Elira's POV
Earlier That Morning
The bucket of scalding water hit Elira's hands before she saw it coming.
She screamed, dropping the brush she'd been using to scrub the kitchen floor. Her skin turned bright red instantly, pain shooting up her arms like fire.
"Clumsy fool!" Cook Margret loomed over her, empty bucket swinging from one meaty fist. "That's the third pot you've ruined this week. Do you know how much good cookware costs?"
Elira bit her tongue to keep from crying. The pot hadn't been ruined—she'd cleaned it perfectly. But arguing with Margret only earned more punishments, and her body already had too many bruises to count.
"I'm sorry," Elira whispered, cradling her burned hands against her chest.
"Sorry doesn't fix broken things." Margret kicked the brush toward her. "Now finish the floors. And if I see one spot of dirt, you'll sleep outside with the dogs tonight."
The older woman stomped away, and Elira fought back tears. Three years. Three years of this torture, and it never got easier. Her hands shook as she picked up the brush and dipped it in cold water, the relief barely touching the burning pain.
Around her, the other kitchen servants kept their heads down, scrubbing and chopping and stirring. No one helped. No one ever helped. That's what happened when you were labeled a traitor—you became invisible, less than human.
Lady Elira Ashenwild had died three years ago in a courtroom.
This broken thing scrubbing floors wasn't even worth a name.
"Elira." A gentle hand touched her shoulder. Maris, the only person in this nightmare who still treated her like a person, knelt beside her. "Let me see your hands."
"I'm fine," Elira lied.
"You're not fine. You're never fine." Maris was only nineteen, sold into servitude to pay her family's debts, but she had a kind heart that somehow hadn't been crushed yet. She pulled a small jar from her apron pocket. "Here. It's just herbs and oil, but it'll help with the burning."
Elira's eyes stung with grateful tears as Maris gently rubbed the salve onto her injured hands. This small kindness felt bigger than anything else in her world.
"Why do you help me?" Elira asked quietly. "Everyone knows I'm a traitor. You could get in trouble just for talking to me."
Maris smiled sadly. "Because I don't believe you did what they said you did. And even if you had, no one deserves to be treated like this."
If only the rest of the kingdom felt that way.
Elira's mind drifted back to three years ago, to the day her entire world had shattered.
The throne room had been packed with nobles, all of them watching as Elira stood in chains before Prince Caelan's throne. She'd been wearing her court dress—pale blue silk that her mother had loved—now torn and dirty from two weeks in a cell.
"Lady Elira Ashenwild," the royal prosecutor had announced, his voice echoing off the walls. "You stand accused of treason. Of selling kingdom secrets to our enemies. Of betraying the crown for personal profit."
"I didn't!" Elira had screamed, her voice breaking. "I would never betray my kingdom! Please, someone has to believe me!"
But no one did. They showed the evidence—letters in her handwriting, describing military movements and trade routes. Testimony from witnesses who'd seen her meeting with foreign spies. Stolen documents found hidden in her bedroom.
It had all been fake. All of it. But the evidence looked so real, so perfect, that even Elira had started to doubt herself.
"Your Highness," the prosecutor had turned to Caelan. "The evidence is overwhelming. How do you judge?"
Elira had looked up at the prince, desperate for mercy. She'd met him before at court gatherings—he'd always seemed kind, always smiled and joked with the nobles. Surely he would see the truth. Surely he would help her.
But the man on the throne wasn't the prince she remembered. His eyes were empty, dead, like looking into a frozen lake. When he spoke, his voice held no emotion at all.
"Guilty," Caelan had said, as casually as commenting on the weather. "Strip her of her title and wealth. Sentence her to lifetime servitude in the palace. Let her spend the rest of her days paying for her crimes."
Elira's knees had given out. Guards had caught her before she hit the floor.
"Please," she'd sobbed. "Please, I'm innocent. I'm innocent. Please—"
But Prince Caelan had already looked away, bored, moving on to the next case like she was nothing. Like destroying her life meant nothing.
That was the day Elira learned that mercy was a lie and princes were monsters.
"Elira?" Maris's worried voice pulled her back to the present. "You're crying."
Elira touched her face, surprised to find it wet. "Sorry. Just remembering."
"Don't think about the past. It only hurts worse." Maris squeezed her hand gently. "Focus on getting through today."
But today felt different somehow. Wrong. Like the air before a storm.
Elira stood, wincing as her burned hands protested. She needed to finish the floors before Margret came back. But first...
She reached under the loose floorboard where she hid her only treasure—her mother's violet ribbon. The last thing she owned from her old life. She took it out every morning, just to remember who she used to be, then tucked it away before anyone could steal it.
Her hand touched only empty space.
Elira's heart stopped. She felt along the gap, searching frantically. Nothing. The ribbon was gone.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
"What's wrong?" Maris asked.
"My ribbon. My mother's ribbon. It's gone." Panic clawed at Elira's throat. "Someone took it. Someone—"
Heavy footsteps echoed through the kitchen. The servants fell silent as palace guards marched in, led by a stern-faced captain Elira recognized. Thorne—the prince's right hand.
"Everyone line up," Thorne commanded. "We're searching for someone."
Elira's blood turned to ice. Searches meant trouble. Searches meant someone was about to get hurt.
Please don't let it be me, she prayed silently. Please, I can't take anymore.
"We're looking for anyone who owns a violet ribbon," Thorne continued. "Anyone who has dreams. Anyone connected to dream magic."
Dreams? Why would the guards care about dreams?
Maris shifted beside Elira, and Elira realized with horror what her friend was about to do.
"Don't," Elira whispered urgently. "Maris, please don't—"
But Maris's kind heart was also a foolish one.
"Elira lost a violet ribbon!" Maris called out, trying to be helpful. "Just yesterday. Maybe that's what you're looking for?"
Every head in the kitchen turned to stare at Elira. Thorne's sharp eyes locked onto her like a hawk spotting prey.
"You," he pointed at Elira. "Describe the ribbon. Now."
Elira's mouth went dry. She couldn't breathe. This was bad. This was very bad.
"I... it was my mother's," she stammered. "Ancient silk. Embroidered with silver thread. Crescent moons in the pattern."
Thorne's expression shifted from suspicious to shocked. He grabbed her arm, his grip firm but not painful.
"Come with me. The prince wants to see you."
"No!" Elira tried to pull away. "Please, I didn't do anything! I don't understand what's happening!"
"The prince wants to see you," Thorne repeated, already dragging her toward the door. "And trust me, you don't want to keep him waiting."
The last time Elira had stood before Prince Caelan, he'd destroyed her life with one word.
Now, as the guards pulled her through the palace hallways, servants and nobles staring at the traitor being dragged past, Elira wondered what the hollow prince would take from her this time.
She had nothing left to lose except her life.
And from the grim look on Thorne's face, that might be exactly what she was about to lose.
The throne room doors loomed ahead, massive and terrible.
Elira's legs gave out, but the guards kept dragging her forward.
"Please," she whispered one last time. "Please, I didn't do anything."
But mercy was a lie.
And she was about to face the monster who'd proven that truth three years ago.
The doors opened, and Elira's nightmare began again.