BURNED BY RED CLAIMED BY BLACK

Where… where am I? I inhale sharply, only for it to dissolve into a humiliating coughing fit as I spit… something onto the ground. Ugh! Revolting. How wretchedly undignified. Please, please let no one witnessed that. The hope flickers and dies as quickly as it forms. A tremor of panic builds in my chest. The air reeks of damp stone and rust. This is not my bedroom. Nor any infirmary I might have been taken to. What happened to me? I’m lost. Through the tumble of my long silver-blonde hair, I see stone bricks shockingly clear, as if distance makes no difference to my eyes anymore. Darkness looks less like darkness and more like… deeper shades. I can hear each separate droplet of water leaking off stone, each groan of aged wood above me, as if the world has turned its volume unbearably high. The air tastes of metal. Iron. Heavy and sharp. Each sensation overwhelms the next in a dizzying, relentless spiral until a searing pain blooms behind my eyes. I think I might be sick. I force myself to focus. My wrists are shackled. My knees scrape against cold stone, my skin raw. I feel coarse fabric against my shoulders some crude tunic and… I am not wearing undergarments. Someone… someone has seen me like this. Exposed. Horror crawls over my skin. My hair lies wet against my head, plastered down, dripping past my shoulders. I look down my legs stretch out beneath a rough, threadbare tunic, paler than usual and speckled in red. Blood. My blood—the same I spat just moments earlier. Breathe. Breathe. Control yourself. I will not scream. I am not some fragile coastal debutante from the capital. I am Seraphine Vale of the Meridian Isles, daughter of stubborn stock, and I will not crumble. Fear claws at me all the same. But I cage it barely. I study the room again. Bare walls of grim stone. A single iron-bound door with a barred slot. A dungeon. A literal dungeon. This cannot be real. I must be dreaming. Or delirious. Or taken to some asylum. And these rags—rags! Not even a drudge in the Isles’ poorest harbor would be forced to wear such scraps. I swear I will discover the truth of this, or my name isn’t my name isn’t… My mind stutters. Slips. Thoughts scatter like frightened birds. Something is wrong with me. Deeply wrong. My thoughts won’t stay still. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I grit my teeth, trying to anchor myself. My name. I must remember my name. Say it. Say it aloud. My lips part of their own accord. “S… Seraphine…” Pain detonates through me. I fold forward as my throat feels as if it is aflame. The agony plunges down into my stomach, ripping me apart from the inside. My mind whites out completely. This pain this torment no punishment, no sickness, no injury has ever come close to it. Please. Someone. Anyone. Make it stop. Footsteps. A metallic clatter the door far ahead unlocking. Three sets of steps approach. Hurry. Please hurry. “Told you I heard something. Night’s fully up could be her.” “Hmph.” Even without a torch, without any light at all, I can see the first man’s face perfectly. Too perfectly. And with that clarity comes the cold certainty knitting itself into my bones: Whoever these people are… …I am in far, far more danger than I realized. This man looks like a brigand straight from a tavern tale. If I crossed paths with him on any proper street, I would surely turn on my heel and scream for the nearest constable. His black hair hangs in filthy clumps, and his beard is such a wild, tangled mess I doubt it has met a razor this season. And yet—despite his dreadful appearance—he could almost pass as a dockworker… were it not for those deranged blue eyes. They glitter like shards of broken glass, sharp enough to cut into my very spine. He grins, revealing a mouthful of uneven teeth, and a cold shudder races down my back. But even then—despite the revulsion pricking my skin—I sense something strange. This man belongs to someone. I cannot touch him. I should not even reach for him. My instincts scream it, though the pain clouding my mind makes it hard to think. The second man is no more comforting. He is not pale like the others; his skin carries the warm gold of distant coasts, and his eyes are narrow and observant. He reminds me vaguely of the laborers who lay railway tracks near the port, but comparing them to him is like comparing a lapdog to a panther. His muscles shift beneath his clothes with predatory precision. He walks like a man accustomed to duels—or brawls—and the air around him crackles with cold menace. Another instinct stabs through me. This one is dangerous. He cannot help me. But the third man can. A flutter of joy stirs in my chest—warm, bright, startling. Yes. This one is young, barely grown, with soot on his sleeves and a chain around his neck like a captive. He looks lost. Frightened. Human. He smells of sweat and metal—like a smith’s apprentice or a cooper’s boy. And something inside me, deep and primal, knows he can make the pain stop. So I move. Only to be jerked back by unforgiving metal. I blink down at my outstretched arms and realize—how absurdly foolish of me—I am still shackled to the wall. Thick silvered chains bind my wrists, pulling tight whenever I lean forward. I could cry from the frustration. “Whoa! She’s got fire,” the ragged man whistles. “Come on, give ’er the kid.” The golden-skinned man hesitates. Our eyes meet—just for a breath—and I swear I see a flicker of pity cross his stern face. Then, without a word, he shoves the boy toward me. My fingers brush the boy’s collar. Yes. Yes! Relief explodes inside me like the dawn breaking. I yank him closer. My nose finds his neck, and a shiver of bliss rolls through me. His scent—oh, heavens—it is like wine aged in hidden cellars, rich and intoxicating. My thoughts unravel. My canines skim his skin… then sink into it. Warmth floods over my tongue, thick and sweet and impossibly divine. The world detonates. Ecstasy blinds me. Burnishes me. Swallows me whole. Nothing exists nothing at all, but this heavenly, scorching pleasure that crashes over me in waves. It drowns reason, smothers thought, tears apart every tether that once held my soul in place. I die and awaken and die again, swept in a tide so consuming it feels like stepping directly into the realm of gods. If this pleasure is even half of what lovers whisper in secret, then I understand why women risk ruin for a moment of forbidden bliss. One could barter her soul for this. I am in love. In love with the feeling. In love with the taste. In love with the bliss. I want it to last forever. But eventually cruelly it fades. When I finally pull back, a slow peace trickles through me. A gentle calm settles in my bones. It feels holy—like a revelation no prayer had ever granted me. My thoughts hum with quiet certainty. All is right. All is bright. All is— The boy collapses at my feet. His scent has turned foul, stagnant. Useless. The scruffy man chuckles, grabs the chain around the boy’s throat, and drags him back as if I were some feral beast. The nerve! I straighten indignantly. “What…” My voice breaks, rough and raw. “What is the meaning of this?” Oh, how I wish I could convey the full weight of my outrage the indignity of chains, of filth, of being left with neither water nor chamber pot! Am I livestock? Am I meant to rot in here like an animal? I refuse to even ponder it. The ragged fellow jolts at the sound of my question, eyes going wide. Even the silent golden man lifts a brow. What is wrong with them? Did they expect me to weep and beg? “Well now, Milady,” the smaller man stammers. “Forgive ol’ Baudouin, eh? Didn’t expect ye to be so—” I cut him off with a hiss of impatience and turn sharply toward the stronger man. “How about you, warrior? Care to explain why I’m being kept here like some criminal?” Baudric flusters at my words, but the other man barely reacts, his expression flat and unreadable. “It is for your protection,” he replies calmly. “My protection? I’ll feel perfectly protected once I’m unbound and back home, you scoundrel! What must I do for you to release me?” Baudric cuts in, clearly irritated at being ignored. “Don’t trouble your pretty head, Miss. You’ll be set loose soon enough.” “I… I…” I want to press further, to wring answers out of these two unwilling guardians, but exhaustion sweeps over me like a tide. A heavy torpor settles into my limbs, anchoring them in place. My eyelids grow unbearably weighty—as if an executioner’s axe were hanging from each. My vision fades. It is summer on the homestead. Endless rows of tall green cane rise from the rust-red soil, swaying softly beneath the burning sun. The heat presses against my back like a physical hand, oppressive and heavy, but a river breeze carries relief and the scent of cool water. A broad-shouldered blond man kneels before me. His knife splits a stalk of cane with practiced ease, revealing the dripping sweet core. His beard is tangled, his face sunburned and rugged, but none of that matters. His bright blue eyes—the very ones I inherited—shine with warmth. “Here, mon ange. Try this.” “Ew! It’s dirty!” “Try it, just to make Papa happy. Allez!” “D’accord…” I accept the sliver with my tiny hand and nibble. Fibrous, but wonderfully sweet. “Mmm!” “See? Papa always knows best. Which is why you should have listened, mon ange.” “Hm?” “I told you to wear your hat. But no, you preferred to run off bare-headed, and now look—you burn.” Suddenly flames burst from the flesh of my small hand. I scream as they spread to my other arm, racing across my skin. It hurts—oh, it hurts so terribly. My flesh cracks open, revealing scorched bone. My hair ignites. The fire consumes all of me. I beg for darkness, and at last, it swallows me whole. I wake in the same dim stone cell. No sign of my captors. No sign of anyone at all. Something inside me feels unsteady and strange. Part of me pushes back—rebelling, arguing—whispering that none of this adds up. That something fundamental is wrong. And yet my mind feels slippery, feverish. Thoughts slide away before I can catch them. Still, I force myself to speak. Speaking helped before. “My name… is Arielle… I am… eighteen.” Yes. That feels right. I am of age to wed. I think I have suitors… perhaps. “I come from…” Two places rise in my mind. Rivermarch—warm, familiar. And Nightshore—exciting, but tainted somehow. “I have… a family.” I try to picture the man from my memory—the smiling father—but he warps, dissolves, replaced by the image of another: a man with a cruel grin and lifeless, glassy eyes. Before I can chase the thought further, the thirst hits me again. My throat burns, as though scraped raw. Of course I’m thirsty—people need water daily. Sailors driven mad at sea flash through my mind. Surely someone will come. If they wanted me dead, I would be dead already. Time creeps by. My thirst grows unbearable—my cracked lips sting every time my teeth graze them. Oddly, even after two days, I haven’t needed to… relieve myself. I try to recall the word, but it slips away like water through cupped hands. A metallic clang interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Footsteps—three people again. How I know that, I can’t say. The same stoic man from before enters first. He gives me a brief, indifferent glance before stepping aside with the posture of a royal guard. The second visitor looks like a figure plucked straight from a painted legend. Tall and graceful, she moves with effortless nobility. Her gown is a deep blue, elegant and modest despite complementing her striking silhouette. Her skin is pale as polished ivory, her black curls arranged into an intricate crown around bright emerald eyes. A cold aura radiates from her—similar to the warrior’s, but far grander. His chill is a single drumbeat; hers is an entire orchestra. I dare not challenge her. Then the third person enters. A man—and for one terrifying, thrilling moment, I feel myself fall. He is tall, radiant, impossibly handsome—his presence like that of an ancient hero resurrected. Soft brown curls frame a sun-kissed face. His build is powerful yet refined, like a duelist rather than a laborer. Something in him feels familiar, though I cannot place it. His aura is strong but warm, and a strange heat coils in my belly when he draws near. If he touched me, I would be undone. “…his spawn was capable of speech, Kael, and yet—” I blink, realizing Lady Moor is speaking to the warrior—Kael. Their language is unfamiliar to my ears, fluid and melodic, yet somehow I understand every word. “I assure you she spoke, Lady Moor,” Kael replies. I must have drifted again. My lack of focus must make me seem a fool. I cannot allow that—not in front of him. I gather my strength, seize a lull in their sharp exchange, and turn to the man who’s stolen my breath. “Greetings.” All eyes fall on me. No, that is not quite right. If I speak English now, they will not think me worldly. “Greetings, lady and gentlemen. My name is Ariane. May I ask yours?” There, concise and polite. My voice cracked mid-sentence, I am filthy and dressed in rags that even an orphanage would refuse, but my manners remain impeccable. The woman scowls and displays such intense disgust that one would think I am drenched in manure. Without a word, she turns around and leaves the room while covering her nose with a perfumed handkerchief. I would blush in shame and anger, if not for the man. He kneels in front of me, and I lose myself in the intensity of his liquid eyes. He is smiling, he must be. He is proud of me, I think. No, he is smug. No, he is proud of me. He loves me and only wants the best. I love him. I do not. He hurt me. I love him, and he will be mine forever. The comfortable blanket settles on my mind until only adoration remains. I wait with bated breath for a sentence, a word, anything, until I cannot anymore. I move. Once more, the chains stop me, my face only a few fingers away from the warm skin of his neck. I strain and stretch and the metal moans, but of course I am too weak to break free. I am only human after all. I cannot bend metal. Can I? The man captures my attention again and the thirst fades for a moment. The fragrance of his perfume makes me dizzy and at the same time safe. I am where I belong. By his side. Yes. No. Yes. He places a single finger beneath my chin to raise my head until our eyes are level. The touch of his skin sends tiny shivers down my back. “You will address us as Master.” “Yes, Master.” “You will speak only when spoken to.” I nod in silence. Of course, I will do as he asks. “You will obey the woman known as Jimena in all things. You will behave properly. Do so, and in three days you may draw our essence and live.” I nod frantically. I want to say that I will be good, but I hesitate to talk. The man is done and stands back up before turning to Kael. Oh, how I loved it when he was so close. It was everything I expected. It is everything I could dream of. “Why is my fledgling still in a drone cell, Warden?” Kael bows deeply, almost servile despite his imposing presence, yet who could blame him? Who could stand before this man and call themselves equal? Surely even Alexander or Scipio Africanus would be found wanting. The man exits the cell without looking back. Why did he leave me so quickly? I love him so much, surely he must see it plainly. I am the one for him. Or am I not good enough? Is a landed lady from Louisiana too rustic for someone like him? Perhaps I should gut that green-eyed painted harlot and strangle her with her own entrails. Wait. What was I thinking again? A thin keening sound fills the air, and I soon realize it is coming from my throat. I must get a hold of myself. What is wrong with me? A stern-looking man approaches with a silver key. Ah yes, Kael. He was here earlier. He is to take me out of the cell and… do what? Ah yes, I remember now. I am to obey that wonderful man. My love. No, abomination. Love. I recall his orders. I am to remain silent unless spoken to. I am to obey Jimena in all things. I am to behave properly. I will do so, because he asked it of me, and he is irresistible. I only hope there will be something to drink. I am dying of thirst. “Ah!” I cry out. The manacles fall to the ground with a surprisingly loud clang and take with them a layer of skin. I look at my now free wrists. The horror. I am flayed. The flesh is raw and thick with dark blood. Convinced I am about to retch, I move forward, yet nothing happens. I do not feel nauseous at the sight of the wounds. They are certainly infected and will almost certainly scar. Oh, the humanity. Must I bear the stigma of my captivity for the rest of my life? “Come out, slowly.” I take a staggering step forward. I feel weak and light-headed. I pray they have water somewhere…