VALORIA WILDEROSE
The room turns cold and silent just as fast as the laughter had begun.
The foot on my head lets up, and suddenly I'm lifted by the collar of my dress, forced to look up at the menacing devil in front of me.
His once-delighted smile is suddenly twisted into a glare, displeased by my comment.
"What did you say to me, little mouse?" he questions, venomously low.
Every instinct in me screams at me to beg and cry—to turn into a pathetic, pleading mess to appease him and survive.
After all, he could change his mind and kill me right now.
But that incessant flame continues to burn.
"I d-d-didn't m-make this mess—you did! It's only r-right you clean up aft-ter yourself too," I wheeze, trembling, struggling to get the words and my feelings out at once.
Somehow, saying something so defiant a second time while holding his gaze snaps me out of my brief burst of courage, making me instantly regret speaking up in the first place.
He watches me with the same ticked-off look in his eyes for a moment longer before he lets me go—out of nowhere.
I fall on my knees again, gasping for air, surprised that I'm still alive and grateful, but my celebration does not last for very long.
"It seems you believe yourself wise enough to teach your King." He stares at me like an irritating speck of dust in his way, furrowed brows furrowing even further. "Let me teach you something as well."
He makes a simple gesture, and a guard walks forward closer to us, a long whip crafted from animal skin held in his hands.
My blood runs cold, realizing what comes next without needing to be told.
"This lesson will only come to an end when I am certain that you have learned what it means to be within my castle walls," he explains, just as two others step forward, holding me from both sides before the one with the whip positions himself.
Everyone present is left to watch.
"Begin."
The first whip cracks into my back. I bite into my lower lip too hard, drawing blood, and clasp my eyes shut as the pain shoots through my entire being, vibrating through my very core.
It hurts like fire burning my skin, eating at my flesh, searing even more as the second one cuts deeper.
Lash after lash strikes me, shaking down the walls of my resolve until I'm trembling and doused in sweat. The faint scent of my blood hangs in the air.
"Stop," he calls.
I catch my breath finally once the guard pauses. Then my face is raised to look at His Majesty's cold, distant blue eyes.
"Do you understand now?" He asks a simple question, but to me it's much more complicated.
Have I learned my lesson? If I had, I wouldn't be here kneeling, getting whipped.
The lesson of my life was and has always been to give up, to cower and obey for all eternity—to know that I am powerless.
I dare to refuse it, to deny the definitions given to me by everyone else all my life.
I will not be broken.
"No," I whisper, without shaking for the first time since all of this began, and I see the recognition in his eyes—acknowledging my resolve, then hating it in an instant.
"I see." His amusement is gone, replaced with annoyance. "Continue."
Another whip shakes me once. It continues for goddess knows how long—countless whippings—before he stops, requesting my answer, and once I don't give him what he wants, it continues.
A banquet made to welcome me has now turned into my torture, contrary to what Yue had believed. I lose track of time and my count—hours have passed.
The fabric of my dress is ripped, the thick leather straps eaten into my flesh.
I feel the warm trickle of blood pooling beneath me.
My strength has long since fled, leaving me lying on the floor, gasping, holding onto the faint threads of my consciousness.
"Your stubbornness will win you nothing. Unless you want to die from blood loss after just barely managing to survive a day here, I suggest you yield if you want to achieve your purpose here and live."
I know.
I know it would take a few more heavy whips for me to fall into shock before my life slowly fades away, casting me into darkness, and all I've worked for would be thrown away.
I know—and yet this new feeling, bubbling in my chest, stands against giving in to any more torment.
"No," I whisper hoarsely, my fingers curling against the blood-slicked floor, preparing myself for what comes next—the inevitable.
A second, and then more passes—but he doesn't give the command. Instead, I hear him sigh with new disinterest.
"This has gotten boring," he confesses in a dull, dry tone, before whispering inaudibly, just to me: "I don't want you dead yet. I'm not done with you."
Hope instantly ignites in my heart.
"Lock her up," he orders next, before turning to leave.