THE FORSAKEN LYCAN PRINCESS.

CH 9..

The gray afternoon light filtering through the high, arched windows of the scullery was cold and thin, doing little to thaw the freezing mist hanging over the Silverwood valley. But inside the sprawling lower kitchens, the heat was suffocating. Heavy iron stoves roared with crackling birch logs, billowing clouds of steam, rendered lard, and boiling savory broths into the humid air.

I stood near the washbasins, my back aching from hours of relentless labor, my right hand throbbing in violent, rhythmic surges of agony beneath its filthy burlap wrap. The sliced palm burned like liquid fire every time I lifted a heavy copper vessel or wrung out a rag. Yet, despite the agonizing pain radiating up my forearm, my posture remained rigidly guarded. My left arm was kept firmly pinned against my ribcage, an invisible armor trapping the hard, velvet-wrapped Cresthaven token safely against my body.

Just a few more hours, I repeated to myself in a quiet, steady rhythm, anchoring my sanity against the sensory overload of the kitchen. Just until the midnight bell tolls twelve. Then Gerald will come.

The thought of finally hearing about my mother, learning the sound of Luna Evelyn's voice, the shape of her smile, the warmth she brought to this cold earth, acted as a shield against the endless misery of the present. I could endure anything the Silverwood pack threw at me today, because midnight promised me a shadow of the love I had been denied my entire life.

"Get moving, unranked!" Beatrice’s shrill, grating voice barked from the head of the prep counter, cutting straight through the clatter of iron pots and the shouting of line cooks.

I lowered my head instantly, my eyes fixed on the greasy flagstones. Beatrice stepped into my field of vision, her hands planted on her hips, her sharp nose wrinkled in profound disgust as she looked at my split lip, my dirt-stained tunic, and the bloody cloth bound around my right palm.

"Princess Tanya is taking her luncheon in the sun parlor," Beatrice sneered, stepping closer until the sour scent of her heavy rose-water perfume filled my lungs.

"She requested a fresh tureen of the spiced venison stew and she explicitly demanded that you serve it to her."

A cold, familiar dread pooled in the pit of my stomach, heavy as lead.

"Me?" I whispered, my raspy voice barely carrying over the kitchen noise.

"Beatrice, the lower servants are not permitted to enter the sun parlor during meal hours. I have not washed, and my hand…"

"Did I ask for your pathetic excuses?" Beatrice interrupted, her manicured hand darting out to slap the top of my head with a heavy wooden stirring spoon.

CLACK.

The blow stung, but I didn't flinch. I kept my chin tucked low.

"The Princess specifically asked for the unranked rat who ruined her mother’s parlor yesterday," Beatrice hissed, leaning in so close her warm breath hit my ear.

"She wants to see if you've learned your place yet. Or perhaps you'd prefer I call Beta Marcus and tell him you're refusing a direct royal command?"

"No," I choked out, swallowing the bitter copper taste of my split lip. Under the suffocating framework of the pack's hierarchy, refusing Tanya was an act of insubordination that could land me straight back in the dark cellars and ruin my chance of meeting Gerald at midnight.

"I will take it up."

"Good," Beatrice smirked, gesturing toward the heavy iron stove.

"The tureen is steaming hot. Carry it carefully. If you drop a single drop on the Princess’s rugs, I will personally strip that tunic off your back and flay you in the courtyard."

My heart hammered against my ribs at the threat of having my tunic stripped. I took a slow, deep breath, stepping toward the stove.

The silver-plated tureen was massive, filled to the brim with boiling, aromatic venison broth, thick root vegetables, and rendering fats. It had been sitting over the central heat grate for hours; the polished metal handles were radiating a searing heat that made the surrounding air shimmer.

I reached out with my left hand, gripping the hot silver handle with my bare fingers, using my tunic sleeve to deaden the heat as best I could. But my right hand was the true test. I had to unwrap the bloody burlap just enough to get a grip, forcing my severed palm, open raw tissue, and broken muscles to clamp down on the scalding metal handle on the opposite side.

Agony hit me like a physical strike.

The heat of the metal bit into the raw, sliced skin of my right palm, cooking the freshly exposed flesh, sending a wave of white-hot blinding pain rushing straight up my arm into my collarbone. Tears rushed to my eyes, burning hot against my lashes, but I clamped my teeth together so hard I felt my jaw creak. I could not drop it. I could not scream.

Squeezing my left arm tightly against my side to pin the hidden token firm against my ribs, I lifted the heavy, scalding tureen off the stove and began the long, agonizing walk out of the kitchens.

The grand sun parlor was a soaring rotunda of leaded glass and white carved stone, overlooking the frosted gardens of the upper courtyard. It was bathed in a pale, brilliant daylight that illuminated the lavish velvet furnishings, the Persian rugs, and the golden tea sets arrayed on the central marble table.

Princess Tanya sat on a high-backed cushioned chair, looking like a portrait of royal perfection. She wore a gown of rich sky-blue wool trimmed with silver fox fur. Her blonde hair was intricate and flawless, her skin glowing. Sitting across from her were two young high-ranking noblewomen from the senior Beta bloodlines, sipping spiced wine and giggling softly.

The moment I pushed open the double glass doors, carrying the heavy, steaming silver tureen, the laughter instantly died.

The three noblewomen turned their heads, their expression shifting from lighthearted vanity to absolute revulsion. Tanya’s eyes, bright and sharp as polished sapphire, locked onto me with a chilling, predatory satisfaction.

"Look what the wolves dragged in," one of the Beta girls whispered behind her hand, snickering.

"Is that the curse? She smells of fish water and blood."

I kept my eyes anchored strictly to the floor, my feet moving in slow, agonizing steps across the polished white marble. The metal handles of the tureen were burning through the thin fabric of my sleeves, and the cut in my right hand felt as though it were being torn wider with every pulse of my heart. Fresh blood began to seep through the burlap again, mixing with the heat of the silver dish.

"Set it on the table, unranked," Tanya commanded, her voice smooth, melodious, and dripping with malicious venom.

I stepped forward, bending my knees slightly to lower the heavy tureen onto the central wooden trivet on the table. My body was shaking violently from exhaustion, blood loss, and the excruciating pain in my hand.

As I tipped the dish to set it down, my right wrist gave a tiny, involuntary twitch, a momentary failure of severed muscle under unbearable strain.

The tureen wobbled. A tiny, microscopic splash of boiling venison broth sloshed over the rim, landing directly on the pristine white linen tablecloth, leaving a pale oil spot the size of a coin.

The room went dead silent.

"Oh, dear," Tanya murmured, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft register. She didn't shout. She didn't rage like her mother. She simply set her porcelain teacup down with a soft, delicate clink.

"Look at that. She ruined my mother's sash yesterday and now she ruins my table."

"I am sorry, Princess Tanya," I rasped out immediately, bowing my head so low my nose nearly touched my collarbone.

"I will clean it.."

"On your knees, rat," Tanya cut me off, her Luna-descended aura flaring in a sudden, sharp needle of dominant pressure that slammed into my shoulders.

My knees, already weak, buckled instantly. I hit the hard marble floor with a dull thud, kneeling right beside Tanya’s high-heeled velvet slippers.

"Clean it with your apron," Tanya ordered, leaning over her chair to look down at me, her eyes glittering with sadistic delight.

"No... wait. Your apron is filthy. Clean the spot off the linen with your bare tunic sleeve."

The two Beta girls giggled again, leaning forward to watch the spectacle.

I didn't argue. I didn't look up. I reached down with my left arm, keeping my upper arm pinned tight over my ribcage to secure the hidden Cresthaven token and used the fabric of my left sleeve to frantically rub at the grease stain on the table.

"Look at her," Tanya sneered to her friends, taking her spoon and slowly dipping it into the center of the steaming, boiling tureen of broth.

"She works like a dog, she looks like a dog, and yet she thinks she belongs in this fortress because she carries royal blood. But we all know the truth, don't we? She's just the monster that bled Evelyn to death."

The words cut deep, but I swallowed the pain, keeping my head down, rubbing the cloth against the linen. Just endure it, I told myself.

"You know, Elara," Tanya continued, her voice purring right above my head.

"The broth is a bit too hot for my liking. It needs to cool down."

Before I could process her words, Tanya’s hand moved.

She didn't just spill a drop. With a sudden, deliberate tilt of her wrist, Tanya tipped the entire heavy silver spoon, filled to the brim with boiling, scalding venison broth, directly over the back of my neck.

SPLASH.

The boiling liquid hit the bare skin at the base of my skull and poured down the back of my tunic.

The pain was absolute, instantaneous, and catastrophic. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured directly onto my flesh, blistering the skin on contact, soaking into the thin cloth of my tunic and sticking to my back like hot wax.

A sharp, violent gasp tore from my throat, my entire body convulsing from the sheer, agonizing shock of the burn. Tears burst from my eyes, blinding my vision. I collapsed forward, my forearms slamming against the cold marble floor as I fought with every fiber of my being not to scream, not to give her the satisfaction of hearing the curse whimper.

"Oops," Tanya giggled softly, setting the spoon back down.

"My hand slipped."

The two Beta girls dissolved into high-pitched, cruel laughter, clapping their hands together.

I lay on the cold marble floor, my back screaming in blistered agony, my right hand throbbing with bloody pain, my chest heaving with ragged, silent gasps. But even as the scalding broth soaked through my clothes, burning my skin down to the raw nerve endings, my left arm remained locked violently against my side like an iron clamp.

Through the haze of blinding pain, through the tears streaming down my face, my fingers pressed hard through the wet, burnt cloth of my tunic, feeling the unmistakable, solid circular edge of the Cresthaven token still sitting safely against my ribs.

They had burned my back. They had cut my hand. They had dragged my name through the mud of their hatred.

But they had not found the token. And they had not broken my spirit.

"Get up and get out of my sight, you disgusting creature," Tanya sneered, kicking her slippered foot against my shoulder, shoving me away from her table.

"You're ruining my appetite."

I didn't say a word. I forced my trembling, blistered body off the floor, keeping my left arm pinned tight, my head bowed low as I backed out of the sun parlor into the dim corridor.

As the double glass doors closed behind me, cutting off the sound of their cruel laughter, I leaned my head against the cold stone wall of the hallway, shivering violently as the freezing mountain air hit the boiling liquid on my back.

The pain was excruciating, but as I looked down at the darkening shadows of the hallway, a fierce, quiet resolve ignited in my chest.

Eight hours until midnight.