to MilaKuhn: I listened to the song you suggested and WOW. It fits perfectly for this story! The lyrics matched so well with the direction I'm taking this. Thank you so much for pointing it out! :)
to everyone who leaves reviews: thank you so much for your feedback. it means the world to me!
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. All rights to GRRM, RR, and everyshadedsilver for inspiring this work.
VII
"free you are,"
ANNABETH
ONE hour into cleaning forced Annabeth to draw the conclusion that the prince was the messiest man she'd ever known. Granted, she hadn't known many men in her days of joy in the Mounts, nor did she tend to stay in their company for long during her time of wandering. But, after scrubbing the next mysterious stain from the stone flooring (she'd lost count sometime after eleven), she felt that her judgment was justified.
The skin of her palms and fingers was flushed with blood and agitation, blisters and callouses threatening to form across the heated expanses. Annabeth gripped the coarse brush, the horsehair soaked to the base in a cleaning agent that stung the interior of her nostrils with its scent. Sunlight spilled through the clear glass of the windows, the arching sky that formed a dome above Triesso bordering on crystalline shades of teal and pale grey. There was a cold rush of air that snaked through the cracks, and the servant shivered.
Still, with her mind's ears, she could hear the Darksnake's cold words when he addressed her only thirty and two minutes prior. "Stay out of my way," he had said in such an informal manner that it had caught her off guard. "When I'm in my private study, do not disturb me." His voice reminded her of the icy waters of the Mountain's Kiss. When he spoke, it was as though she was being dragged into the chilled currents of the Castradian waters and tugged straight to the murky floors of the Northern Deep. Her chest had heaved—her lungs weighted with shattered breaths—and her senses screaming at her to run. She despised herself for her cowardice.
Coward, her mind hissed. You're nothing but a fraud and a coward.
Even now, as she scrubbed with vengeful intent at the dark blotches littering the floors of the Darksnake's training room, her skin cooled over and sprouted clammy. Annabeth ignored the deep red tinge that the blemishes carried, trying her best to get them out of the ironstone but to no avail. The cleaning agent only made them darker, made the image of them even more disconcerting in appearance. A rabid thought crossed her mind, and she vaguely wondered how many of the Triesstine had perished in this very room.
The notion, as sordid as it was, couldn't be entirely unfounded. Scattered around the Darksnake's training chambers laid steel weaponry and iron shields, racks upon racks of them that called to her memory like mystical Islic sirens to foolish sailors. The gleaming metallic composition of the blades, of the curved edges, snagged her attention more than once.
Annabeth paused in her scrubbing. Her knees ached, blood circulation pausing as they pressed into the floors with enough weight to bruise. She was leaned over on all fours, a position that would make Mother curl her lip upwards in distaste at the impropriety should she ever see it.
But, she reminded herself bitterly, Mother's gone and impropriety is the least of my worries now.
She sat back on her haunches, rolling her shoulders as pain lanced through her bones and curdled between the tendons of her muscles. Annabeth sighed heavily, drying her hands on the indigo fabric of her slitted skirt. Her eyes wandered, as did her thoughts, and a bubble of gratefulness welled her in chest cavity at the realization that work of this caliber had been carried out by her own family's servants in Eplonia. She had been but a child—a young, frightened girl of thirteen, barely cusping on the shores of womanhood—when she and Luke had made their brisk escape. Her parents had always taught her and her siblings to be thankful for the servants who devoted their lives to House Karstagne, but Annabeth had rarely thought about everything that the appreciation entailed.
"Privilege," she whispered to herself, gaze trailing back to the stains that spottled the floors. "It was privilege and nothing more, you stupid girl."
She lifted her palms, pressed the flushed skin of her hands' backs to the upper curve of her thighs, and stared intently at the irritation. Her thoughts surged and swelled with notions of wonderings past, and shame settled alongside the exhaustion that filmed her limbs. Annabeth mildly cursed her younger self, chastised that clear-eyed girl who knew nothing but comfort and love and privilege.
How many hours had servants spent cleaning up the messes that she had made alongside her brothers and cousins? How many sore backs? How many reddened palms and bruised knees and stiff necks? And all for what? For them to be slain and cut down like weeds for the sole crimes of being loyal to the mountain wolves and owls that dwelled within the Torch? For their liege lords to be slaughtered one by one in their beds, to be ambushed on roads of travel, to be poisoned by doctors that had turned on their sworn oaths of fealty?
Annabeth swallowed thickly and heaved forward, re-grabbing the brush. The circular motions of her hands, intense and pointed, drove her arms to soreness but she could not bring herself to care. Feeling the sweat trickle down her neck and back, the humidity that gathered in the air and pressed against her skin, she resolved to distract herself in the best way she knew how. As had become her method of coping during the time she spent in the fighting shacks, Annabeth secluded herself in the images that her mind procured, desperate to relive the unadulterated joy that her childhood had brought her.
Ω
The fire roared within its stone cage, the flames charring the stone until it was black as night. The heated blaze lapped at the heaps of wood that had been shoved into the hearth, and her eyes trained on the glowing embers with enamored rapture.
A kind, familiar voice broke through her attentions. "Annabeth," it asked in its familiar Northern brogue. "Are you alright?"
She looked away from the fireplace, cheeks heating as she turned to address the question. Her father, King Frederick III, gazed at her with unabated intrigue, his silver eyes glittering in the dim candlelight. He was as wide as he was tall, with shoulders almost as broad as the width of her doorway. When he stood, his head nearly reached halfway to the vaulting ceilings. But he wasn't wearing his royal robes, nor did his gilded argentate crown rest on his curling golden hair. In this moment, with nothing but affection and wisdom etched across his features, he was nothing more than just Father. He wasn't the King, he wasn't the liege lord of the Torch; he was only Father.
Her fingers—chubby with youth, seven cycles and three moons old—clutched at the furs that were sprawled over her bed. Winter was nearing with each day, and each passing night seemed to grow colder and colder. But Mother and Father always told her that Eplonians would endure, that they always had, so she placed her faith in their words. Annabeth pulled the furs up to her chin and snuggled deeper beneath them, peering up at her father through her lashes.
"I hope you'll answer my question sometime before winter comes, Little Silver." Father chuckled to himself as he smoothed her hair back.
The princess nodded. "I'm alright, Father." She glanced back at the flames, at the glowing embers.
Fire and stone. She was of fire and stone. It wasn't a new concept—not necessarily—but it was something that had become a bit of a mantra since learning it on her seventh name day. The words rolled over her tongue soundlessly, glided across the forefront of her mind with ease until it was all she could think about.
"Will you tell me a story?" Annabeth asked without pretense. She looked away from the fire and turned to stare at Father. Her eyes drifted to the small braids that had been made throughout his golden curls, knowing that her mother had been the cause. She liked seeing them. They reminded her of her brothers, of her Minerva cousins—all whom sported similar styles.
Before Father could respond, there was a rapid knock at the door. Annabeth recognized it immediately and couldn't decide between smiling and scowling. The newcomer didn't wait for either her or Father's admittance to entry before the wood was swiveled on its hinges and the cold air of the hallway rushed into the room.
Malcolm and Luke, with a six cycle old Magnus Karstagne gripping onto both of their hands, pushed into Annabeth's sleeping chambers. The eldest turned his blue eyes to Father, eyebrows lifting in a way that closely resembled the young portraits of their late grandfather, King Trevor I of House Celtigar. Luke looked so unapologetically Castradian sometimes with the blue of his irises, the crookedness of his smiles, and the upturned nature of his brows that Annabeth couldn't help but marvel at the fact that he was more mountain wolf than ice fox. One glance would force a stranger to assume that he hailed from across the Mountain's Kiss, that he lived off the coast of Slayer's Bay and battled the Thanysh of the Further North day in and day out.
"Father!" Malcolm grinned as he approached the bed. His red-golden hair had two braids on each side of his head, forming a pair of rows that travelled from his temples to the nape of his neck. The rest, all wavy and gleaming, was tied off completely in the back. Her brother's grey eyes sparkled. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. Have you decided to join the party too?"
Father merely lifted an eyebrow while Magnus gripped onto the furs and made his attempt to get into Annabeth's bed. At this, she gave way to a scowl.
"Absolutely not!" The princess cried out as she tried to shove him away. "You're going to make my bed smell like you and you all smell like outside."
Her cousin returned the scowl, pale grey eyes rolling before he decided to crawl into Father's lap instead. Magnus still wasn't one for many words. Father obliged, chuckling quietly as his sister's son made himself at home atop his knees. He curled a large arm around his back, securing him with gentleness, before turning to address his own sons.
"Do you two always make it a habit to invade your sister's chambers? What if she had been sleeping?"
Luke shrugged with a nonchalance too blasé to be practiced. "Then I guess she wouldn't be sleeping for much longer."
Annabeth tossed a pillow at him, but the speed was much too slow. The Crown Prince dodged easily before releasing a mischievous laugh. She huffed before snuggling deeper beneath her furs. "You're a brute."
"It's not like you need the sleep," Luke replied. "All you do every day is read anyway. A little less sleep wouldn't kill anyone."
"Whatever." Annabeth turned her attention back to her father, ignoring how Malcolm had taken the liberty to perch himself on the edge of her bed like the snow owl he was. "You were going to tell me a story, right Father?"
Luke dropped to the floor quickly, folding his legs beneath him as he squealed. "Oh, good we came at the perfect time. Didn't we, Mal?" He nudged their brother's dangling leg. "I love stories."
Malcolm laughed while Magnus tugged on the end of one of the small braids in Father's thick, blond beard. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but clear. "Hearthstone and Blitzen," Magnus said simply, referring to the two famed Heroes of Old that he had grown an attachment to. They were all he talked about, all he cared about it seemed.
"Wait, no!" Annabeth shot forward, shivering a bit as she left the warmth of her bedspread. "He talked about them last time, remember Maggie? Let's hear something else for a change. Please?"
Magnus looked over his shoulder to stare at her. His expression didn't give truth to any agreeableness, but he nodded after a while. Annabeth sent her closest cousin a smile at this.
Father looked over them all. "Well, since the Heroes of Old are out of the picture, what would you like to hear about?"
Malcolm perked up at this. "Luke and I learned about Anglicus Karstagne in our studies today. He was the first King in the North, right? Tell us about him."
There was a glimmer in Father's eyes when he nodded in response. "Yes," he said slowly, peering at his sons in an apparent new light. "Our ancestor, Anglicus Karstagne, was the founder of the Karstagne Dynasty. It was he that lit the fires of the Mount during the first nights of the first Bitter Winter and housed the mountainfolk within his halls of the Torch for ninety days."
"That's three moons," Annabeth said quietly, eager to display the fruits of her own lessons. "Right?"
Father smiled at her. "Yes, Little Silver. Three moons. Three long moons with no sunlight to guide the way." His expression sobered. "When Bitter Winter comes, the sun does not rise until spring returns. The night is dark, it's long, and it's cold. In winter, we must protect ourselves. Fire protects us, that's why we have it. Fire guides us, fire leads us, fire saves us. Lord Anglicus—for he wasn't King yet—knew that. Back then, the Torch was called the Wolfstead."
"Wolf for Karstagne," Malcolm murmured aloud. His eyes were trained on the flames, a dusky pink fluttered across the round of his cheeks.
Father hummed in acknowledgment, reaching over to pat the shoulder of his second son, before he continued. "The Wolfstead was a large estate, built to house many comfortably. Anglicus saw his walls, saw how he had but his wife, his two sons, and his only daughter dwelling there, and he took action. Every three hours, he lit large pyres that lined the roads. Every day, he went searching for people to take in. They followed the fire, and once they were seated in the Wolfstead, he went to find more."
"How didn't he die?"
"We do not know," Father answered, wonder leaking into his voice as he glanced down at Luke. "But Lord Anglicus risked his life. Before long, as the rumors say, he had the entire country of Eplonia within his walls. Those who could not help themselves found aid in the Karstagnes. In remembrance of the fires he lit, they named the halls the Torch instead. When spring came and the sun rose once more, they crowned him as their King. And the dynasty lives on."
Annabeth stared at the flames in the corner, stared at the stones that comprised her bedroom walls. Of fire and stone, her House words were. She was born of winter, but she was the fire that scorched the night. She was the stone that comprised the vaulting halls of her home. Her eyes turned to that of her older brother's, studying his cardinal golden spill of waves that was plaited taut against his scalp, noting how they reminded her so much of the flames that warmed her bedchambers. Malcolm was fire. Luke was fire. Mother and Father both were fire. They protected her, guided her, lead her, saved her. Her family was fire.
"Fyrewolf." Magnus's quiet voice broke through Annabeth's thoughts and she turned her attention back to him.
Father glanced down at the boy in his lap, eyebrows drawing together in slight confusion. "How do you know about the Fyrewolf, Magnus?"
Her cousin shrugged, his fingers still twisting the aurulent hairs of Father's beard—hairs that matched in color the ones that crested the crown of his own head. "Mother," he responded simply. Then, with piercing grey eyes, he pointed to Annabeth. "Mother said the Fyrewolf had hair like Annabeth's, pale."
Father grimaced slightly, a nearly silent curse in the Northern tongue slipping through his lips. "Nat always was the true conspiracy theorist of the family."
Her brothers ignored the slight, instead leaning closer to the princess of Eplonia. Luke scooted nearer to the edge of her bed, gangly arms and long fingers outstretched to snag a stray curl of hair within his grasp. "I thought Annabeth got her hair from Grandmother Viktoria?"
Father nodded before responding, his voice low and rumbling. "She did. But rumors say that my mother inherited her hair from the Fyrewolf—the youngest child and only daughter of King Anglicus. Her true name was Princess Adalayne, and they say that she possessed the Favor from the First."
Annabeth sat up, excitement beginning to course through her. "What's the Favor?" She pleaded for response, leaning forward, all too happy to ignore the way both Luke and Malcolm were tugging on her hair.
Father smiled at her, albeit thin, and shook his head gently. "They are but stories, Little Silver. Tales meant for the hearth and nothing more. Ask Hestia about it, I'm sure she would love to tell you."
Her enthusiasm dimmed and she couldn't help but frown. "But you're here now. Why won't you tell us?" Annabeth glanced discreetly at her brothers and cousin, grateful to find that they were hanging on to her every word. Four pairs of eyes found purchase on the humble expression of the King of the Mount, and Father's eyebrow lifted at the pointed attention.
Gently placing Magnus on Malcolm's lap, Father chuckled quietly to himself. "It isn't anything to concern yourself with, Little Silver." His grey eyes twinkled in the firelight as he stood. "I recognize that look on your face. You look like your mother." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head before drawing away, splayed adoration evident across his features. "They're but stories and nothing more. I do not want you to garner too much hope."
She stared at her father through her lashes before raising her chin as resolutely as she could. Annabeth nodded, murmuring her acceptance. At that, Father sternly herded the other three boys from her bedchamber, stating that a princess needed her rest.
As she laid alone in the dim glow, attention transfixed upon the flickering blaze ensconced in rock and fueled by timber, Annabeth's thoughts turned over the story that Father had imparted to her. Her ancestor, Anglicus Karstagne, was the first King in the North, the one who led her House to greatness and established the words that her family spoke with pride. He was a true hero, unlike the heroes from the songs and stories that Magnus loved to hear about, unlike Hearthstone and Blitzen and Njord from the Old Ages. Her mind swiveled upon the notion of his daughter Princess Adalayne, the Fyrewolf, and her rumored silver hair alongside the Favor from the First.
As sleep's threat on overtaking her strengthened, she decided that hearing from Old Hestia was the only way to move forward. Curiosity burned through her, and her desire to quell it outgrew her desire to heed Father's words by far. Annabeth was a Minerva, she knew that. It wouldn't do to leave herself scrambling for answers—no matter how juvenile they may prove to be.
Ω
There was a stabbing pain that pierced her palm, and Annabeth was tore from her thoughts with a resounding hiss. Pausing in her cleaning, she drew away from the source as quickly as she could and cradled her hand in her lap. Annabeth settled on folded legs and assessed the damage.
Blood poured from the wound, but not overtly so. The scarlet color seemingly mocked her if anything else, reminding her of the obscure stains that she had yet to succeed in scrubbing out. The pain was bearable, most of it rooted in the abruptness of its commence. She had suffered worse in the desert. Careful not to spill any of the blood on the floors she'd spent far too much time attempting to clean, Annabeth tore a bit of her skirt—a sliver of the edge that she knew no one would miss—and wrapped it around her palm. The fighting shacks had taught her well.
Submerging herself in the remembrances of childhood past had forced her to work at a more sedate pace. Glancing to the window as she pressed the fabric against her palm, Annabeth realized that the midday meal would be served soon in the servant's dining. The Baroness had been quick when going over that fact—most likely a result of her abhorrence at Algreni slaves being fed more than once a day.
She scanned the floors for the culprit of her wound and found a sharp piece of ironstone sticking upwards. It was triangular in shape, not unlike the mountains that scattered across the northern borders of the continent and shielded her home. Annabeth caught sight of the drop of blood that tainted the peak of it and ignored the sting of the symbolism it held. Rising shakily to her feet, she made quick work of gathering her things before heading back towards the servant's entry. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, reminding her that she had eaten only three meals in the past five days. In her hurry to the Darksnake's chambers earlier that morning, she had woken before the kitchens did and had missed breakfast.
The halls were vacant as she made her way back to the servant's quarters. Passing by only a few Triesstine guards and an Archadian slave who looked frantic, Annabeth retraced her steps from hours beforehand. Exhaustion pulled on her limbs, and when she finally dropped next to Hazel at the table after returning her basket full of cleaning supplies to the Head Servant, the desire to lay down and rest was overwhelming enough to tempt her greatly.
The gentle hum of chatter filled the room, vibrating and low as it filled the spaces. There were only a handful of servants seated around the tables, the majority of them lacking the typical Algreni features that Annabeth had grown to recognize. She spotted a few Eurissians here and there—a black-haired, black-eyed people group from the conquered Triesstine territory of Euriss across the Valbelian Sea. They mostly kept to themselves.
Hazel looked up at her as she sank into her seat, a small smile pulling on the corners of her lips. "You look exhausted," she said with aimed simplicity. Hazel then grabbed a bowl of gruel and a thin slice of unleavened bread from the center of the table before pushing it towards her. "Eat."
Her tone brokered no room for argument and Annabeth found herself more than willing to comply. She sent her a look that she hoped came off as grateful. "You're so kind to me," she murmured in a rare expression of vulnerability. Her throat was scratchy. "Thank you."
Hazel shrugged and swallowed down her bite. "It isn't anything really," she said through a lowered voice. She began fiddling with the hem of her skirt, a habit of hers that Annabeth had begun to pick up on. Her golden eyes lowered and had almost darkened to a bronze, her mind evidently travelling to ensnaring locations. "My father was the kindest, most honorable man I've ever met," Hazel said. "I try to be like him at every opportunity, honor his memory."
Annabeth stiffened, the hand that had been raising the spoon to her lips pausing in its movement as she registered the younger girl's words. She offered a tight glance at her only to find that Hazel didn't even appear to know that she had said it out loud. The Algreni gripped her clothes tightly within her fist. Despite her shaking and her mind's warning to not get too close, Annabeth reached over and pressed a hand atop the clenched one of dark skin. Hazel's chin flicked upwards, eyes wide, and the irony of the role reversal was not lost on either of them.
She gave the younger girl as a kind a smile as she could muster, slowly pulling her hand away. "I understand," Annabeth said with a faint tilt of her head. She did not dare say more, fearing that any words she say could link her back to the Mounts. In spite of everything, in spite of Hazel's recurring attempts at comfort, she could trust no one. She would trust no one.
Think with emotion, act with logic.
There must have been something of kin present in Annabeth's expression, for words began to flood past Hazel's lips as she offered unwarranted explanation. "My father died when I was young," she said. "And I lost my mother when the Triesstine conquered the desert. But…" her expression clouded, and she looked away. Though the corners of her lashes gleamed with wetness, Annabeth swore there was bitterness in her tone when she spoke. "But I think she died a long time before that." There was a long silence and Hazel finally turned back to her. "What about you?"
A lump invaded Annabeth's throat at the question, halting her breaths. There was a ringing in her ears, a stinging in her sinuses as her eyes threatened to well with tears. Her heart rhythmically pounded against the cage of her ribs, rising to meet the weighted press of grief that sat on her sternum.
The memory was overwhelming. Throngs of traitors, masked and hooded, dragging Mother away by her hair as they hauled her to the dungeons, hissing words breathed of lust and malice. The unwavering pride in Father's face giving way to agony, colonies of arrows taking root in his chest as he tumbled to the floor, the fulsome sound of his skull cracking against the steps that yielded to the Seat before the Orszag assailants slit his throat to the bone. Chaos reigning free, the smell of blood and burning bodies thick in the air, Luke's hand gripping her own as they ran, ran for their lives.
The mountains remember.
"Um," Annabeth blinked, clearing her throat. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and the air felt dry, so dry. She looked away from the probing gaze that Hazel aimed at her. "I don't… I don't like to talk about that," she said.
"Oh!" Her acquaintance jolted, and even though Annabeth wasn't looking at her, she knew the body language of embarrassment when she saw it. Sheepishly, Hazel hurried on. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-" She paused, deciding to take another course of action. "You said that you understood and for some reason, I thought that you would want to talk about it…" She twirled her spoon in her bowl of gruel, pewter dragging against pewter. "It was my assumption, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," Annabeth responded lamely. She released a shuddering breath. "It's fine," she repeated. It's fine, her mind echoed. But for the life of her, she did not know who she was trying to convince.
Ω
Weeks passed without significant occurrence. The conquests settled in their new routines, and Annabeth was far from being an exception. Every day she woke before the dawn in order to get as much cleaning in as possible. Heeding the Darksnake's command, she no longer knocked on the iron door of the servant's entry to his chambers. Deft and silent, she slipped in and out without his knowledge nor his attention. She was grateful for that matter; the less their paths crossed, the higher chance she had of living to see her twentieth name day.
A banquet in celebration of the Darksnake's safe return from the Iced South alongside the drawing up of peace treaties between the Trident of Triesso and the previously untouched Tribes of Yza was announced. In accordance, all the servants were set on preparing for the affair in their free time. The Baroness worked them all from dawn to dusk, all too happy to use them to the bone or as she saw fit. If Annabeth wasn't scrubbing away at blood stains on the floors of the Heir Apparent's training room, she was hauling cases of exotic foods imported from countries near and far, from the Isles, from Vynneyard, the Gale, Edren, and more. She ached in places that she hadn't felt since Algren, slept heavier than she did as a sheltered princess in the Torch. The toil was bruising, but she was beholden to the distraction as it proved for a way for her to remain out of mind from the rival of her House.
The prince of Triesso did not make it difficult to keep away from his presence. In fact, Annabeth hardly saw him during the many hours she spent cleaning his chambers. The Darksnake was always enclosed in his private study, undoubtedly working and tiring over the political aspects of royal life that she knew she would have to deal with once she reclaimed the Mounts. He rarely was seen elsewhere, save for the occasional midday strolls with the High Lady and required appearances in the throne room before his High Lord-Emperor of a father. None of it proved to be any matter of consequence to Annabeth. The less she saw of him, the better.
Hazel, Valeria, and Piper all settled quickly within their new roles, the latter displaying her exuberance far more often than the others. Valeria rose almost as early as Annabeth most days but went to bed much later. She had not seen the black-haired Algreni for nearing a moon, it felt like. Hazel and Piper, by contrary, carried a lesser workload compared to their elder counterparts. As handmaids, they were concerned with only one noblewoman and her sleeping chambers, nothing more or less. Hazel spoke little of the Lady Rovea of Kyseltis, only ever vaguely mentioning her politeness and her love for rice pudding when demanded in the darkness of night to share the details of her day.
Piper, on the other hand, only ever talked about her latest charge, Lady Vene. Annabeth had yet to meet the woman but felt that she knew her deeply from the vast number of stories and facts that the fiery desert girl shared. It was through Piper that she learned of her betrothal to the Darksnake, a fact that she had smugly imparted when Valeria had asked around for palace gossip.
"That's not gossip," Valeria rolled her eyes as she turned over onto her stomach. It was a rare night that she lacked fatigue, and she had decided to take advantage of it. "Everyone knows that they're betrothed. It's all the serving girls ever talks about."
Annabeth said nothing from her position against the wall. It felt unnecessary to point out that she had been ignorant of such a fact—something that would prove to be embarrassing given her pseudo-proximity to the Heir Apparent.
"Who cares if it's gossip?" Piper snorted. She tugged her knees to her chest. "It's still good. Silena—she let's me call her that, by the way—mentioned it in passing the other day. It means that she'll be the future High Lady!"
"Piper…" Hazel drawled from the floor. Her arm was tossed over her face, her eyes and nose pressed against the crook of her elbow. "You seem far too excited over another woman's pending marriage. Why?"
The girl in question huffed while Valeria laughed. "Nothing interesting happens around here, Hazel. We're worked to the bone day in and day out. Pardon me for trying to find solace in excitement in something external."
Hazel grunted but didn't respond.
Since then, Lady Vene was all Piper seemed interested in talking about. Granted, some of her stories proved to be beneficial to Annabeth's well of knowledge. She learned that Silena Vene was the daughter of Aphrodite of House Vene, Queen of the Western Isles and First Councilwoman in Triesstine court. She learned that Lady Vene was set to inherit her mother's crown and political seat as well as the crown of the Triesstine Empire once she wed the Darksnake. However, the majority of what Piper shared was inconsequential and annoying.
Annabeth cared not for the silks of the Lady's dresses, had no interest in hearing about the blues of her eyes or the black of her hair or the way she sang to herself when she dressed in the morning. When she dared mention this fact to the Algreni girl, it was not received positively.
"Is there a reason why you're making that face, Asteria?"
Annabeth looked up from her position on her reed mat, forced from her thoughts. She found Piper's hostile gaze from across the small bedroom, felt Hazel's probing eyes, heard Valeria's quiet snores. The silver ring of the moon was pinned to the night sky, surrounding by a smatter of glowing stars. Pale light streamed through the narrow windows, casting long and ominous shadows across the gaunt faces of her fellow servant-prisoners. "What are you talking about," she finally deadpanned in response to the Algreni girl's question.
Piper scowled, a sourness streaming into her eyes at the downwards pull of her lips. "Whenever I mention Silena you make that… that face."
Annabeth stiffened, recognizing the taut alignment of her limbs as synonymous with her posture when she had picked the fight with that other conquest on their first day in Triton's Hold. Hazel, evidently coming to the same realization, placed a quelling hand on the girl's elbow.
"Leave it be, Piper," she murmured. "It isn't that serious."
She couldn't be assuaged, if one were to judge accurately by the flames that smoldered in her versicolored irises. Piper shrugged off Hazel's touch, her expression tightening as she regarded Annabeth. "No," she said in a hard voice. "I want an explanation."
She fought the urge to roll her eyes at that. Already, Annabeth found herself bored with this girl, this upstart waiting to happen. They would've killed you, she reminded herself. They found her and they would've killed you. "An explanation for what?"
"Don't play dumb with me," Piper scowled.
"Free. You are free to make whatever assumptions about me that you wish to." Annabeth tilted her head only slightly. "But is there a specific reason as to why you're so angry?" Don't be a fool. Stop being a fool.
"You've always looked down on me," the Algreni grit out, as if hearing her thoughts. She began to advance, the moonlight illuminating her face as she drew closer to the object of her attention. "Admit it."
"There's nothing to admit," Annabeth replied. She forced herself not to edge away, forced herself to maintain the firm grip she held on her emotions. When the half-lie slipped through her lips with ease, it was all she could do to school her expression even more. "I feel nothing for you."
Hazel tensed in the corner, but said nothing, seemingly resigned to allow the brewing argument to run its course. Her prior words regarding Piper's fiery behavior took root at the forefront of Annabeth's thoughts, and she would've lost herself in them had it not been for the caustic response that was tossed into her face.
"That's the thing, isn't it?" Piper clenched her fists, jaw locking as she continued on her prowl forwards. "You feel nothing. I know the Baroness calls you Cold One. How fitting, right? Asteria of Burilese, the cold-blooded bitch."
Silence.
Annabeth's body went rigid in preparation but already the memories surged forward, and she swallowed in a manner that she hoped was inaudible, attempting to dispel the lump of shame that had forged its way into her throat. You are a machine, they'd told her. You are a killer. To feel is to die.
She could feel Hazel's wary gaze scraping against her at her lack of response. Piper's chest heaved up and down, her countenance twisted in evident agitation and bitterness. She stood over her, chin angled downwards, eyes furious, and the ghosts of Annabeth's past conjured up the all-too familiar image of the Flogger.
Finally, after long moments spent attempting to disregard the plethora of horrors that she'd been reminded of, Annabeth balanced her tone and responded. "You're wasting your breath, Piper." She looked up at her, lifting her head and meeting her gaze head on. "Stop it," she ordered. "You're embarrassing yourself."
That only proved to anger her more. "Shut up," she hissed as she leaned forward.
"You're the only one talking much."
There was a pause where her expression went blank before Piper registered the impertinence of her words. When the meaning finally dawned on her, her hands outstretched to grasp the front of Annabeth's dress. "I'll-"
"Piper," Hazel tugged her backwards with a roughness that surprised all parties. "We should go to sleep. We both have to be up early. You know that."
She shrugged off her friend's grip, eyes still trained on Annabeth. "No, I want to hear what she has to say. This is getting old." Piper then wheeled, spinning to face Hazel. "I know you think the same, Haze. It's getting old. She thinks she's better than us, and I want to know why."
Hazel's golden irises met Annabeth's silver ones for a split moment before she refocused on the incensed prisoner in front of her. Clasping her hands in front of her, she shook her head with enough gentleness to soothe a bear. "Piper…" her whisper was firm and drawn out. "Not all things are meant to be known. Okay? Can we please just go to sleep?"
The taller girl visibly loosened the strain in her shoulders, her form slacking as she took note of the discomfort in Hazel's body language. "Fine," she huffed. "Yeah, fine, whatever. I guess I don't need the Baroness to ask me why Asteria has a bruised lip anyway."
Hazel looked over Piper's shoulder to meet Annabeth's eye. There was a flare of understanding that welled in her expression for a moment before she sent her a tight-lipped smile. Annabeth nodded and returned the gesture despite the apprehension that was accumulating in her senses, in her blood. Heat flushed her skin as she analyzed the action. Keep an eye on her, Annabeth told herself. Keep an eye on her.
"Thank the gods," Valeria's slurred voice rose from the silence of the darkened corner of the room. "I thought you'd all never shut up. Now we can go to sleep." Her words elicited several chuckles and diluted laughs, lessening the tangible evidence of tension in the room.
Annabeth released a heavy breath, her chest shaking, as she laid on her side and turned her back to the rest of the girls. Tears—hot, unbridled, flowing with reckoning—gathered in the corners of her eyes. The darkness of night was her only comfort, the only thing that kept hidden from her the grisly truths of the world she had been cursed of living in without her family, one of the many things that proved to be a catalyst for her nightmares. When she found that she could not ignore the sting of Piper's words, no matter how little she cared for the girl, Annabeth knew they were but fuel for her darkest thoughts. Cold One, too many voices taunted her. You are a machine, you are a killer. To feel is to die.
Annabeth couldn't muster up the courage to even attempt to refute the claims. Truly, deep down, she knew that they were true and that she was a coward.
Ω
The following days were an awkward affair. Piper had taken to ignoring Annabeth entirely, never addressing her presence and satisfied with believing that she simply didn't exist. Only a little ashamed of her sentiments, Annabeth was thankful for the peace and quiet. However, the arguably-one-sided animosity between the two left both Valeria and Hazel in cumbersome positions. Both were slow to ignore Annabeth and outwardly choose a side but did so only if to keep Piper's annoyance at bay.
Annabeth was self-aware enough to see when her presence was unwanted. Knowing that she'd rather not deal or entertain the frosty welcome she would surely receive whenever she found herself face to face with the choppy-haired girl, she kept out of the sleep room as much as possible. She threw herself into her work, scrubbing and hauling away into late hours of the night when she was sure they would all be deep in their dreams upon her return.
The gruff voice of the Head Servant tore at Annabeth's thoughts. He was a heavy-set man with a streak of cruelty ten lengths wide, purely Triesstine if his eyes, skin, and hair gave any hint. "Lift!" The noise echoed across the dew-slick grounds of Triton's Hold. It was nearing noon and the sun had yet to make its appearance through the grey clouds that thickened the sky. Humid winds rustled at Annabeth's clothes, whipping her slitted skirts around her bruised legs.
She squatted on the command, fixing her fingers beneath the rough corners of the damp wooden crate, and stood. There was a low pain in the small of her back and she grit her teeth at it. The Head Servant was cruel and made quick work to point the guards and their whips in the direction of any captive servants that he deemed lazy and slacking. A few days beforehand a young Vynnish girl had made the mistake of complaining about the bones in her shoulder, claiming that it had never healed right when it was broken. The Head Servant had had her whipped in front of the eyes of the rest of them before the attention of a passing noblewoman had forced him to stop.
"Come now, grape eater," the soldiers had jeered in response to her pleads for mercy. "Perhaps some wine will make it better?"
Annabeth refused to make the same mistake. To assume that she would be given even an inch of respect in the absence of her chains was foolish of her, she knew that. All she could do was work through the faint flares of pain and pray to the Mothers that she wouldn't falter in sight of guards and men.
She drew away from the plane of reality as she and another servant began carrying the crate towards the entrance that led to the kitchen storage halls. Annabeth lost herself in her thoughts, and if it weren't for the startled outcry of the Head Servant that called for her attention, she might have been caught fully unawares—something that was proving to be a detrimental habit.
"Lady Vene, how surprising to see you here!" The man's voice heightened an octave and Annabeth faltered. The servant on the other side of the crate shot her a dark look, warning her to keep walking without words, but already her attention was on the appearance of the Darksnake's betrothed.
"Quintos," a feminine voice responded. "My handmaiden and I were looking for one of your offhand workers. I was directed here. Would you be willing to give me aid?"
The Head Servant tripped over his words, the volume of his voice lowering as Annabeth neared the side entrance to the palace. "Of course!" He sputtered. "It is my honor to aid such a graceful woman. Whatever you ask, my Lady, and it is yours."
She rolled her eyes at the man's simpering as she entered, ignoring the gnawing in the pit of her stomach. Piper was the only handmaiden of Lady Vene that she knew about, but what were the chances that the woman was looking for her? What reason would she have? It was those thoughts that calmed her as she and the other servant set the crate of fruit down in the storage hall. Annabeth spun on her heel and made her way back down to where the shipments had been loaded off, but she didn't get far.
A serene voice, melodic and soothing in nature, halted her. "You must be Asteria."
No.
Immediate panic surged through Annabeth's veins, chills crawling down her spine upon recognition. It was by reflex alone that she lowered her head, stopping only when her chin brushed against the bones of her chest. Annabeth sucked in a sharp breath, taking note of the silk robes and sandaled feet that billowed in her line of vision. "Yes, my Lady," she answered. Annabeth said nothing more, didn't trust herself to.
"Very well," the smile in the noblewoman's voice was evident when she spoke. A small part of her conscience finally understood just why Piper spoke of her so much. "Lift your head, I'd like to see your face."
Annabeth did as she was told and forced herself not to make an evident reaction when she caught sight of her most recent rival over the shoulder of the future High Lady. Piper's expression was monotone, and she refused to look back at her. Knowing that she would get no answers, Annabeth shifted her gaze to the noblewoman in front of her. Apprehension continued to hail on her senses as she registered her warm blue eyes and dewy light brown skin.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil and wholly undeterred, the Lady Vene continued as she outstretched a manicured hand, her expression bright. "If it wouldn't trouble you too much, Asteria, I'd like it if you would accompany me alongside my handmaiden Piper to the gardens."
next chapter: annabeth does a little snooping and gets caught! hopefully a certain heir apparent will show mercy. see you next saturday and tysm for reading!