The days in the tower cell flowed like a frozen river, slow and desperate. Elara had lost track of time, gauging the passage of days only by the three meal deliveries.
She thought she might be forgotten like this, left to rot silently in this corner. However, after about ten days (or perhaps longer, she couldn't be sure), Frau Helga appeared outside her door once more.
This time, she didn't just stop at the hatch. She used a key to unlock the heavy oak door.
"Come with me," Frau Helga's voice remained icy. "His Grace wishes to see you."
Elara's heart constricted violently! It had finally come!
She didn't know what awaited her. Harsher punishment? Some twisted humiliation? Or... she dared not think further. Immense fear made it almost impossible to stand, but she knew she had no choice.
She was ordered to wash quickly and change into a new set of clothes Frau Helga had brought—a gown of slightly better quality fabric than the servant's attire, but still an extremely conservative, dark grey design. It had no adornments and completely enveloped her figure, as if deliberately erasing any trace of feminine allure she might possess. Frau Helga inspected her hair and nails like examining an object, ensuring there was no "impurity" or "impropriety," before leading her out of the tower that had been her prison for so long.
Stepping back onto the castle's cold stone corridors felt surreal. The prolonged confinement made her eyes sensitive to the light (even the dim castle interior), and her legs felt stiff from lack of movement. Frau Helga led the way, her pace swift and steady; Elara had to almost jog to keep up. They passed through countless oppressive corridors, past silent, standing guards, finally reaching the core area of the main keep.
The Duke's study.
When Frau Helga pushed open the heavy, dark wooden door carved with intricate family crests, Elara's heart nearly stopped.
The study was larger than she had imagined, but also gloomier and... overwhelmingly oppressive. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows were mostly covered by heavy, deep purple velvet curtains, letting in only slivers of dim light. The room's dominant colors were dark brown and muted gold, appearing luxurious yet cold and hard. Massive oil paintings depicting fierce battle scenes hung on the walls, the figures contorted in agony. A full suit of polished black knight's armor stood sentinel in one corner, while various longswords, battle-axes, and maces gleamed coldly on a weapon rack against another wall. The air was thick with the rich scent of leather, old parchment, cigars (or perhaps some similar tobacco), and... a unique, faint trace of Duke Reinhardt himself—an scent like cold pine, sharp and invasive.
Duke Reinhardt sat behind a massive desk at the far end of the room, a desk that resembled a throne. He wasn't looking at documents this time but leaning back slightly in his chair, idly turning a dagger with an antique, jewel-encrusted hilt in his hand. The cold light glinted off the blade as it moved between his long, well-defined fingers, reflecting on his face—a profile as perfect as an ice sculpture, yet utterly devoid of warmth.
Frau Helga led Elara a few steps from the desk, indicated for her to stand there, then silently retreated into the shadows by the door, like a faithful shadow awaiting orders.
Elara kept her head bowed, so nervous she held her breath. She could feel the Duke's gaze land on her like a physical weight. It was no longer just the assessing scrutiny of before, but held... a more blatant possessiveness, a sense of amusement and control, like someone observing their property.
Time seemed to freeze. The study was terrifyingly quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace flames.
Finally, the Duke set the dagger down with a soft metallic click. He spoke, his voice low and magnetic, yet carrying a cold, undeniable penetration:
"Lift your head."
Elara's body gave an almost imperceptible tremble. She hesitated for a second, but ultimately yielded to the invisible pressure, slowly, arduously lifting her head. Still, she didn't dare meet his gaze directly, her eyes falling instead on the intricate family crest pinned to his chest.
"Look at me." The Duke's voice remained steady, but the command was stronger.
Elara felt her heart might leap out of her chest. She knew she couldn't disobey. Taking a deep breath, she finally summoned the courage to look into those eyes—eyes as deep and cold as glacial pools.
The moment their gazes met, Elara felt as if she were being sucked into a bottomless abyss. Those eyes held no human emotion—no joy, no anger, no pity—only pure, cold indifference, like a god gazing upon an ant, and... hidden beneath that indifference, a faint, chilling... interest?
The Duke seemed satisfied by her reaction—this mixture of fear, helplessness, yet forced composure. He leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers on the desk, beginning a new round of his "game" in an interrogative tone:
"These past few days, have you... grown accustomed?"
The question seemed ordinary, yet instantly put Elara on high alert. How should she answer? Say yes? Would that imply contentment, a loss of will to resist? Say no? Would that be complaining, challenging his authority?
Her mind raced. Finally, she chose the vaguest, safest response: "...Thank... thank you for your concern, Your Grace. Everything... is according to your arrangements."
"Oh?" The Duke's eyebrow seemed to quirk almost imperceptibly, a deeper amusement flickering in those cold eyes. "Meaning, you are quite 'satisfied' with your current life?"
Elara's heart sank. She knew she had walked into a trap. She could only bow her head lower. "This servant... dares not harbor any dissatisfaction."
"'Dare not'?" A hint of mockery entered the Duke's voice. "I recall, a few days ago, you seemed... not quite so 'docile'?"
What was he referring to? Her retort to Hugo by the stream? Her attempt to pass the note? Or... the undisguised hatred in her eyes after he had forcibly "kissed" her?
Elara's heart pounded faster, cold sweat dampening her back. She didn't know how to answer, could only remain silent, head bowed low.
The Duke didn't seem to require her answer. He stood up, slowly walked around the desk, step by step towards Elara. Each step felt like it landed on her heart, suffocating her with pressure.
He stopped right in front of her, his tall figure casting a heavy shadow. He reached out, the hand in the black glove, and once again touched her cheek. His touch was light, almost giving the illusion of gentleness. But the icy contact and the undisguised possessiveness in his eyes kept Elara frozen, unable to move.
"Remember, little thing," his voice was low, almost a whisper between lovers, yet carried an undeniable command and warning, "your body, your thoughts, every inch of your skin, every breath you take... belong to me."
His fingers gently traced her cheek, then slid slowly down to the delicate skin of her neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath, fueled by her fear.
"Do not attempt... to do anything that displeases me." A dangerous edge crept into his voice. "Otherwise, I wouldn't mind... clipping your wings myself, locking you firmly in my grasp, ensuring... you can only sing... for me... forever."
This was no longer a hint; it was a naked threat!
Tears finally welled up uncontrollably in Elara's eyes. Not from humiliation, but from a despair... of being utterly controlled, with no hope of escape, ever!
Seeing the glistening tears in her eyes, the Duke's gaze seemed to become even more... intense? He leaned down, close to her ear, whispering in a voice only the two of them could hear, like a devil's temptation:
"Now, tell me, who do you belong to?"
Elara trembled violently, tears blurring her vision. She knew she had to answer, had to speak the words that made her soul shudder.
Finally, summoning all her strength, she forced out a few broken syllables from her throat, her voice as hoarse as a dying lament:
"...Belong... to you... Your Grace..."
Hearing this answer, the Duke finally, slowly, let his lips curve into a cold, cruel, victorious smile.
He released her, stepped back, resuming his aloof, indifferent posture.
"Good," he said flatly. "Helga will tell you what to do next."
Without another word, without another glance at Elara, he turned, walked back behind his desk, and picked up the document again, as if the oppressive, humiliating "lesson" had been nothing more than a trivial diversion in his workday.
Elara felt completely drained, almost collapsing. Frau Helga stepped forward just in time, supporting her (or rather, propping her up), and led her, expressionless, out of the study that felt like a suffocating hell.
Elara knew, from the moment she uttered "Belong to you," the invisible chains around her had been irrevocably locked. And the demon who held the chains had branded his dark mark deep within her soul.