Sarah J. Maas is recognised as the creator of the Throne of Glass characters and series.
Prelude (from Empire of Storms by Sarah J. Maas)
Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, simply nods towards Maeve, the triumphant Fae Queen. Acknowledgement of Aelin's surrender. Moments later, she sees the iron box the Fae Queen's escorts carry between them. An ancient iron coffin. Big enough for one person. Crafted for her.
They open the lid of the box, pulling out long, heavy chains from within. One of the escorts hands Maeve an ornate iron mask. The mask, the chains, the box ... they had been crafted long before now. Forged to contain and break Mala's scion.
Maeve lowers the mask and drawls to Aelin with a serpentine smile, "Rumour claims you will bow to no one. Well, now you will bow to me."
She points to the sand. Aelin obeys. Her knees bark as she drops to the ground.
"Lower."
Aelin slides her body until her brow is in the sand.
"Good. Take off your shirt."
Aelin hesitates, realising where this is going. Why Cairn's belt carries a whip.
"I said take off your shirt."
Aelin tugs her shirt out of her pants and slings it over her head, tossing it into the sand beside her. Then she removes the cloth from around her breasts. Two Fae males come forward. Aelin doesn't fight as they each grip her by an arm and haul her up. Spread her arms wide. The sea air kisses her breasts and her navel.
"Ten lashes, Cairn. Let her have a taste of what to expect when we reach our destination if she doesn't cooperate."
"It would be my pleasure, Lady."
Aelin holds Cairn's vicious gaze, willing ice into her veins as Cairn thumbs free his whip. As he rakes his eyes over her body and smiles. A canvas for the sadist to paint with blood and pain.
"Why don't you count for us, Aelin?" says Maeve dangling the mask from her fingers. Aelin keeps her mouth shut.
"Count, or we'll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes on for."
Never. Never, vows Aelin. But as Cairn walks slowly towards her, savouring each step as he let his whip drag along the ground, her body betrays her. She begins shaking. She is no stranger to pain. Knows what it'll feel like; what it'll sound like. Her dreams are still full of it.
"Begin," Maeve says.
Cairn's breath sucks in and he lets fly. Even bracing herself, even clamping down hard, there is nothing to prepare for the crack; the sting; the pain. Aelin doesn't let herself cry out. She only hisses through her teeth.
Blood slides down the back of her pants; her split skin screaming. But Aelin knows how to pace herself. How to yield to the pain. How to take it.
"What number was that, Aelin?"
She refuses to count. She will never count for that rutting bitch.
"Start over, Cairn," Maeve says. So Cairn does. Again. Again. Again.
They start over nine times before Aelin finally screams. The blow had been right atop another one, tearing skin down to the bone. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Cairn is panting, but Aelin still refuses to speak.
"Majesty," murmurs one of the males holding her. "It might be prudent to postpone this until later."
"There's still plenty of skin," Cairn snaps.
Maeve makes a small noise of distaste. "We'll continue later. Get her ready."
Aelin can barely lift her head as the males heave her up. The movement sets her body roaring in such pain that darkness swarms in. But she fights it, grits her teeth and silently roars back at that agony, that darkness. The males half drag her towards Maeve. Towards the iron box; the chains, and the iron mask.
Every inch her feet drags through the sand is a lifetime. Blood soaks her pants. She likely won't be able to heal her wounds encased within all that iron. Not until Maeve decides to heal them herself. But Maeve won't let her die. Not yet. So Aelin Galathynius dries her tears and doesn't resist when Maeve straps the beautiful iron mask over her face.
Blood coats Cairn's whip, still dangling at his side, as Maeve's soldiers finish strapping the mask over Aelin's face. Then they clamp irons on her wrists. Ankles. Neck. No one heals her ravaged back, barely more than a bloody slab of meat, as they guide her into the iron box; make her lie upon her wounds. And then they slide the lid into place and lock it.
1. Journey to Doranelle.
I've no doubt that Maeve will take me back to Doranelle. After all, Doranelle is Maeve's stronghold; the centre of the Fae realm for countless centuries. If she's careless, I'll die of starvation or thirst before she can get me back to her palace. It's a long journey, and opening this iron box on the journey to feed me will risk weakening the Fae Queen's stranglehold over my magic power. Unfortunately, Maeve isn't likely to be careless. She'll use her own magic to speed her entourage's journey home. She needs me alive until the three wyrdkeys are in her possession. As the most magically gifted among the few survivors of Mala's line, I'm the best means by which Maeve can obtain them.
My magic power is very different from Maeve's. She can manipulate and control living beings, but only a few inanimate objects. And certainly not wildfire. Only Mala's descendants can use wildfire. Maeve manipulated me into exhausting my power before springing her ambush. Eventually Maeve will need me to restore and use my power to achieve her deadly ambitions. But she'll only permit me to do that once she's certain that I'm a broken husk; permanently enslaved to her every whim. She wants to humiliate me; shame me; make me feel worthless. All hope abandoned. Tormenting me until I beg for a death which she will take pleasure in denying. At least, until I've delivered the wyrdkeys into her hands. Even then she will only allow me an excruciatingly slow and painful death.
Free of these iron restraints, my power will restore itself in only a few days. Access to even a small amount of power would enable me to heal my wounds. But iron dampens any magic wielder's ability to rejuvenate and use power. And I'm encased in more than enough iron to prevent any use of my magic, even if it was fully restored.
My bloody back presses against the rough iron floor of the casket, sending ripples of pain through my body. I'm no stranger to pain. The year I spent as a slave in the brutal mines of Endovier introduced me to a life of hopelessness; where excruciating pain was a daily occurrence. I survived that. I'll survive this. The darkness around me would drive many people insane. Again, my experience in Endovier has taught me how to endure. Besides, there are small air holes in the iron box above my face which allow some light as well as air to enter my prison.
Of course, all this is just a prelude to the cruelty and torture Maeve will be planning for me when we reach our destination. Only the knowledge that Maeve needs me to be able to function keeps me from total despair. For years I've been the target of the Fae Queen's ambitions. She's been biding her time until I learned how to reach and control wildfire. My own foolishness has given her an ample demonstration that I've acquired the required skills. I realised too late why my mother, Evalin, hid and protected me from her Fae kin, particularly the Fae Queen. Now I know what Maeve would have done earlier, had she been aware that I'd survived the slaughter that included the death of my parents ten years ago. After years of waiting, Maeve has me in her clutches.
For now, I console myself with the knowledge that Maeve secretly fears me. At least, until she can reduce me to a broken and obedient slave to her cruel demands. Only then will Maeve feel safe. Should my magic powers be fully restored while I'm unbroken, then I'm a threat to Maeve's hold over the Fae. Whether my wildfire is strong enough to kill her is something that neither Maeve nor I can know. But the possibility is enough to make Maeve nervous, and very cautious in my handling. Hence all this iron encasing my wounded body.
I think about happier memories to divert my mind from the pain and my pending fate. Over the last year or so I've encountered many people I can now call 'friend'. And many more who willingly call me their queen. Even a few who know me more intimately. My new husband, Rowan, in particular. The special tattoos Rowan marked on my back are probably torn from my body by Cairn's whip. For that alone I want to make Cairn pay. But it is other aspects of Rowan that I deliberately allow to flood my mind.
Lovemaking between Fae is never a gentle coupling. I'm part human, but I can also draw on all the normal Fae emotions and senses. Rowan carries scars on his back where I've left my mark during the wild ecstasy his male possession of my body drew from me. I'm hungry for that sensation again, but I know denying me access to it is just another instrument of torture Maeve will use against me. It's probably one of the reasons Maeve has delayed her move until now. She wanted to make sure I experienced the incredibly wild sensations generated when a Fae female has sex ... even one who isn't a pure-blood Fae. Teasing me with those sensations, but always denying fulfilment, is a far more effective torture than Cairn's whip.
I feel the iron box being moved. People are talking, but the thickness of the iron walls muffles the sounds into an incoherent mumbling. The sounds and smells around me hint that I'm being moved onto a ship. Not the hold, though. There's too much light coming through the air holes, and there's a faint whiff of perfume or flowers. It seems likely Maeve has ordered my box to be placed in her cabin. She doesn't want to waste an opportunity to gloat and begin the process of breaking me to her will. The box is lowered with a thump, causing fresh ripples of pain through my back. But I refuse to cry out even though I long to scream and yell.
A few minutes later I sense the ship beginning to move. Whatever Maeve's plans might be, she's not wasting any time getting clear of the Eyllwe shore. It'll only be a short while before Rowan and the others join those who stood by my side when I accepted Maeve's terms of surrender. It's for the best. My magic was drained. Fighting Maeve would only have resulted in the pointless deaths of my friends. This way there is still hope for Terrasen in its fight against Erawan and his dark hordes. Our real enemy. Maeve's enemy too, if only she would overcome her obsession to possess the three wyrdkeys. I just hope Rowan doesn't do anything foolish, like trying to rescue me from Doranelle. Maeve has held Rowan in her thrall once before. The Fae warriors who betrayed me did so because they could not resist Maeve's power. She wouldn't hesitate to enslave Rowan again now that I'm at her mercy.
I hear something brushing against the lid of the iron box. A faint chuckling alerts me to the presence of someone only a few centimetres from where I lay.
"Do you like your mask, Aelin?" purrs Maeve through the holes in the lid. I refuse to reply.
"I had it made especially for you. Long before you or your parents were born."
I hold back a retort, since that's what Maeve wants. Speaking acknowledges her power over me. Acknowledges my helplessness. Her words remind me that she is extremely old, even for one of the long-lived Fae. Her words are a twisting of the truth. Mala's line was never abundant with offspring, but sooner or later a child would be born who could summon and control wildfire. Me. As soon as Maeve realised that I'm the one she's been waiting for, she dusted off this iron mask, box and chains.
Maeve's question diverts my mind to the mask. Despite it's evil purpose, the mask is a work of art. It consists of an ornate pattern of thin iron rods linked together like a spiders web, supported by thicker bars shaped like vines. Leaf patterns on the vines add decoration, and also provide a means to attach the straps which hold the mask firmly in place. I suspect other things can be attached to the vines as well, to provide Maeve with plenty of choices to torment and punish me. The mask covers most of the front part of my face, from my forehead to my chin. It's heavy, but not unbearably so. The strong chain linking the thick collar, wrist and ankle shackles are another matter entirely. I quickly stop my mind from wandering any further down this train of thought. It's the route to despair and submission.
"Perhaps you are thirsty, Aelin? Would you like a drink?"
My throat is parched and I will need to drink soon. But I'll be damned if I'm going to admit it to Maeve. I remain silent. Maeve doesn't repeat her question. A sound from outside the box leaves me wondering what is going on. Then water starts filtering through the air holes above my head. I open my mouth and drink what I can as it sprays onto my face. It's warm and tastes awful. Then a contented sigh from above me makes me realise what has occurred. Maeve has wasted no time in trying to humiliate me.