Chapter 3
Two years later
Eithne Morrigan stared at the human slave standing on the platform. With her long midnight-dark hair, pale white skin, and human ears, she was deemed beautiful by human standards.
But in Nemorenthis, a realm where half-bloods were considered the dregs of society, she was bred for only one purpose: to serve the elven King, Aegnor as his Shadow. His assassin.
"One hundred golden coins for this human!" the announcer shouted. "Anyone to start off?"
Humans were rarely worth that much, yet whispers spread that this one was a daunting fighter. Under the warm glow of the candle chandelier, his bronzed skin glinted like caramelized sugar.
Eithne stared hungrily at his taut muscles, but she abruptly withdrew her gaze and looked at him, repulsed. Humans were disgusting, pitiful, fragile creatures. At times, she cursed the human blood that bound her to their kind. Why had the King not bred her as a full-blooded elf? Why encumber her with humanity?
But there was nothing soft about her. She was as hard as the elven swords forged by the blacksmiths.
There was a reason they called her the King's Shadow.
She gazed at the coliseum pit where tonight's fight would unfurl, a brutal spar drawing High Elves from every province to bet on two powerful human slaves and watch them battle to their deaths.
"One hundred and thirty gold coins," she called out.
"Do you think that one will win?" Malika asked at her right, twirling a dagger.
"He will."
"What about the brute he's up against?" Malika asked. "They say that one is powerful too."
Eithne stared at her companion. Her skin was a warm shade of brown, inherited from her Southern-born human mother. Though her light elven features showed in the gold of her irises and the strands of silver hair, her half-blood lineage marked her as a child bred by the King.
"He's all heft with no wits for battle. I doubt he'll last in the match. Just imagine the profit we'll make if our stooge wins tonight."
"And what if he loses?"
"One hundred and fifty coins for that underdog!" another man shouted from the crowd, referring to the bulky opponent.
He was a High Elf, with pale translucent skin, a mane of silver hair, and smoldering reptilian golden eyes that glared at her. She returned his stare with a frown. Were it not for her position as the King's Shadow, they would have sold her into slavery or slaughtered her by now. Yet she exceeded most of them, and she carried herself proudly, chin high and shoulders squared.
He cast a look of aspersion.
"One hundred and seventy for the stooge," she countered. Her fangs ached under her tongue, craving to be bared. But flashing them would denote a challenge, and she had no desire for blood tonight.
"One hundred and seventy?" Malika's eyes widened. "Our rent is due, and you are cognizant that the King isn't precisely generous with wages."
"Five hundred golden coins for the stooge," a voice drawled from behind.
Eithne's breath hung in her throat. Five hundred golden coins? For a human?
She whipped her head around. The muscles in her body tightened.
"The King is here," Malika murmured.
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to the figure cloaked in blue robes.
Aegnor's golden gaze locked onto hers as he strode forward. He was splendid and unreadable. Years under the King's service had taught her one truth: the King's mood shifted quickly.
He had pale skin like every High-born Light Elf, but unlike most, the two Kings of the elven race bore their hair long and dark. His obsidian hair was brushed back and tied with a band, the rest cascading down his back. His cheekbones were honed like chiseled blades, jaw locked in silence.
Eithne's gaze traveled to his hands. Pale as snow; hands she remembered were bathed in human blood not long ago.
A faint smile twitched on her lips, but she expelled it quickly. She had swiftly disregarded the fact that she was not a woman. She was a weapon. His blade. The King's assassin.
"Your Grace…" the announcer stammered. "I hadn't… Ladies and gentlemen! Make way for the King of the Light Elves!"
Aegnor disregarded him. His gaze never wavered from Eithne and Malika as he approached them.
He gave them a look of follow me before he turned around and walked away.
They knew better than to stay behind. Eithne grabbed the bag of coins on the table and hurried after the King.
…
"You two are to leave by next week ," Aegnor said, gliding toward the grand table in the middle of the room.
"You're to travel north. To the mines," he continued. "There have been some… incidents."
Eithne's memory sauntered back to the first time she'd met the King. She had been fifteen, barely weaned from her breeding ward with the other children, and taken into the training camp.
That winter, he had walked among the shivering half-blood recruits, unmoved by the frostbite masticating through their thin tunics. Her eyes were swollen, lips split from the wooden blade the day before. But when he lowered in front of her and brushed his thumbs over her broken lips, his magic mended her skin.
Something had stirred in her chest that day. She had attempted to conceal the emotion. Half-bloods were deemed lesser than hounds. Dragons were far more valuable than them. The King would never view her as anything more than a honed blade.
Still, she stalked, killed, and allotted heads and hearts at his command, hoping that one day he would see her. Not as his Shadow. Not as his weapon.
Just her.
But it was a despairing fantasy, one she wouldn't stop nursing.
"What incidents, Your Grace?" she asked.
"Amrod is dead," he said. "Killed during his shift watching the slaves at the mine. I just received letters written with his blood."
"Half-bloods?"
"Perhaps," he replied. "They're the only ones audacious enough to kill a High Blood. But whoever killed him must be powerful, because Amrod isn't someone to easily overcome."
She shuddered. How much she loathed some of her kind. They'd brought nothing but shame upon her.
"They also sent me his skin and bones, threatening to claim a dragon."
Eithne's stomach twisted.
"I'm sending you two to the mines. Eradicate every single one of them. I want heads. I want hearts. Anything as proof that they're dead. Slaughter any humans who abetted them. No filth should be left breathing."
She exhaled sharply. Did the King view her as filth too?
"As you command," she bowed, and Malika followed.
Aegnor's golden gaze bore into hers.
"You will not disappoint me," he said. "Remember what happens to those who fail me?"
She nodded, goosebumps crawling over her spine.
Failure meant she would be humiliated publicly. Stripped bare in the snow, she would be whipped until her flesh split, until the King could see her bones. And the King would lick the blood from his whip, a reminder of power, of ownership.
"I will not."
He studied her for any glimpse of fear. His gaze darted to Malika. After a long silence, he turned around, dismissing them.
She let her gaze wander over the broad surface of his back before swiveling, Malika trailing behind her.