Corvin's gaze, as cold and calculating as a winter storm, swept over the assembly. He tossed a heavy, dark cloak towards Mireth. "Mireth, cover her," he commanded, his voice sharp. "And Kaelen, take her out of my sight. Now."
Kaelen grumbled under his breath, his blue eyes rolling. "Always me. Fine." He strode over to Aysel, his rough hands seizing her. The sudden movement, coupled with the agonizing pain of his touch on her raw, whipped back, was too much. Aysel's world tilted, then dissolved into darkness.
***
When Aysel next stirred, a dull ache still permeated her back, but the searing pain had dulled to a persistent throb. She registered the soft, cool touch on her skin. Mireth. The gentle witch's face, etched with a quiet concern, hovered above her. Mireth was cleaning her lacerated back with a cool, damp cloth, then carefully applying a thick, fragrant salve that soothed the burning sensation.
"There, there, child," Mireth murmured, her voice a soft balm. "Just breathe. It's almost over. The pain will fade."
Aysel whimpered, tears silently streaming down her temples, soaking the pillow beneath her. The humiliation, the terror, the betrayal – it all welled up inside her, a suffocating tide. Her body shook with silent sobs. Mireth continued to work, her hands surprisingly strong and steady, her touch infinitely tender.
"There is power in your blood, Aysel," Mireth whispered, so low only Aysel could hear. "A power they cannot see, cannot control."
A fleeting, shimmering image flickered at the edge of Aysel's vision. Nerith the Veiled, her face still obscured, yet her voice, a dry rustle of leaves, echoed in Aysel's mind. "The Witch Who Was Promised wears bruises like a crown."
Aysel's eyes fluttered open, then closed again, the world fading once more into a hazy oblivion.
***
The next time Aysel opened her eyes, she was no longer on a soft bed. She was in a cage. A sturdy, intricately crafted cage of dark wood and wrought iron. The pain in her back had miraculously subsided, a dull soreness the only remaining reminder of Sylvaen's brutal whipping. Mireth's healing salve, she realized, had worked wonders.
She was dressed, too, in a simple, plain gown, its fabric surprisingly soft against her still-tender skin. The scent of evening air, cool and crisp, filled her nostrils. Dusk had fallen. She was in the grand hall again, but this time, it was arrayed for a grim spectacle. Torches flickered in sconces, casting long, dancing shadows.
Everyone was there. Lord Corvin, his face grim, stood at the head of the assembled Blackthornes. Velira, Zeraphine, Calista, Elysara, and even Kaelen, their faces illuminated by the flickering light, watched her with cold, expectant eyes. The other head witches, their expressions unreadable, stood in a silent semi-circle.
Aysel's gaze found Mireth, standing unobtrusively near the back. Their eyes met for a brief, silent moment. Mireth's expression was sorrowful, but she gave a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging Aysel's unspoken gratitude.
Corvin's voice cut through the heavy silence, direct and devoid of preamble. "There is no time for further theatrics. The arrangements have been made. Aysel, you have been infused with a blood curse."
Aysel's breath hitched. A blood curse. The words hung in the air, heavy with dread.
"This curse," Corvin continued, his voice chillingly precise, "will activate during your blood binding ritual with Prince Raith, or, failing that, during your consummation. As long as your blood touches his, or enters his body, the curse will awaken. It will consume him from the inside out. It will kill your dear husband."
A cold dread seeped into Aysel's bones, colder than any fear she'd felt before. This was not merely punishment. This was a death sentence. For her, and for the prince.
"Tonight," Corvin stated, his voice ringing with finality, "you will be delivered to him on the borders of the Gloamwood. We do not need you to do anything else. All you have to do, Aysel, is to ensure that your blood touches Prince Raith. Either through the ritual, or by spreading your legs. That is all."
Aysel's mind raced, a frantic hummingbird trapped in her chest. Kill him? They want me to kill him? And if I fail…
Corvin's voice turned dangerously low. "If you fail, Aysel, if by tomorrow Prince Raith is not infused with the blood curse, then you will wish for a fate worse than death. We will hunt you down, wherever you are. And we will end your pathetic life." He stared at her, his eyes piercing. "Do you understand?"
Aysel remained silent, her jaw clenched. The memory of Calista's slap, of the bone whip, of the suffocating grip on her throat, was too fresh. She wouldn't speak. She wouldn't give them another excuse.
Corvin's eyes narrowed. He reached through the bars of the cage, his strong fingers clamping around her chin, forcing her head up. "I asked you a question, girl! Do you hear me?" he roared, his voice echoing in the hall.
Aysel flinched, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, managing a barely perceptible nod.
Corvin held her chin for another moment, his thumb tracing the faint bruise on her cheek, before releasing her with a satisfied grunt. He stepped back, addressing the assembly. "Does anyone else have anything to say to our pawn?"
Calista stepped forward, a sly smile playing on her lips. She knelt by the cage, taking Aysel's hand roughly, her grip firm. Aysel braced herself, expecting another blow. But Calista merely tightened her grip, her blue eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction as she purred, "Such a waste. To think, a Prince. He'll never truly look at you. You're nothing but a tool." As she spoke, Aysel felt a subtle prick, a searing coldness spread through her veins from where Calista's fingers dug into her palm. Poison. Aysel's mind reeled, not just from the sudden, chilling sensation, but from the calculated cruelty. It wasn't enough to use her; they had to defile her, to ensure no one else would ever see any worth in her. It was a cold, methodical destruction, and for a moment, the sheer weight of their hatred threatened to crush her spirit more than any physical blow ever could. She felt the world narrow to that single point of icy pain in her hand, a pinpoint of despair in an ocean of malice. Fresh tears, hot and bitter, welled in her eyes.
Before Aysel could fully register the poison's insidious chill, Thalia, her former friend, stepped forward, avoiding Aysel's gaze, her face a mask of strained resolve. She raised her hands, murmuring an incantation. A faint, silvery glow enveloped Aysel. "A control spell," Thalia said, her voice thin. "To ensure we can all witness her… progress." Witness my utter dismantling, you mean, Aysel thought, a fresh wave of betrayal washing over her.
Kaelen then lumbered forward, a crude grin on his face. He bent low, his breath reeking of cheap spirits. "Such a pity, little bastard," he sneered. "Given away like common chattel."
Velira, her voice dripping with disdain, cut him off. "That's quite enough, Kaelen. She has no rights to such pleasantries. From this moment forth, Aysel Blackthorne has no name, no lineage, no rights. She is merely a vessel. A tool."
Corvin nodded, satisfied. He gestured to two burly male witches standing nearby. "Take the cage to the carriage. Now."
As the witches moved towards the cage, a desperate shout ripped through the silence. "Stop!"
Faren Ashlocke, the human scholar and apothecary, burst into the hall, his clothes disheveled, his eyes wide with a frantic despair. He was the only one in the manor who had shown Aysel any kindness, who had secretly taught her to read and write, igniting the spark of knowledge within her.
"This is an abomination!" Faren cried, his voice trembling with righteous fury. He lunged towards the cage, his hands glowing faintly with a desperate, untrained magic. "You cannot do this! This is wickedness! Barbaric! You call yourselves witches? You are monsters!"
Before Faren could even touch the cage, Sylvaen stepped forward, his eyes burning with cold rage. "Order must be maintained, little scholar," he hissed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And defiance always has its price." A bone whip materialized in his hand, lashing out with terrifying speed. It wrapped around Faren's arm, pulling him back with a sickening crack. Sylvaen's fist, imbued with dark magic, slammed into Faren's face. Again and again, Sylvaen struck, his movements precise and brutal, punctuated by the dull thuds of flesh on bone. Faren cried out, crumpling to the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. The other witches joined in, their powers flashing, their fists raining down on the helpless scholar.
Aysel watched, her heart clenching, a sharp, agonizing pain tearing through her chest. Faren! No! He's going to die! All for me!
Tears streamed from her eyes, hot and helpless. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the sight, the sounds of his pained grunts and the dull thuds of their blows.
When it was over, Faren lay motionless, a broken heap on the marble floor. Corvin stepped over him, his face a mask of cold displeasure. "Let this be a warning to anyone who dares interfere with the council's decree," he announced, his voice ringing with menace. "Attempt such foolishness again, Faren Ashlocke, and I will personally ensure your life is extinguished in the most agonizing manner imaginable."
Zeraphine sighed dramatically. "Honestly, some people just don't know when to keep their mouths shut."
"Such a nuisance," Velira added, fanning herself delicately. "One expects better from a scholar, even a human one."
Elysara, skipping forward, peered into the cage with mock sadness. "Oh, dear Aysel! My little plaything is leaving. How will I ever pass the time now?" A faint, cruel smile touched her lips.
Corvin simply gestured with his hand. "Take her."