by Emily Inskip
She thought she’d said enough to get thrown in the dungeon, especially after mocking an established Lady in front of her fellow courtiers. Amara had let her act slip. It might have been a mistake, but it was sure as hell fun.
But to Amara’s surprise, a warm hand slid over hers, squeezing lightly.
“I’ll make sure food packages are sent out first thing tomorrow morning, Lady Lynessa. Your compassion for the people is truly amiable,” the Queen smiled, the rest of the room completely silent around her. Even the Prince didn’t stir.
Although, through the quiet of the room, Amara could practically hear the rage pulsing around Myria. After all, Amara had made her look like a fool. Good.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Amara said, bowing her head, trying desperately to conceal her shock.
Slowly, Amara tugged her hand away, returning to quietly cut her food, knowing all too well that she wouldn’t touch a thing.
They sat the rest of the meal in silence. Aedric made a few comments to the lords around him. He tried for humour. And failed.
Eventually, when the servants began clearing the table, swift and unnoticed, the Queen tapped a fork to her glass and smiled.
“Time for the entertainment.”
10
As if in answer, the doors to the banquet hall burst open, and two servants entered, carrying a large gilded harp, along with a delicate embroidered chair. They set the objects down on a small marble platform in the corner of the room, alit with flickering candles and a raging brazier.
Amara swallowed. Oh God.
She tried and failed to muster a smile. It was stupid. All of this was stupid. She had so many other things to worry about. Like her brother escaping the jaws of death or the Valkrane who may discover her presence at any moment. Not to mention that her bloodlust was getting worse by the second, it would only be a matter of time before she cracked.
But instead, Amara was stood wearing a ridiculous gown in front of the Queen of Esteria, of all people. Never in all her centuries did she think it would come to this.
Amara cursed beneath her breath, clenching her sweaty palms before pushing away from the table and strolling towards the harp.
Here goes nothing, she supposed.
The hair pricked on the back of her neck as she felt the weight of the room’s gaze on her back. But Amara paid them no heed, focusing only on the hiss of her skirts as she climbed up the shallow steps of the platform.
She didn’t wait for permission as she took her seat on the plush chair, the material sighing beneath her.
The golden harp looked so regal from where she perched before it. The chiselled, metallic frame gleamed in the candlelight, offsetting the dark marble of the room.
Although Amara tried to resist the urge, her gaze slid to Prince Aedric lazing in his chair, still swirling the red wine in his hand. He immediately noted her attention, a half smile curling his lips. She rolled her eyes, not caring who saw. Stupid, arrogant princeling.
Quietly, Amara hovered her fingertips over the taut strings of the harp. She frowned, remembering the notes, the chords and scales all murky in her memory.
And played.
The first chimes shattered the silence as her fingers plucked the strings, teasing them into a song. Amara couldn’t tell what the others thought. If they could see through her act, tell that it definitely wasn’t Lady Lynessa playing. But everyone had frozen. Pinned in place as her harmony flooded the hall.
She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but the room seemed to fall away, until all that was left was herself, the harp and the music. But they merged. The mellifluous song swirled around her, wrapping her in a swath of light and energy.
She hadn’t heard music this beautiful in so long, but her fingertips remembered from all those years ago. They danced upon the strings, dainty, careful. Amara marvelled at their movements, it had been perhaps a hundred years since she’d played and yet they still knew the way, the story of the song.
She was carried by the tune sweeping her along, up and up until it crashed into a crescendo, blasting away the shadows, leaving only light in its wake.
Amara felt a small smile tug at her lips as she plucked the last notes, the final silence settling around the room.
Gradually, the world began to reform around her. The outlines of the hall became refined once more, faces slowly taking shape as she set her hands in her lap.
Amara watched, half-dazed at the table of wide-eyed lords, at the Queen whose eyes were lined with silver, a hand upon her chest. Myria’s rage had seemed to have guttered. Even Aedric had placed his glass down, leaning back in his chair, his head propped on a fist.
She tried not to notice the fact he was focused on her now, his dark features seeming softer than before. Amara didn’t look away. She held his stare, watching as a playful grin began to tweak his lips. He offered her a quick wink, the candlelight catching in his golden hair. And then slowly, idly, the Prince began to clap. His gaze didn’t break from hers as more and more people joined him, the applause echoing off the marble walls.
“That was . . .” the Queen began but seemed to lose her words, her breath hitching.
“Incredible,” Aedric finished with a wolfish grin.
Gods, he was incorrigible.
“Thank you,” Amara said, before picking up her skirts and stepping down from the platform. She glided gracefully, her feet near-silent on the onyx floor.
Amara came to a stop beside the Queen’s chair, bowing her head and falling into a delicate curtsy.
“And thank you, Your Majesty, for allowing me to stay here,” Amara chimed, “the meal really was lovely.” She smiled, casting a gaze down the table.
Amara’s smile only grew as she took in Lady Myria stabbing rather violently at a piece of smoked salmon on her plate. Amara delighted in the wrath and jealousy that still burned on her face.
But Amara never broke her promises. And that really was one hell of a show.
Aedric must have noticed, too. Dark amusement danced in his eyes as they shared a glance across the table. Amara made sure to give him a subtle, innocent shrug before turning back to the Queen.
“If you’ll excuse me, I wish to retire for the night. As you said, all the travelling has made me rather tired.” She clasped the suncharm around her neck, trying to ignore the pang of guilt she felt as the cool stone met her skin.
“I could always carry you back to your chambers,” Aedric crooned from the other end of the table, cocking his head to the side in a silent question. His eyes were practically gleaming with wicked delight.
But Amara only stared back at him blankly, unimpressed. Uninterested.
Oh, she did like this game.
“That’s awfully generous of you, Your Highness,” she said sweetly, gazing at him from beneath heavy lashes. “But I can carry myself.”
Before he could reply, Amara swiftly turned her back, offering the Queen a quick nod as she strolled out of the room, the doors swinging shut behind her.
11
A string of screams flittered through the halls of the glorious manor house. Screams that had become a daily song for Amara as she slaved away, scrubbing, sorting, serving.
The sight of blood had become just as common to her as water. She didn’t look twice anymore at the slaughter her master would leave for her to clean up. Deep red was ever-present beneath her fingernails, the arcs of her cuticles. She didn’t bother to wash it away anymore. Not when she would only have to dirty her hands with it immediately after.
Fassar was an unforgiving man. Brutal. His laughs laced the sounds of shrieks as he tortured his enemies in the stone chamber beneath the house. She had no clue what his business was, what he did down there in the shadows . . . She knew better than to ask.
His activities, whatever they were, kept Amara busy. He and his men insisted the house was to maintain an immaculate appearance, for the floorboards to remain polished and the swooping chandeliers to shimmer and glisten.
If Amara failed at that, if even a fleck of blood could still be seen . . . she received a punishment that even a warrior would struggle to endure. Twelve lashings. Twelve lashings across her bare back whilst his men, the Valkrane, would gather and watch.
It had only happened a few times, when Amara had been lazy, too exhausted from working the day before to scrub thoroughly.
The laughs and jeers of the men still haunted her. They would watch her torture like entertainment. Whilst she whimpered on the floor, her back a slab of mangled, bloody flesh, they would laugh, point, then laugh again. Sometimes they would get bored, insist Fassar increase her punishment then cheer when he did.
But she didn’t open her eyes, didn’t look up from the ground as Fassar brought the whip down again and again. The crack of the lash made her bones shudder. Yet, through a small mercy, the pain numbed her. Most nights, she managed to slip away, vanishing so completely that she no longer cared what was done to the shell of her body she left behind. Sometimes she would pass out from the agony. Sometimes she’d throw up. Blood would stream from her nose. Eyes clouded with tears.
Amara rarely made the mistake of being lazy.
Though, she would never forget the first time it happened.
Fassar had finished her prolonged punishment, allowing her to grab her shirt and run to find a healer. As she hurried, blood trailed in her wake. Her own blood she would no doubt be forced to mop up later.
She couldn’t find a healer. Couldn’t reach the wounds on her back to cleanse them herself. Amara remained in her small room, more like a closet than anything else, and winced as she tried to soak up the blood. The gashes that ran along the length of her spine needed stitches in order to heal properly. But that was a fool’s hope. If she was lucky, they would remain uninfected. If she wasn’t . . .
Amara gritted her teeth as more blood splattered onto the floor. A small whimper escaped her lips as she pressed in her shirt to staunch the bleeding.
Her body shook in pain but she froze at the small knock on her door. Her breath hitched. Amara didn’t bother to respond before it clicked open and a man edged in.
He was younger than the others, around Amara’s age. Yet, it wasn’t his stunning beauty that she noticed first, but his eyes. One a glistening hazel, the other a crushing jade.
His face blanched as he took in her back, the dark blood coating her like a second skin.
“I heard you screaming,” he only said, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him.
Indeed, Amara hadn’t seen him in the hall with all the other men. She shivered as he took the shirt from her and slowly began to press it against her wounds.
She clenched her teeth at the pain.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, “I’m sorry for my father’s actions.”
Amara’s heart stuttered. He . . . he was Fassar’s son?
On instinct, she stumbled away, despite his helping hands on her back. Amara didn’t face him, only glancing hesitantly over her shoulder, her eyes darkened with fear.
“I’m not going to hurt you, darling,” his words were silken-covered, making her bare skin prick. “Let me help. I can heal you.”
Her muscles protested, mind screaming to run, but slowly, Amara turned, shaking as she crossed her arms over herself.
“You will help me?” her words were clipped whimpers, barely audible above the thrumming of her heart against her chest.
“Yes.” His wonderful eyes were still filled with guilt as he looked her over. “The wounds are too deep for me to heal them completely, but I can try.”
Amara studied him. Despite the pain and the blood still oozing from her back, she made to step closer. He watched her hesitantly; fists clenched at his sides as if resisting the urge to steady her, help her.
“You need to trust me, all right?” he said, “Don’t be afraid.”
Amara nodded. She had witnessed too much, suffered through too much, that whatever it was this man was about to do, she no longer cared.
She blinked as two delicate-tipped fangs appeared. He didn’t wait before bringing his own wrist to his mouth and bit down.
Amara’s breath faltered at the sight. At what he was. Bits and pieces she had collected from her time at Fassar’s manor finally fell into place. The blood. The nightmares. The death. It all made sense. She thought vampires were a thing of fiction. Creatures of the night-
“Drink,” was all he said, interrupting her flurry of thoughts.
Amara only gazed down at the arm he offered for her; a ring of red teeth marks marred his pale skin. “Drink.”
She didn’t quite know why her hands disobeyed her, reaching out to grasp his. Quivering, she brought his arm towards her lips. And drank.
Amara grimaced as the metallic tang slipped down her throat. His blood was cold, ice-kissed, not warm like she had expected.
But as she pulled away, Amara could already feel the pain along her back start to subside. The blood staunched, clotted and slowly her skin began to knit itself together. Not fully. But enough.
She gulped, trembling at the new magic running through her veins. But as she looked up to thank the man for his kindness, only an empty room met her.
From then on, it became routine.
Each time Amara was punished, humiliated and lashed to a bloody mess, he was there. The man, Fassar’s son, only ever appeared when she needed him.
Occasionally, he would be waiting for her in her tiny room, sat on her cot, ready to heal her before the blood loss was too much. Sometimes, she would have to wait a while for him to arrive. But, no matter what, he never once forgot. Never once failed to appear.
In between her daily cleaning and housework, Amara would sometimes go out to seek him. But the man with the striking eyes—one green, one hazel—could never be found.
Only when she needed him the most.
But Amara was glad in a way. Glad that maybe, in her world of death and shadow, she had found at least one friend to bear it with.
∞∞∞
Amara awoke the next day to a bed littered in feathers. Her empty pillowcase was strewn across the floor. She sighed, staring, bleary-eyed at the mess she had made. But it was just the one pillow. And she hadn’t had a nightmare, as such. It was more of an unhappy memory. One she wished never to revisit.
Buttery sunlight streamed through the doors leading out towards the balcony. Amara savoured the warmth on her skin. Hell, she was never going to get used to it. Not when her blood ran so cold in comparison.
Slowly, she pushed the covers back, sending feathers drifting into the air and twirling back downwards. She huffed, running a hand through her dark hair as she assessed the damage. It wasn’t too bad. She could excuse it for an accident. Hopefully.
Just as she moved to clear up the creamy feathers dusting the floor and sheets, her bedroom doors creaked open. Amara was immediately alert, instinctively rolling off the bed and taking up a defensive position beside the door. All of which happened in the matter of a heartbeat.
The unfortunate servant who entered practically jumped from her skin. She cursed softly, almost dropping the silver tray set in her hands. But Amara was already there, steadying her before the tea could clatter to the ground.
“I’m really sorry,” Amara quickly said, stepping back to allow the servant girl into the room. “I wasn’t expecting anyone—”
But the girl had already cut her off, setting down the tray before curtsying gracefully. “No, it’s my fault. I should have knocked.”
The servant looked hesitantly at Amara, her chest still heaving from shock. “Please don’t report it, I—I can’t afford another mistake.” The girl’s voice was weak, breaking slightly as she toyed with her dirtied apron.
Amara simply waved an idle hand before strolling towards the cabinet where the tray now lay. “Don’t worry about it, honestly it doesn’t matter.”
She shook her head before setting about making herself a cup of tea. Human drinks, it seemed, she didn’t mind one bit.<
br />
“Let me do that for you,” the servant girl said, reaching towards the tray. But Amara swatted her tanned hand away.
“I’m very much capable of pouring it myself.” Amara rolled her eyes, continuing to stir in the milk, adding hot water every so often.
The servant was silent for a moment, but Amara could feel her smiling behind her. Amara whirled around, narrowing her eyes at the girl.
“Last night doesn’t count,” Amara snapped, feeling heat beginning to stain her cheeks.
She had made a fool out of herself by spilling the gravy all over the table last night. In front of the Queen herself, for god’s sake. The servant girl, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten either.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to level her voice, but she clamped her lips shut as if to suppress a grin.
Amara sketched a brow before turning back round to resume her drink-making.
“If you don’t stop smiling I’ll make sure to report the incident earlier,” Amara said sweetly, shrugging.
The air shifted then, as if some force flared into life but was leashed quickly.
“Please—” the servant started, but Amara quickly cut her off.
“Relax, I was joking,” Amara smirked before sipping from her mug. “You don’t need to worry about those things with me. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what you do or don’t do. Take the day off for all I care.”
The girl blinked at her for a moment.
“I should go. Your breakfast will be here any moment,” she said, already turning to leave.
“Don’t bother, I’m not hungry.” For your food, at least. “I’ll grab something from the kitchen later.” Amara wasn’t really sure if that was how a lady was supposed to behave, but she said it anyway.
The girl just nodded, fixing her bundle of gold-brown hair before edging towards the door.
“Wait,” Amara called in between sipping her tea, “What’s your name?”
“I—” she stuttered, “No one’s ever asked me that before.” Colour began to rise in her cheeks as she spoke.
