for a split second, feeling the recognition in them. His eyes snapped back to the ground.

  “Sir, I beg your forgiveness—the thief… she seemed so small… I didn’t realize…” The man stuttered, bowing deeper as he tried to explain his case. “I was the one on duty. The fault rests on my carelessness.”

  Melanthea turned her head away from the shaking man, not wanting to take part in what would happen next. She had seen—had experienced—too many of the King’s punishments, had learned long ago that averting her eyes was the only mercy she could possibly offer. Still, she couldn’t block out the sounds that would eventually echo around this chamber, or the the way her stomach twisted with each and every one.

  “You do know what the punishment is for your actions, I presume?” King Hazen’s hardly controlled fury spilled through his every word. “You Edorilian scum came into my country, and only managed to deliver me a single eye, not what I paid for.”

  The guard’s voice shook, terror in his eyes like that of an animal about to be shot. “Your Majesty, if you could just give me one chance—”

  “SILENCE!” The King got up from his desk, and drew his sword in one fluid motion, slicing it clean through the man’s neck. Melanthea winced as she looked back, watching his cold head roll across the marble flooring. He then turned to Melanthea, setting his bloody sword on the desk.

  His hand reached out to caress her cheek, and she flinched away. The frown that crossed his face was instant, a flash of displeasure that made her want to disappear into the servants quarters.

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  “You may be dismissed now, Mellie,” he said, walking back to his desk. “Rest. No need to worry your pretty little eyes any longer.”

  The way his words slithered from his mouth made her shudder, like a snake tightening its grip around her neck. She heard exactly what he wasn’t saying: refuse me again, and you’ll end up just like that other Edorilian scum. Her body folded into a rigid bow. “Yes, my King.”

  The ornate golden doors slammed shut behind Melanthea as she limped her way through the halls, down to the servants quarters. The long corridor where the servants were housed was silent, as always, save for the occasional skitter of mice. It was void of anything warm, a tunnel of despair.

  Most of the servants she’d known when she first arrived were dead, based on some sin, real or imagined, that they committed towards the King. The others who remained were most likely scattered out at their respective posts for the day, working themselves to the bone for a tyrant’s happiness.

  She took out her key and let it fall into her door knob with a click. The small room greeted her like some long lost friend, her only source of solace in that godforsaken place. With a deep, tired sigh, she pulled a worn handkerchief from her dress pocket and tied back her dark red curls.

  Melanthea turned to the grimy mirror framed above a stone basin and peered in at the hollow-eyed stranger staring back. Once, she had been a great warrior—the pride of the Edoril armies, a commander both feared and respected. Now, she was nothing more than a shell of a living being, licking the boots of the devil himself.

  When Elspeth first invaded under the pretense of a treaty, hungry to harvest the power in Edorilian blood, Melanthea had volunteered to lead the fight against the powerful country. Brave. Foolish. A betrayal she never saw coming stripped away everything—her freedom, her honor, her very sense of identity.

  Left to rot in Elspeth prisons for three centuries, she began to waste away. That is, until the newly crowned King Hazen, not a day over 16, found her.

  She had initially mistaken his rescue for salvation. Instead, he systematically destroyed her for seven years. Torture that went beyond physical pain—he shattered her spirit, her warrior’s resolve. Her once-vibrant amethyst eyes now held only emptiness. Where she had been strong, she now had a permanent limp. Where she had once had the legendary ability to transform into a Fire-Dove, she now scrubbed floors and tried to satisfy the king.

  “Any woman who expects to stand by my side must be nothing more than a pretty figure, obeying my every whim,” he had said. And he had made certain she would.

  Her cracked fingers traced the mirror’s surface, searching for any trace of who she used to be.

  Feeling desperate after a few moments, Melanthea dropped to her knees. With practiced movements, she pried up the creaky floorboards beneath her bed, revealing a hidden cabinet of herbs and potions of all kinds—things she had carefully accumulated in back alleys over the past few years to help restore her lost power.

  In one quick motion, she removed the top half of her dress from off her shoulders. A massive black tattoo of a fiery sun danced down her spine, a painful reminder of what she had lost.

  Grabbing one of the vials, she took a deep breath and then sliced into the center of the tattoo with her talon-like nails. She held back a gasp of pain as the scorching liquid bubbled and made its way into her bloodstream.

  With a frantic flick of her wrist, she attempted to summon any spark of her power.

  The tattoo glowed an angry, pulsing red. A few feathers—yellowy-pink, fragile—began to sprout from the burning image. But just as quickly as it had started, it died. The feathers fell from her back and the light faded.

  A scream of pure frustration tore from her throat. The vial shattered against the floor, silver liquid seeping into the cracks.

  Throwing herself to her bed, anger coursed through her body. Anger for the man who had just been killed, and anger for the fact that no matter what she did, she couldn’t reverse her curse. The name from that morning’s report flashed through her mind—the woman who had been assumed responsible for the theft of the bevrodraach. A woman who was strong enough to defy the king himself.

  A dangerous thought bloomed, rebellious and pleading: Valera Drake, I’m betting on you.