Page 92 of Wrath of the Fae

I’m thrown over the soldier’s shoulder, and he heads towards the palace.

I remain limp as I dangle down the Soldier’s back. Strangely, the iron hasn’t seemed to have affected me too badly. It hurt like hell when it first went in, making me dizzy and weak for a minute or two. But now I’m fine.

I wonder… is that creature to thank? The King of Monsters? Does iron affect the dark creatures or the Leviathans?

I push those thoughts out of my head and force myself to focus on the situation at hand.

The soldier barely speaks as he walks, except for the occasional grunt and nod to other soldiers.

I take in as much as I can without being seen looking around. I’m not taken to the central part of the palace but to the east wing. We pass countless soldiers. But also normal-looking Fae. Men all dressed in fine robes of pastel colours. Women walk a few steps behind in heavy gowns that trail behind them. Their heads are low, and they actively avoid catching anyone’s eye. We leave the courtyard and enter the palace. It’s as much as I expected. Painfully white marble floors and gold décor. Many passages and archways lead further inside. Great portraits hang on the wall of men in uniform, and chandeliers burn bright with enchanted sunlight, casting a morning glow inside the walls. He carries me up some steps. Through many hallways and down long corridors until the elegance and care of the building have been replaced by rough stone and bulky wooden doors. We are in a part of the palace not meant to be seen by the wealthy and high-born.

Old portraits are left on the floor, propped up against the wall. Many are torn, or the subjects burnt from their frames. Broken vases and rusted statues of armour are tossed aside.

This is where the ugly, broken and unwanted things are taken.

He stops at a door and opens it up, tutting that it’s been left unlocked again. He walks in and strides across the room before dropping me on a bed. I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady, hoping to keep the pretence of unconsciousness.

I feel him standing there with his eyes on me. The hairs on my neck stand on end as I listen to him breathing. Everything inside me tenses.

His hand rests on my ankle and slides up my leg. All the way, until he’s between my legs. And I remain still. Utterly still.

Even when he goes beneath my underwear, I remain still. His fingers rest at my entrance as he laughs.

‘It’s no fun when you’re asleep,’ he complains before stepping away. ‘The King will hear of your wanderings. I look forward to his reaction.’

The door closes, and a lock clicks.

I wait, and when it remains silent, I open my eyes.

I’m alone.

I sit, that feeling of disgust and violation returning for the first time since I came to this realm. I press my thighs together and instantly think of Rhea.

What’s been happening to her here? When I look around the room, I wonder where the hell she is.

A window ahead is covered in a thick set of blue curtains. I run over and pull them open, letting some light in. It’s a large bedroom, but decrepit and absolutely filthy. Old plates litter the ground with rotting leftovers. Flies buzz, and maggots writhe on them. Clothes litter the ground. Crumpled and discarded dresses. And also trousers, shirts and jackets. I lean down and pick up a shirt before inhaling its scent.

Cyrus.

I stand still and look closely, wondering if she’s in here. Hiding. They said they expected her to be in her room. That the door was supposed to be locked.

‘Rhea?’ I whisper. ‘Are you in here?’

I look under the bed and cough at the sheer amount of dust. I throw open the wardrobe doors and swat the moths away when they fly out.

There’s a door to the left. I rush towards it and throw it open.

The bathroom. A bathtub sits in the centre, and a broken mirror hangs on the wall. I look into it, seeing my own cracked reflection. My face is bloody from the soldier’s boot, and my cheek is slightly bruised.

As I turn to leave, I see a drawing on the wall amongst the decorative wallpaper.

A portrait.

I would say that the pencil drawing is of my sister but for the scar down her face.

My scar.

As I stare, I see that it’s not decorative wallpaper at all. But drawings. The entire wall is covered in them.

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