“I am the royal physician. Besides, female elves are just male elves with a few different parts,” he says quickly. “I can’t imagine humans are that different.”
I pick up the same type of utensils that the king is using and begin slicing into my meal. No sooner have I cut one not-carrot in half than I feel a disapproving gaze from across the table. I look up to see a woman’s hazel eyes flick from the food in my hand to my mouth.
We eat the same sugared vegetables in a light sauce, but the food on her plate is far more abundant than my own. I also realize the bites she takes are much smaller than mine.
I quickly lower the pronged utensil back to the plate and divide the root several more times before bringing it back to my mouth. My nerves feel exposed, and I try to focus on the conversation again.
Not for the first time, I remember that there were humans who tried to seek some form of asylum in this place from the state of affairs in Zlosa and the giant lands.
I think of the dressmaker. Is she one of the humans who came over? I didn’t recognize her from the weaving stations in the slave pens, and that group was pretty close-knit. Thorne already promised me there are no slaves.
So…where are they? What happened to them? Were there other species that tried to come to the elven lands as well? I haven’t seen any others.
“Well, from the past—” another starts, and Arion abruptly clears his throat. I glance at him, but the man begins again. “From what I’ve seen, there certainly were worse options for a royal bride. Humans have such variability. Some look like emaciated cattle, while others can be pretty as a moonbeam.”
“Pretty,” one of the women says, “not beautiful. I’ve never seen one refined enough to suit my own tastes.”
The man sitting next to her scoffs. “I should hope not, seeing as how we are married.”
My instincts take over, and my senses try to follow the energy of the room. I smile at the jokes when the others smile or laugh, and remain quiet when more thoughtful points are indulged, but in the back of my head, I continue to wonder about my fellow humans.
I had heard in passing that asylum-seekers were most oftenturned back to the giants. Why hadn’t any of them been used as husbands or wives, as Thorne said?
Arion clears his throat. “Now, now, children. Keep things civil for my bride.”
The laughter over the table fades into a quieter murmur, and forks scrape delicately against porcelain. I chew slowly, carefully, as though each bite is scrutinized. Even when their eyes aren’t on me, I sense them, sharp as daggers, cataloging every twitch of my hands, every swallow of my throat. By the grace of whatever deity still exists, I don’t die.
It might’ve been foolish to consider poison.
A second course arrives—thin slices of pale meat arranged like flower petals, drizzled with a silver glaze that sparkles faintly under the candlelight. Yet again, my portion is smaller than the others, barely more than a taste. A servant lingers at my elbow as if ensuring that I eat it, and the tension in my shoulders locks my posture stiff.
From farther down the table, a woman’s voice rises above the chatter. She has hair the color of crushed copper and a proud, lifted chin. “Tell us,Arlet,” she says, and the way she savors the words makes me want to shrink back into my chair. “Are you enjoying your gown? It is very fine. Verdithian velvet and spider silk, I see.”
I like knowing more about the fabrics, and some part of me perks up. “It is very fine. I’m honored to wear it.”
Her lips twist into something that should be a smile but is not. “Honored, yes. You said that several times. A pity your honor cost us something irreplaceable.”
Embarrassment and confusion root me to the chair. I draw my brows together, trying, fruitlessly, to tease out her meaning. Was this dress meant for her? Had it merely been altered to fit me?
“Oh, don’t play dumb.” Her voice sharpens, cutting through the room until even forks go still. “When you chose that gown, you chose death for the other seamstresses. And one of them—” She sets down her fork, and it gently clinks against the crystal goblet before her. “One of them was the only dressmaker worth the name. Years of craft in her fingers, gone in an instant because you pointed at fabric you fancied. She’s dressed my whole family.”
My stomach drops, and blood rushes in my ears. Death? That was what I chose? I thought it was merely a selection, not a sentence.
Gods, I hate death. I hatecausingdeath. And I caused the death of a fellow human.
Fuck.
Control yourself, Cursed One whispers.You might miss something.
That voice, still deep and rich and feminine, draws me in. It staunches the panic spreading from my icy palms. It eliminates the trembling.
Folding my hands in my lap, I meet her eyes and speak evenly. “I was told to make a choice. That is what I did. I didn’t mean to cause?—”
“You didn’t mean?” The woman leans forward, her green eyes blazing. “Meaning does not matter. Intent does not matter. Choice is what matters. And you chose to take away someone who has contributed to the culture you are meant to join.”
I can feel Arion watching me. I want to clarify that he gave me a choice, but I worry that revealing the truth of his involvement would be a misstep.
And I belong to him.