Leira walked into the throne hall of Dal’coler. Her limbs were less supple; her presence less ethereal than of those around her. She looked human – less graceful by comparison, her form a raw contrast to inhabitants of Dal’coler, like a splinter in the bleeding eye.
Yet something in her was not fully human: her hair gleamed with an unnatural shine, and sharp horns rose from her forehead. A long, elegant tail followed behind her, misplaced, alien.
She moved forward, her light steps ringing silently on the stone. Unlike the other humans – and even most fae – she had the right to be here. She pierced the gathered crowd like a knife separating tendons, heading for the throne where two Unseelie were deep in conversation with Lorian Ain’Dal. The other fae, still waiting their turn, began to take notice. She held no mark of nobility, no status… and yet she was gifted with this unnatural privilege they could not deny.
The chamber glowed dimly, lit only by floating lights that pulsed like alive embers, casting shadows; darkness was the fey’s domain, like winter they brought to the world; quiet, cruel, stunning in their absence of light. It devoured innocence, ate weakness and drowned all things in shadows.
But the shadows were ruled only by him.
Lorian leaned back on cushions, relaxed and radiant, like a fallen star. His attention seemed fixed on his guests, yet Leira knew better. His awareness extended across the room, always seeking, sensing. One hand slowly played with the blonde hair of a kneeling woman beside him. Her golden collar gleamed against bruised skin, where collar spikes had tore flesh. She looked at him with a blend of terror and worship.
Leira knew that gaze. It was enchantment – not just magic, but a subtler power. Some fae could bring humans to their knees with a simple gaze, the force of their presence pulling fear and devotion from mortal hearts.
She was his servant – his most “inspiring” one, as he claimed. He had many servants. And he had many humans. But only one who held that title. The rest were slaves; a property.
And sometimes, a voice inside her whispered that she, too, was his property. Just called differently – but still a slave, who he had a whim to hold closer.
He called her inspiring. But she knew better than to believe everything Lorian Ain’Dal said. His promises were unsolved riddles, his kindness was often just a lie. In this world, where fae were almost gods, the only truth she could trust was her own determination.
They played with humans like toys – beautiful, fragile things, fun to break. They fed on fear like on juicy fruits, ripe and full.
And she was one of them now. A human in body – but fae in soul.
It had taken years to admit that. Years touched with pain and this bitter truth was in the beginning arder to swallow than iron meal.
Lorian didn’t look at her as she approached. His gaze stayed on the Unseelie nobles but she felt his presence enter her thoughts like elusive smoke – soft and familiar. An intrusion, yes, but one she never resisted. She had learned long ago that he would enter her mind whether she allowed it or not.
Leira felt him before she heard his voice inside her head; a presence sliding into her thoughts . He didn’t speak in words; he was inside her, joined to the marrow of her being.
“So… Avel sent you instead of arriving herself.” His voice sounded in her mind, playful, almost teasing. “I know you’re thinking the same thing, Leira. Such a rude gesture from her.”
“She wished to clean herself after the journey, my lord,” she answered in thought, her heartbeat quickening as it always did under his mind-reading power. “Only she survived.”
He responded with a soft gleam of a smile.
“Avel knows my priorities. Her bath isn’t one of them. She’s a huntress, not a court lady. Sent to hunt and to bring prey.”
Leira knew what fae hunting meant. She remembered the first time she’d seen Lorian’s cruelty, like something torn from a fevered dream.
“Tell lady Avel” he continued, his tone honeyed, sweet, but holding a masked threat, “that I am very patient. I delight in protocol. And I adore waiting.”
His presence began to retreat from her thoughts, slowly, like trickling sap. He knew what it did to minds – how his enchantment lingered like heat after the flaming outburst. His power left a silence behind, almost hurting her with his absence.
Then he looked at her, a glance with the gravity of a star. Sparks danced in the depth of his eyes – glimmers swallowed by black void. That smile, which was beautiful, distant, dangerous – the smile she learned to…
… feel.
The other fae watched her too, with visible scorn. They didn’t know what she was. They assumed she was just another slave with a pretty face, used to please. They didn’t see the sharpened dagger behind her fearful gazes.
She was more.
She was the shadow behind Lorian’s throne. His spy and his most valued secret.
She had done things for him that would have shattered her before. She hated him, most of her life and she feared him. And from that hate, from that terror, something else had grown – something tangled and consuming. Something so close to desire, that she repressed it, wildly. A flame that threatened to eat her alive if she won’t fulfill her longing.
No one questioned her presence now. She was there, always. Sewn into his court, her identity hidden in plain sight, tangled with vines and with many shared secrets.
The human girl at his feet was one of many he owned. Lorian kept them like dolls in glass cages. Each bound by invisible chains of pain and pleasure, cruelty and grace, until they no longer knew what is real.
Leira watched as he whispered to the woman, his voice deep, seductive.
“Yes, my lord…” the girl breathed, then climbed onto his lap like a moth eager to be burned with black flame.
The fae around her turned their heads after Leira, their eyes gleaming like white and blue and green moons. They knew she was not like the other slaves, they just couldn’t see why.
In their eyes, the leash was still wrapped around her throat.
She left them behind, her footsteps echoing in the vast corridor. Arches loomed above her, columns towered over her head, disappearing in deep shadows. Dal’coler was monumental, older than winter, older even than first spring.
Her reflection passed her through the stained-glass windows. Scenes of fae history merged with her face – battles, bloodshed, beautiful lies. Crimson light dripped from her cheeks, like old blood.
A warning.
Or maybe a dream.
Unreal, like the life she once had.