"Mother, you summoned me?" I answered as I stood before the ornate crimson throne of Crimson Vale, my bare feet silent against the cold marble floors that had once felt warm beneath my childhood steps. The throne room stretched vast and imposing around us, its soaring pillars carved with the ancient symbols of our bloodline—symbols that seemed to mock me now as I gazed up at the woman who had stolen my father's heart and corrupted his judgment.
The woman who sat upon my mother's throne was not my mother, though she demanded I call her such. Duchess Mirana Ashworth, my stepmother, regarded me with those calculating amber eyes that never held an ounce of genuine warmth. Her raven-black hair was swept into an elaborate crown of braids and jewels, and her crimson gown—the color reserved for true royal blood—felt like a deliberate insult to my heritage.
"Ah, yes my sweet daughter," she purred, her voice dripping with false honey that couldn't disguise the venom beneath. Each word was carefully enunciated, precise and cutting. "I have a special guest here to meet you." The smile that spread across her painted lips was nothing short of predatory, and I felt my violet eyes instinctively scan the shadows of the throne room for threats, a habit born from years of surviving her subtle cruelties.
As I looked at her more closely, dread settling like ice in my stomach, I saw my two stepbrothers standing beside the throne like twin sentinels of my misfortune. Marcus and Viktor, both older than my twenty-two years, both bearing their mother's cold amber eyes and their father's weak chin. They were smiling—not the innocent grins of siblings, but the same cruel expression their mother wore. The same look they'd given me the day they'd convinced Father that I'd been stealing from the royal treasury, or when they'd whispered poison into his ears about my "unsuitable behavior" at court functions.
Something was terribly wrong. I could feel it in the way the air seemed to thicken around us, in the way the servants had been dismissed from the throne room, leaving only family present. My heart began to race, and I fought to keep my breathing steady, to maintain the composed facade that years of courtly training had drilled into me.
Mirana waved her hand to dismiss Mira from the room. She looked at me, but with a kind smile, I nodded, giving her permission to leave.
The heavy doors groaned shut behind Mira with a finality that made my spine straighten. The sound echoed through the vast throne room, bouncing off walls that had witnessed centuries of royal ceremonies—coronations, weddings, celebrations of victory. Never a sale.
"Who is this man?" My voice came out steadier than I felt, years of diplomatic training serving me even now. I kept my gaze fixed on Mirana, refusing to acknowledge the stranger who stood in the shadows beside the throne's dais, though I could feel his presence like a cold draft against my skin.
Mirana's smile widened, revealing teeth that gleamed too white in the crimson light filtering through the ruby-glass windows. She leaned forward on the throne—my mother's throne—and her fingers drummed against the armrest in a rhythm that matched my thundering heartbeat.
"This man standing here in front of me," she gestured with theatrical grace toward the shadows, "is a very special merchant." Her amber eyes glittered with triumph, drinking in every micro-expression that crossed my face. "And he is here to buy a very important piece."
She paused, savoring the moment like aged ruby-wine, letting the words hang in the air between us. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
"You."
The word hit me like a physical blow, though I managed not to stagger. My mind raced, processing, calculating, searching for the trap, the jest, the hidden meaning that would make this anything other than what it appeared to be. But Mirana's expression held no humor, only the cold satisfaction of a plan finally coming to fruition.
"That's not possible." The words escaped before I could stop them. "I am Princess Lyra Ashworth, daughter of King Aldric, heir to—"
"You were a princess," Mirana corrected, rising from the throne with languid grace. Her gown whispered against the marble as she descended the steps toward me, each footfall deliberate and measured. "But your dear father has signed the papers already. As of this morning, you are no longer recognized as a member of House Ashworth."
The room tilted. My knees locked to keep me upright. "Father would never—"
"Your father does whatever I suggest is best for the realm." She circled me now, a predator sizing up wounded prey. "And with our treasury depleted, our tributes to the Golden Tribe overdue, selling one insignificant girl seems a small price to pay for Crimson Vale's continued prosperity."
"Insignificant?" The word tasted like ash. "I am his daughter. His firstborn—"
"You are your mother's ghost," Mirana hissed, all pretense of civility evaporating. "Every time he looks at you, he sees her. That damnable crimson hair, those violet eyes. You think he keeps you out of love? He keeps you out of guilt. But guilt doesn't pay tributes, and the Golden Tribe grows impatient."
My hands clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms. The merchant stepped forward then, emerging from the shadows like something conjured from nightmares. He was tall, skeletal, with pale skin stretched too tight over sharp bones. His eyes were the flat black of a predator fish from the Ruby Seas' deepest trenches.
"She's untouched?" His voice scraped like rusted metal.
"Naturally," Mirana replied, as if discussing livestock. "Royal bloodline, trained in all the noble arts. She'll fetch the highest price at the flesh markets of Obsidian Seven."
The flesh markets. Where slaves were sold to mining colonies, pleasure houses, or worse. Where identity meant nothing and survival meant everything. Where princesses became property.
"The guards won't allow this." My voice barely rose above a whisper. "The Royal Guard swore oaths to my mother's bloodline—"
"The Royal Guard follows the crown," Viktor spoke for the first time, his smile sharp as broken glass. "And the crown rests on whoever Father declares his heir."
I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't. Father would never—
The truth slammed into me like a dagger between the ribs as Mirana snapped her fingers.
Marcus and Viktor lunged. Their hands were like iron manacles—one wrenching my arms behind my back, the other yanking the roughspun dress over my head. The fabric tore at my skin, leaving burning streaks across my shoulders. A scream ripped from my throat, raw and desperate.
Cold air hit bare skin. My knees struck marble as I collapsed, hands darting to cover myself. The merchant's boots clicked against the floor as he circled, a vulture inspecting carrion. His shadow loomed over me, black eyes roving.
"Turn her," he muttered.
Viktor's fingers knotted in my hair, jerking my head back. Marcus wrenched my arms apart, exposing trembling limbs, the underside of my breasts, everything.
Scars mapped my skin—faded training bruises, the thin line on my left shoulder from an assassin's blade when I was seven. The merchant scrutinized each mark. His fingertip, dry as parchment, traced the blood-oath scar on my palm.
"Unspoiled? Truly?" His breath smelled of stale spice.
"Of course." Mirana's voice dripped venomous amusement. "Even servant work couldn't dull royal breeding."
Humiliation burned hotter than the palace forges. My vision blurred, but I refused to sob. Instead, I stared at the throne—my mother's throne—where my ruby hairpins once glinted in the light. Now, strands of crimson stuck to my damp cheeks, the only crown left to me.
Marcus leaned down, his whisper a blade at my ear: "Any last royal words, sister?"
I spat in his face.
The merchant chuckled. "Defiance adds value." He stepped back, nodding to Mirana. "The Golden Tribe will pay triple for this one."
The words crashed over me like executioner's steel. Golden Tribe. Not the flesh markets—somehow worse.
Because their Crown Prince wasn't just a slaver.
He was the man who'd bankrupted our planet.
And now, I was his.