Sleep, when it finally came, was not a respite. It was a descent.
Elara dreamed of the alley. But this time, the details were sharper, the terror more profound. She felt the cobblestones, cold and uneven, beneath her cheek. She saw the precise pattern of the stitching on Liam's worn leather boot as he stood over her. She heard the rustle of Cyrus's coat as he moved, a sound like a serpent sliding through dry leaves.
But the dream twisted. It wasn't Liam who was torn apart. It was her. And standing over her, watching with those impassive silver eyes, was Cyrus. He didn't move to help. He simply observed, as he had in the cell, a scientist noting the results of an experiment.
She awoke with a gasp, bolting upright in the unfamiliar bed. The room was pitch black, the absolute darkness of a place untouched by sun. Her new eyes adjusted instantly, painting the world in shades of silver and grey. The silence was total, broken only by the frantic hammering of her own heart.
Cyrus's words echoed in the stillness, more haunting than any dream.
*You are the last descendant of the previous ruling house... You are a threat.*
A threat. She, Elara, who had spent her life being invisible, a ghost scrubbing floors and fetching ale. Her entire identity, the little she had of it, was a lie. She wasn't a nobody. She was a queen's nightmare. The knowledge should have been empowering. Instead, it felt like a death sentence had been carved into her bones.
The thirst was there, a low, persistent hum in the background, a constant reminder of the price of her new existence. It was quieter after the goblet, manageable, but it was always present, a sleeping beast she now knew could awake with terrifying ferocity.
A soft, almost imperceptible sound at her door snapped her to attention. Not the turning of a key. Something else. A faint scratching.
She was out of bed in an instant, her movements silent, pressing herself against the wall beside the door. Her body was coiled, ready. The instinct to fight, to flee, was a live wire under her skin.
The scratching stopped. Then, a different sound. A faint, rhythmic tapping. *Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.* It was deliberate. A signal.
Cautiously, she leaned closer to the door. "Who's there?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The tapping ceased. A moment of silence, then a low, hurried whisper filtered through the gap between the door and the stone floor. "The one who brought the blood."
The servant girl.
"What do you want?" Elara asked, her suspicion a sharp tang in her mouth.
"To talk. Please. It's about... him. The Enforcer."
Elara's breath hitched. Trust no one. Especially not me. Cyrus's warning was a fresh brand on her mind. This could be a trap. A test of loyalty devised by him or the Queen.
But the girl's voice sounded genuinely frightened. And Elara was drowning in ignorance. Any piece of information, even a potentially poisoned one, was a raft.
"I'm listening," she said, her ear now pressed to the cold wood.
"He... he isn't what he seems," the girl whispered, her words tumbling out in a rushed, fearful stream. "He serves the Queen, yes. But he... he watches. He keeps records. Things the Queen doesn't know. Things about the old families. About... about you."
Elara's mind raced. "Why are you telling me this?"
A pause. "Because he owns my blood oath. My family's lives are forfeit if I displease him. But... I've seen the way he looks at her. At the Queen. There is no love there. Only duty. And maybe... hate." The girl's voice dropped even lower. "He is the key. To everything. But he is also the most dangerous creature in this court. Be careful."
Footsteps echoed down the hall, sharp and authoritative. The girl's whisper became a panicked gasp. "I must go!"
The sound of her light, hurried footsteps faded away just as the heavier ones approached. A key slid into the lock. Elara scrambled back from the door, trying to look as if she'd just awoken, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
The door opened. Cyrus stood there, holding a single, flickering lamp. He was dressed for the day—or the eternal night—in another impeccably tailored dark ensemble. His eyes swept the room, missing nothing, and landed on her.
"You're awake," he stated. It wasn't a question. He knew. He had to know. Had he heard? Was the servant girl now being punished for her treasonous whisper?
"It's hard to sleep," she said, aiming for defiance and landing on sullenness.
"You will learn to master your rest, as you will learn to master your thirst," he replied, stepping inside and setting the lamp on the table. "It is a tool, like any other. Today, you learn to use your other tools."
He didn't mention the girl. His demeanor was exactly as it had been before: cold, focused, impersonal. Either he was a master of deception, or the girl had escaped unnoticed. Elara wasn't sure which possibility was more frightening.
"What tools?" she asked warily.
"Your body. Your mind. Your gifts." He gestured for her to follow him. "The court is a battlefield. You are unarmed and untrained. That ends today."
He led her not to the throne room or the dungeons, but to a part of the castle that felt entirely different. The air was cooler, drier. They entered a vast, circular chamber with a high, domed ceiling. The floor was smooth, pale stone, and the walls were lined with racks holding an array of weapons—swords, daggers, spears, objects of beautiful and deadly artistry. It was a training salle.
"The first thing you must learn," Cyrus said, turning to face her in the center of the empty space, "is that your human instincts will get you killed. Speed without control is wasted energy. Strength without precision is a liability."
He moved then. Not towards her, but in a blur of motion too fast for her eyes to truly follow. One moment he was standing several feet away, the next he was behind her, his breath chilling the shell of her ear.
"Your prey is faster than you," he whispered. "Your enemies are stronger. You must be smarter."
She spun around, but he was already gone, reappearing by the weapon racks. He tossed something at her. She fumbled, her human reflexes betraying her, and a slender, balanced dagger clattered to the floor between them.
"Pick it up," he commanded.
She bent, retrieving the dagger. The hilt was cool in her hand, the weight unfamiliar.
"Your senses are heightened. Your body is stronger. But you think like a mortal." He began to circle her, a predator assessing its prey. "You see me. You hear me. But you are not feeling the room. You are not feeling the shift in the air when I move. You are not tasting my intent on your tongue."
It sounded like madness. But as he circled, she tried to do what he said. She closed her eyes for a second, shutting out the overwhelming sight of him. And she felt. She felt the slight disturbance in the air as he moved. She could smell the faint scent of leather and cold stone that clung to him. She could hear the almost silent whisper of his clothes.
She sensed him shift his weight, a fraction of a second before he moved. Her eyes snapped open as he lunged for her, not with blinding speed, but with a controlled, testing pace.
Instinctively, she brought the dagger up. He easily slapped her wrist aside, the blow stinging with precise force, and his other hand closed around her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a promise of what he could do.
"Predictable," he said, his voice flat. "You fight to defend. We fight to kill. Again."
He released her and resumed his circling. Anger flared in her chest, hot and bright. She was not a doll to be batted around. She tightened her grip on the dagger.
This time, when she felt the shift in the air, she didn't wait. She pivoted and thrust the dagger toward where she calculated he would be.
He was there. But her thrust was wild, untrained. He caught her wrist easily, his fingers like a steel manacle, and twisted. Pain shot up her arm. She cried out, and the dagger dropped from her numb fingers.
"Anger is a weapon," he said, his face inches from hers, his silver eyes boring into her. "But uncontrolled, it is a weapon that wounds its wielder. You aimed to hurt me. You should have aimed to kill me. The heart. The throat. The eye. There is no room for half-measures."
He released her wrist. It throbbed painfully.
"Again."
The lesson continued for what felt like hours. He was a relentless, merciless instructor. He demonstrated holds, breaks, throws. He taught her how to fall, how to roll, how to use her new speed not for flurries of movement, but for one, single, decisive action. He was never cruel, never needlessly violent, but he was utterly devoid of compassion. Every mistake was highlighted, every weakness exploited.
And slowly, painfully, she began to learn.
The thirst began to gnaw at her again, a distraction that made her movements sluggish, her focus waver. He noted it immediately.
"The hunger will always be with you," he said as she failed to block a simple disarm for the third time. "You must learn to use it. Let it sharpen your focus, not cloud it. Let the need for survival override the need for blood."
It was then that the door to the salle opened.
A man stood there, leaning against the doorframe. He was handsome in a languid, dissolute way, with golden hair that fell over his forehead and eyes the color of warmed honey. He wore clothes even finer than Cyrus's, a jacket of deep burgundy velvet, and he held a crystal glass filled with dark liquid that he swirled idly.
"Well, well," the man drawled, his voice a smooth, amused baritone. "Cyrus breaking in the new toy. And what a fascinating toy she is."
Cyrus went very still. His back was to the man, but Elara saw the muscles in his shoulders tighten. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Lord Valerius," Cyrus said, his voice devoid of the respect he'd shown the Queen. It was cold, flat, and carried a clear warning. "This is a private session."
"Is it?" Valerius pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered into the room, his gaze fixed on Elara with a predatory interest that made her skin crawl. "Everything in this court is public knowledge, Enforcer. You know that. Especially something as juicy as the return of the lost little Arcaidia heir." He stopped a few feet away, his honeyed eyes sweeping over her, lingering on the sweat dampening her hairline, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "My dear, you look absolutely ravishing. All that effort. It's a pity."
Elara stood her ground, clutching the practice dagger. "What is?"
"That all this training is for nothing," he said, taking a sip from his glass. He smiled, a flash of very white, very sharp fangs. "Lysandra will never let you live, of course. You're far too dangerous. Cyrus is just following orders. Making you presentable for the slaughter. It's what he's good at."
A cold knot tightened in Elara's stomach. She looked at Cyrus, but his face was a mask of stone. He didn't deny it.
"Valerius," Cyrus's voice was low, a threat woven into the single word. "Leave."
"Or what?" Valerius chuckled, but there was a nervous edge to it. "You'll enforce me? I'm merely welcoming our new... guest." He turned his smile back to Elara. "Don't trust him, darling. He's the Queen's faithful hound. He's the one who hunted down the last of your family, after all. He's quite efficient."
The words landed like physical blows. Elara's gaze snapped to Cyrus. His expression didn't change, but she saw it—a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker in his silver eyes. A shadow of something that looked like... pain? Or was it just confirmation?
He didn't look at her. His deadly focus was entirely on Valerius. "I will not tell you again."
Valerius held up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, though his smirk remained. "No need for theatrics, Enforcer. I'm going." He drained his glass and set it on a nearby bench. He gave Elara one last, lingering look. "Do enjoy your lessons. They'll make your final performance so much more... entertaining."
He turned and strolled out of the salle, whistling a faint, discordant tune.
The silence he left behind was thicker and more dangerous than before. Elara could feel the rage coming off Cyrus in waves, a cold, contained fury that was more terrifying than any shouted threat.
He finally turned to look at her. His face was grim. "He is a parasite and a liar. Everything he says is designed to cause chaos for his own amusement."
"Is it a lie?" Elara asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to control it. "Did you hunt my family?"
Cyrus's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he was silent. The truth hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating.
"It is my duty to enforce the Queen's will," he said finally, each word precise and sharp as a blade. "What happened to the Arcadia line was the Queen's will."
It was not a denial. It was a confession.
He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw something in his eyes that wasn't cold calculation or impersonal duty. It was a deep, weary resignation. "The past is a weapon others will use against you. Your only defense is to be stronger, faster, and smarter than they are. Your lesson for today is over."
He turned and walked toward the door.
"What's the next lesson?" she called after him, her mind reeling.
He paused at the threshold without looking back. "History," he said, his voice echoing faintly in the vast room. "You cannot know your enemy if you do not know your own past."
Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the training salle, surrounded by weapons she didn't know how to use, with the chilling certainty that her teacher was also the monster who had destroyed everything she never knew she had.