"Studied."
The word echoed in the frozen space of my mind long after the throne room doors had been sealed behind me. It was a clinical, sterile word. A word one used for insects under glass, for ancient texts holding forgotten secrets, for stars viewed through a telescope. It was not a word for a person. It stripped me of my humanity, recasting me as a puzzle to be solved, a curiosity to be catalogued. In a way, it was more terrifying than any threat of violence. Violence, I understood. Violence, my training had prepared me for. This cold, intellectual possession was a new and profound kind of terror.
The same guards from before, their expressions unreadable slabs of granite, hauled me to my feet. They did not take me back the way we came, but led me deeper into the fortress's heart. We moved through corridors of polished obsidian that twisted and turned like the petrified intestines of some colossal beast. Here, there were no courtiers, no guardsmen observing my passage. There was only a profound, unnerving silence, broken by the rhythmic march of our footsteps. This was the King's private domain.
They stopped before a single, unadorned door of black wood, banded with silver. One of the guards produced a heavy iron key, and the lock turned with a groan that seemed to reverberate in my very bones. He pushed the door open and shoved me inside.
"The King's orders will be followed," the guard grunted, his voice like rocks grinding together. "Do not try to leave."
The door boomed shut, and the sound of the key turning in the lock was the sound of my world shrinking to the size of these four walls.
For a moment, I just stood there, breathing in the still air. I had expected a cell. A dungeon. Something cold and damp to match the rest of this frozen hell. I was not prepared for this.
I was in a suite of rooms so opulent they stole the breath. A fire crackled in a large, stone hearth, casting a warm, dancing glow over everything. The floor was covered in plush furs of white and silver. A massive bed, piled high with silk and velvet blankets in shades of midnight blue and charcoal grey, dominated the far wall. A low table held a silver pitcher and a single goblet, condensation beading on their surfaces. To one side, an archway led to what looked like a bathing chamber, steam ghosting into the room.
It was beautiful. And it was the most terrifying cage I had ever seen.
Every detail was a calculated display of power. This wasn't kindness; it was a statement. I can give you comfort or I can give you pain. Either way, you are mine. The warmth from the fire felt like a lie against the permanent chill that had settled deep within me.
Rule One: Know your exits. Assess your enclosure. The voice of my old instructor, Master Valerius, was a phantom whisper in my ear.
I moved, my bare feet sinking into the softness of the furs. I went to the window first. It was a tall, arched pane of crystal-clear glass, impossibly thick, looking out onto a sheer drop. Below, a frozen courtyard lay shrouded in a perpetual twilight, and beyond that, the jagged, snow-dusted peaks of Jotunheim clawed at the bruised purple sky. There were no bars, but there might as well have been. No one could survive that fall.
The door was solid, the lock ancient and complex. No weaknesses there. I was a prisoner, no matter how luxurious the accommodations.
A soft click from a smaller, previously unnoticed door near the hearth made me spin around, my body tensing. An older Lycan woman entered. She was tall and severe, her grey hair pulled back in a tight, unforgiving bun. She wore a simple grey dress, and her hands were clasped neatly in front of her. Her scent, unlike the King's clean storm, was faint, like dried herbs and old linen.
She looked at me, her expression neutral, but her eyes held a flicker of something—pity, perhaps, or just a weary resignation.
"I am Helga," she said, her voice crisp and devoid of emotion. "I am assigned to this wing. You will be bathed and clothed. The King wishes for his... guest... to be made presentable."
Guest. Another lie. Her careful phrasing told me everything I needed to know. She was a servant, and she was terrified of our master.
She gestured toward the bathing chamber, and I followed, my jaw tight. There was nothing to be gained from fighting her. She was just a cog in the machine.
The bath was a sunken pool of steaming, scented water. Helga worked with an efficient, impersonal air, untying the laces of my rough prisoner's shift. As the garment fell away, leaving me exposed, a wave of shame and anger washed over me. It was another stripping away of my identity. First my freedom, now my dignity. As I sank into the shockingly hot water, the thermal shock jarring my system, she took my old clothes and, without a word, tossed them directly into the nearby fireplace.
They caught instantly, turning to ash. The message was clear: my old life was gone, burned away.
She washed me with the same detached efficiency, her hands scrubbing away the grime of my capture. I let her, my mind detaching from my body. I thought of the Conclave, of the cold stone dormitory and the relentless training. I had been raised for a single purpose, honed into an edge meant to be plunged into the heart of the Lycan establishment. And here I was, being bathed like a pampered pet by one of its servants. The irony was a bitter pill.
When she was done, she wrapped me in a thick, warm towel and led me back to the main room. Laid out on the bed was a gown of deep blue silk so fine it felt like water against my skin. It was beautiful, simple, and utterly devoid of anything I would have chosen for myself.
"Food will be brought," Helga stated, not looking at me. "The King will see you when he sees you."
And with that, she turned and left, the soft click of the door sealing me in once more.
Alone again, dressed in the King's colors, I felt the full weight of my predicament press down. I was a bird in a gilded cage, and the owner was a predator who wasn't interested in my song, only in the mechanics of my wings and the rhythm of my heartbeat. He wanted to pull me apart, piece by piece, to understand how I worked.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the silk cold against my skin, and listened to the silence. It was a heavy, waiting silence. As darkness finally claimed the sky outside my window, a tray of food appeared via a small, silent serving hatch in the wall—more proof that my isolation was absolute.
I ate, because Valerius had taught me that a weapon cannot function without fuel. Then I waited. For what, I didn't know.
Hours passed. The fire dwindled to glowing embers. I finally succumbed to exhaustion, curling up on top of the velvet blankets, too wary to crawl beneath them. I drifted into a light, uneasy sleep, my senses on high alert.
A sound, soft as a breath, woke me.
My eyes snapped open. The room was dark, lit only by the dying coals. Standing in the open doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the corridor, was King Jorvik.
He didn't enter. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, watching me in the dark. I couldn't see his expression, but I could feel the weight of his gaze, an intense, analytical pressure. He was observing his new specimen in its habitat.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird beating against the cage of my chest. I didn't move, didn't breathe. We remained like that for a full minute, predator and prey, locked in a silent, one-sided examination.
Then, as silently as he had appeared, he stepped back and pulled the door shut. The final, definitive click of the lock echoed in the darkness, a punctuation mark on the first day of my new life.
I was being watched. I was being studied. And I was utterly, completely alone.