ARKALIS: Heir of Chaos

Elaysia

The cold of Failindor doesn’t just prickle the skin; it cuts through the soul, a constant reminder that I am an intruder made of flesh and fragility in a realm of immortals. Here, winter is not a season—it is a geographical state of mind. Failindor floats above the mists of the human world, a place that, in my memories, has become a dark and dusty bottleneck where the sun was pale and life was short. To the Fae, the land I came from is nothing but the "Mire," a forgotten cellar beneath their obsidian peaks.

It had been ten years since the Witch tore me from the Mire, claiming she would save me from the miserable brevity of human life. She told everyone I was her foster daughter, her little miracle of flesh and bone brought from the shadows. She loved to stroke my hair with her long, cold fingers, calling me her 'little doll,' but I saw the glint in her eyes: to her, I was a doll in need of repair, a project to test if human resilience could be shaped by pure magic.

As I scrubbed the stone, a court lady passed by; her robes of liquid silk brushed against my shoulder. She clicked her tongue in distaste, swerving her body as if I were a bothersome leak in a perfect palace. I slumped my shoulders and bowed my head, adopting the hunched posture they expected. Be the dust, I repeated to myself. My 'submissive whisper' as I asked for leave was a weapon; a veil I pulled tight so no one could see the embers of hatred burning in my eyes. Every "yes, my lady" was a nail I saved for their coffins.

"Did you hear?" The whisper of a Fae servant near me cut through the sound of my cloth against the stone. "The King’s Tournament will begin before the first moon."

"They say this year’s trials will be lethal," the other replied, kicking the bucket of dirty water beside me without a word of apology.

"The prize isn't just gold; it's a Royal Favor. Any wish."

My heart skipped a beat. The Tournament. The rumor had been crawling through the corridors like a sweet poison for weeks, but hearing it there made it real.

I scrubbed the cloth harder, feeling the magic that hung in the air—dense and sweet. It was my drug. Under the influence of that mist, the strange images that sometimes assaulted my mind lost their power. They were shadows of a dusty place, blurred faces uttering guttural sounds I couldn't comprehend. The Witch called them "hallucinations of the flesh," the byproduct of a mortal brain trying to process the eternity of Failindor. To me, the human world wasn't a lost home; it was a dark bottleneck, a place of dust and death I was lucky to have never truly known.

"You’re missing a spot, little one."

I looked up and saw the Witch.

"Sorry, Mother," I murmured. I called her that because she was my creator, the only one who molded my chaos into something bearable. Sometimes, I could almost believe I had been born from her shadow-hands, rather than from some vulgar biological process I didn't recognize.

"The King demands perfection for the Solstice," she said, forcing my face upward. "Remember, Elaysia: you are only here because I allow it."

"I know," I replied, my voice a submissive whisper.

I didn't want to clean the floor. I wanted to be up there, on the crystal balconies, drinking star-wine and debating the politics of the realm. I spent hours watching the Fae, mimicking their posture and predatory elegance. In my wildest dreams, my skin turned to opal, my ears grew pointed, and power ran through my veins like liquid fire. I craved to be one of them with a hunger that consumed me from the inside out. Being human was a disease I hoped to be cured of.

But reality knocked at my door in the form of dragon-hide boots.

The sound of cruel laughter echoed through the corridor, making my blood run cold. I knew those footsteps. There were three of them, synchronized and arrogant.

Prince Kaelthar and his brothers, Valen and Drax.

I tried to focus on the bucket of water, wishing to become invisible, but fate—or Kaelthar’s malice—never allowed such a luxury. They stopped around me, forming a circle of lethal perfection.

"Look at this," said Valen, the youngest, with a smile that revealed teeth that were far too white. "The Witch’s pet is trying to be useful."

"She smells of sweat and effort," Drax, the eldest, commented with a look of disgust. "How vulgar."

Kaelthar said nothing at first. He simply stood there, his shadow eclipsing me completely. The scent of ancient magic that surrounded him was almost intoxicating, a terrible contrast to the malice in his brothers' words. I saw his dragon-hide boots stop inches from my wet hand. The velvet of his tunic was a blue so deep it seemed to swallow the torchlight. I felt my pulse jump in my neck, betraying the calm I tried to feign. He wasn't just beautiful; the symmetry of his face was so exact it was aggressive, like a sharp blade left in the sun. The cold iron ring on his finger glinted like a promise that he feared not even his own magic.

"Do you still dream of the crown, Greenrolde?" he asked, his voice silky and laced with scorn.

Kaelthar knew my secret. He saw how I looked at the ladies of the court, the way I practiced swordplay with tree branches at night. He loved reminding me that no matter how hard I tried, I was just a house pet trying to wear gala clothes.

"I dream only of finishing my work, Your Highness," I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Kaelthar leaned in, his perfect face inches from mine. The scent of snow and ancient magic was overwhelming.

"You will never be one of us," he whispered, and every word was like a dagger. "You can drink all of that witch's magic, you can wear our silks and learn our tongue, but your heart remains flesh and your blood remains an invitation for death. You are a flaw. And I love watching you try to hide it."

With a quick, casual movement, he kicked my bucket of water over.

The dirty liquid spread across the floor I had just finished cleaning, soaking my dress and my skin. The brothers let out shrill laughs, while Kaelthar kept his gaze fixed on mine, waiting for me to cry. But I didn't cry. I gripped the cleaning cloth in my hands until my knuckles bled.

"Oh, it looks like you’ll have to start over," Valen said as they walked away, leaving a trail of elegance and humiliation behind.

I stood there, alone in the drenched hall, feeling the chill of the dirty water seep into my bones. The magic in the air seemed to laugh at me. I hated them. I hated Kaelthar with an intensity that rivaled my desire to be just like him.

One day, I thought, looking at my trembling hands. One day, it won't be me on the floor. One day, they will bow before the human they learned to despise.

But for now, I was only the Witch’s daughter, the slave of Failindor, the girl without a past who would give anything for just a future.

After the encounter with Kaelthar in the hall, my body felt like a string stretched to the breaking point. I climbed to the Witch’s quarters, located in the highest and darkest wing of the palace, where the scent of opium incense and dried herbs was so thick you could almost touch it.

She was waiting for me, seated before an obsidian mirror that reflected not faces, but the currents of magic flowing through the castle walls.

"I saw what that boy did to you," she said without turning. "You’re trembling, Elaysia. Your humanity is raw, like an exposed nerve."

"He humiliated me, Mother. In front of everyone." I stepped closer, my dress still damp and cold against my legs. "He kicked the bucket... called me Greenrolde."

The Witch rose and walked toward me. Her face, though terrifyingly beautiful, lacked the expression lines I saw in my own reflection. She was eternal; I was an hourglass emptying out.

"And what did you expect?" She cupped my face with her ice-cold hands, her thumbs pressing into my cheeks with a force that bordered on pain. "You are my masterpiece, my little miracle of flesh. But to them, you are merely a reminder of the fragility they despise. Drink this."

She held out a cut-crystal goblet. The liquid inside was a neon green, viscous and glowing. I knew what it was: my "medicine." The nectar that blunted the sharp edges of my consciousness.

As I drank, I felt the cold fire slide down my throat. Instantly, the fury consuming me began to cool, transforming into a comfortable apathy. The images of my childhood kitchen, which had tried to emerge during the confrontation with Kaelthar, retreated into the depths of my mind, shackled by her magic.

"That’s better," the Witch whispered, pulling me into an embrace. Her hug lacked the warmth I vaguely remembered from other arms, but it was the only one I had. "Now, get ready. The King demands our presence at the banquet tonight."

The banquet was a spectacle of excess and elegant cruelty. The black oak tables were covered in fruits that glowed with their own light and wines that made those who drank them sing until their lungs bled.

I sat on a low stool at the foot of the Witch’s chair, like a well-trained hound. My dress had been changed for one of simple, diaphanous gray silk—it was so thin I felt every draft against my skin. I tried to keep my expression blank, my gaze fixed on a random spot among the tapestries depicting ancient massacres.

"Look at her," Valen’s voice, Kaelthar’s youngest brother, cut through the sound of the harps. "She looks like a porcelain doll. I wonder, if we break her, is her blood still red, or has the Witch already turned it into poison?"

A chorus of Fae laughter echoed across the table. Kaelthar sat on the opposite side, reclining in his silver throne, watching me with an intensity that even the numbing magic couldn't entirely mask.

He wore an impeccably tailored tunic made of heavy velvet that seemed to absorb the candlelight, but it was his linen shirt underneath that drew the eye: a shade of onyx as deep and dark as his own hair, which fell disheveled over his forehead. That darkness in his clothes highlighted the supernatural paleness of his skin and the icy glint in his eyes, giving him the appearance of a storm contained in silk and elegance. He wore no jewelry, save for a single cold iron ring—a stark contrast to the excessive shimmer of the other nobles at the table.

"Perhaps we should test it," Drax suggested, picking up a fruit knife made of white gold. "A small cut, just to see the color of her mortal soul."

Fear tried to claw up my throat, but the Witch’s magic kept it under control, leaving me in a dignified paralysis. I couldn't run. I was the entertainment.

Kaelthar straightened, a glint of sharp anticipation lighting up his face. He seemed suddenly awake, stirred by the prospect of a new kind of amusement.

"Leave the creature alone, Drax. She smells of enough fear to ruin the aroma of my wine. If you want blood, go hunt something that knows how to fight, not a thing that lives on scraps."

His words should have been a defense, but they stung more than Drax’s knife ever could. He called me a "thing." An object without a will of its own.

"She wants to be one of us," Kaelthar continued, rising and slowly walking around the table until he stopped behind me. I felt the heat of his body, the scent of an impending storm that followed him. "See how she struggles not to blink. How she tries to mimic our immortality."

He leaned in, his warm breath against the nape of my neck, sending shivers through me that had nothing to do with the Witch’s magic.

"Tell us, Elaysia Greenrolde... if we gave you the choice right now... if we offered you the transformation... what would you be willing to sacrifice? Your human heart? Your capacity to feel pain? Or the little sanity you have left?"

I turned my face slightly, meeting his gaze just inches away. The numbness wavered. For a second, human fury—pure and raw—flashed in my eyes.

"I would sacrifice all of you," I whispered, in a tone meant only for him.

The smile that crossed Kaelthar’s lips was something I would carry into my nightmares. It wasn't one of mockery, but of a terrible recognition.

"Just as I thought," he said aloud, returning to his seat. "She is as greedy as any mortal."

I spent the rest of the night under the weight of his stare, feeling like prey that had just bared its teeth at the wolf. I was human, despised and humiliated, but there, in the heart of Failindor, I was beginning to understand that hatred was a form of power just as effective as magic. And I had enough hatred to burn that palace to its foundations.

The silence in my room wasn't empty; it was a living creature with claws made of shadows, waiting for me to lower my guard to tear me apart. I locked the oak door—a dry sound that echoed like a gunshot in the void—and leaned against it. The cold of the wood seeped through the thin silk of my dress, but I didn't flinch. I let that ice anchor me while my heart, that rhythmic traitor, hammered against my ribs like a caged animal.

Kaelthar’s words kept circling my mind, every syllable laced with a seductive and lethal poison. “A thing that lives on scraps.” He wanted me to feel small. He needed me to be insignificant to justify his own cruelty.

I walked to the table where the blue crystal vial rested under the frigid light of the moons. The liquid inside pulsed with a sickly luminescence. It was the promise of peace. If I drank it, the humiliation of the water bucket would vanish. The laughter of the princes would become a muffled echo. The pain of being human would, once again, be silenced.

I looked at the vial, and then at my reflection in the silver mirror.

The girl there was a stranger. Her eyes were dull, flooded by a placidity that made me nauseous. That was the Witch’s creation. The domesticated "little mortal" who licked the hand that kept her captive.

I pulled my hand away from the blue crystal vial before my fingers could touch it. The apathy promised by the Witch now felt like a prison worse than Kaelthar’s contempt. I needed to feel, even if it was the pain of ice or the fire of hate.

A soft sound of nails scratching the stone outside my window made me jump. It wasn't the heavy tread of a guard or the noisy elegance of the princes. I unlatched the window, and a slender figure slid inside with the agility of an insect. Myra shook her translucent wings, which shimmered with an iridescent reflection against the moonlight, and adjusted the short white hair framing her face. Her orange skin seemed to vibrate with nervousness. Unlike most beings in Failindor, whose eyes were abysses of ice or shadows, Myra’s were strangely human-like—brown, warm, and filled with a concern I didn't deserve.

"You’re alive," she whispered, her voice sounding like the flutter of a moth's wings.

"At least on the outside," I replied, gesturing to my gray silk dress, still slightly damp at the hem.

"I saw what happened at the banquet," Myra said, stepping closer and touching my arm with her thin, warm fingers.

Myra was one of the few anomalies in Failindor I could call a friend. As a lower-caste sprite, she understood what it was to be a "misplaced piece of furniture" in the King’s grand scheme, though she was still rungs above a human.

"The Witch gave me this," I pointed to the blue vial on the table.

Myra winced, her wings twitching. "That isn’t medicine, Elaysia. It’s a drug. It’s an invisible leash," she continued, her brown eyes fixed on the glowing liquid with physical aversion. She leaned closer, and the vibration of her wings accelerated into a low hum of excitement that seemed to radiate from her orange skin. "Have you heard?”

She squeezed my fingers, her nervousness giving way to electric energy. She began to pace, her translucent wings beating in a frantic rhythm.

"The palace is a chaos of preparations. The King is opening the Gardens of the Wandering Roots, and there will be the Masquerade Ball. It’s the only night the protocol breaks! Under the masks, royal and common blood mingle. No one knows who is who until midnight."

"It will be like every other year, Myra," I interrupted, my voice dry and devoid of the energy she was trying to inject. "The King will drink until the stars turn pale, the nobles will mock whoever is beneath them, and I... I will still be the entertainment or someone's target. Changing the calendar doesn't change the fact that my blood is mortal."

"But this time will be different, Elaysia. The Winter Solstice... it won't be just another feast of wine and cruelty. This year, the stars will align over the King's throne in a way they haven't in centuries."

Myra stopped suddenly, her small hands resting on the wooden table near the blue vial I had just rejected.

"This year..." she whispered, the intensity in her brown eyes making me falter. "The King announced he will grant a Royal Wish to whoever wins the Tournament of the Exchange. Anything within the throne's reach, Elaysia. You have to participate."

I felt a tingling in my fingertips that didn't come from the Witch's numbing magic. A wish.

"Three days, Elaysia. You only have to hold on for three days," Myra whispered, her voice heavy with feverish urgency. She leaped onto the windowsill, her slender silhouette etched against Failindor’s twin moons. "I’ll see if I can find out more about the tournament. And promise me that when the music starts, you won't hide in the shadows."

With a final flutter of iridescent wings, she dove into the cold night, leaving me alone with the silence.

I walked to the window Myra had just exited. Failindor’s frozen air rushed in without invitation, but for the first time, I didn't shiver. I looked toward the horizon, where the palace lights glowed with eternal arrogance, and then at my own hands. They were still dirty, marked by slave labor and the court’s disdain, but there was a tremor in them that wasn't from the cold. It was anticipation.

The Royal Wish.

If I won, I wouldn't just ask to stop cleaning floors. I would ask that they never be able to look away again.

I turned back to the table and stared at the blue vial. With a deliberate movement, I picked up the flask. For a second, the temptation of dreamless peace almost won. But then, the image of Kaelthar kicking my bucket—the sneer, the shadow of superiority—burned in my mind like embers.

I tipped the vial, pouring the luminescent liquid into a pot of dead plants in the corner of the room. The earth hissed, but I felt lighter.

The Solstice was coming. And for three days, the barrier between who I was and who I desired to be would be put to the test. I might not have their immortality, but I had something they had long forgotten beneath their masks of perfection: the hunger of one who has nothing to lose.

I closed the window and latched the metal bolt. That night, I didn't dream of the dusty human world, nor of the Witch’s shadow-hands. I dreamed of an arena where I was no longer just a mortal.

Failindor was a realm of pure beauty and cruelty, a place where the perfection of a snowy landscape hid the sharp edge of a dagger.

The morning light the next day streamed through the stained glass of the high wing like shards of diamond, stinging my eyes. I had barely slept, but the lack of the blue "medicine" had done something extraordinary: my senses felt as though they had been sharpened on a whetstone. The scent of pine and ancient magic was so distinct I could almost taste it, and the distant sound of harps in the lower courtyard was no longer a hum, but a melody I could unravel note by note.

I stood before the Witch as she examined the plant pot where, the night before, I had dumped the neon liquid. The dead leaves were now twisted, black as charcoal, exhaling a frigid vapor.

"Elaysia," her voice was a whisper of silk scraping against bone. "You seem... awake."

I kept my head low, forcing my shoulders to relax into the submissive posture I had been perfecting for ten years.

"Yesterday’s dose was strong, Mother," I lied, my voice coming out slow and slurred, feigning a sleepiness I didn't feel. "I’m still processing the stillness."

She approached, her cold fingers touching my wrist, seeking the rhythm of my heart. Every beat felt like a war drum inside my chest, but I fought not to look away.

"Good. The palace is buzzing like a hive. The King has invited delegations from the maritime lands and the courts of Atleryon. There will be plenty of noble blood looking to enjoy themselves at the expense of those who cannot defend themselves."

She turned away and picked up a pair of black lace gloves from the obsidian table.

"Go to the kitchens. Help with the preparations for the opening banquet. And remember: be invisible. If some noble decides you’re a target, don't give me the trouble of having to pick up your pieces."

"Yes, Mother," I replied, backing toward the door.

As I stepped into the corridor, the cold air of the palace hit me, but this time I didn't feel fragile. I felt alive. I had four days. Four days to figure out how a human of flesh and blood could compete in a tournament designed for lesser gods.

As I descended the marble staircases, I caught a glimpse of a heavy velvet tunic and hair as dark as night passing by the balcony above. Kaelthar. He didn't look down, but the aura of power radiating from him made the air vibrate around me.

He looks at me as if I’m nothing more than a house pet. But he didn't know that in four days, I was going to show him that cornered animals are the ones that bite the hardest.

The kitchens of Failindor were a hell of frenetic productivity. Steam from the cauldrons mingled with the essences of rare flowers used by the Fae to season game meat, creating a suffocating environment. For the first time, I didn't feel that torpor that made the chaos bearable. Without the Witch's blue mist, every shout from the chefs and every clink of silver plates pierced my ears like needles.

"Move it, Greenrolde!" shouted a gray-skinned Fae servant, shoving a heavy basket of crystal fruits into my arms. "The guests from the Court of Atleryon have just arrived, and the King wants the tables set before the first leaf of frost falls in the garden."

I didn't answer. I simply bowed my head and began to carry the burden. As I moved through the service corridors, my eyes searched for everything but my path. I observed the guards' weapons, the weight of silver trays that could serve as shields, the entrances and emergency exits known only to rats and servants.

In a shadowed corner near the wine pantry, I felt a quick tug on my sleeve.

It was Myra. She was camouflaged among the heavy curtains, her orange skin almost blending into the tapestry.

"I got it," Myra whispered, her wings trembling so fast they produced a blurred, unstable glow. She looked around, ensuring no sharp-eared guards or servants were nearby. "The first challenge. It will be in the Gardens of the Wandering Roots tomorrow. Right after sunset."

"The Labyrinth," I said, feeling a dry knot in my throat. The gardens of Failindor were not made of ordinary plants; they were botanical traps that breathed and thought.

"It’s not just crossing it, Elaysia. The King has hidden three silver silk banners with the royal crest at the heart of the labyrinth. Whoever brings one of the banners back to the royal platform secures a spot in the second trial. But listen... the labyrinth is not static. It changes shape with fear."

Myra drew so close I felt the heat from her skin. Her brown eyes were wide.

"And it’s not just the labyrinth you have to fear," Myra continued, her voice dropping to an almost inaudible tone while her small hands trembled against the curtain fabric. "The competitors... they’re authorized to use dirty tricks to stop each other. There is no honor in there, Elaysia. Only survival.”

I felt the weight of the fruit basket increase in my arms, but my attention was entirely on her.

"And there is one more thing. Someone you know well secured their name on the list this morning. Elian is participating."

His name hit my ears like the crack of a whip. Elian. A lesser-guard Fae, known for his gratuitous cruelty and a sickening fixation on reminding me, every single day, of how insignificant I was. He didn't have Kaelthar’s refined power, but he possessed a visceral malice—the kind that finds joy in tearing the wings off an insect just to watch it crawl.

I took a deep breath, feeling the cold, magic-less air burn my lungs. Elian was the kind of predator who struck from behind, the kind who shoved me in the corridors and spat in my path. In the labyrinth, he would be a hound.

"Please, be careful," Myra squeezed my arm one last time before merging back into the shadows.

I gripped the fruit basket. Elian’s participation meant the danger wouldn't just come from the garden's traps, but from those who wallowed in the mud with me. I would have to fight on two fronts: against the labyrinth itself and against the Fae who wanted my blood on his hands.

I resumed my pace toward the Great Hall, blending back into the flow of servants who moved like mechanical shadows. My mind, however, worked at a speed no Fae could predict.

To them, the tournament was a display of glory and power; to me, it was a killing field where I was the weakest link. If I tried to fight like them, I would die in the first corridor of thorns. I lacked the supernatural stamina to run miles without tiring, and the magic to bend roots to my will.

Think like a plague, Elaysia, I told myself as I set the fruit on the royal table, under the indifferent gazes of the nobles already taking their seats. A plague doesn't defeat its host by strength; it wins through persistence, poison, and being where no one expects it.

To survive Elian, I would need to use his own arrogance. He would hunt me like an animal, expecting me to run. But what if I stopped? What if the labyrinth, which fed on fear, found something in me it couldn't digest?

As I straightened the white-gold silverware, my eyes fell upon a sharp meat knife left by one of the carvers. For a second, the temptation to hide it under my skirt was almost unbearable. But no. Fae metal would react to my mortal skin if I didn't know how to conceal it. I needed something better. I needed knowledge.

The Witch had books—records of Failindor’s fauna and flora that she kept in her atelier. If I could get in there without her noticing I was no longer under the influence of the nectar, I might find a way to neutralize the botanical traps.

The opening banquet was about to begin. The silver trumpets blared, announcing the court's entry. I squared my shoulders, lowered my eyes, and took my place of servitude in a dark corner of the hall.

The double doors of black oak and silver swung open with a crash that made the floor vibrate. Silence fell over the hall like a shroud of ice. It wasn't the silence of respect, but of absolute dread.

King Valerius entered.

He didn't walk; he seemed to float across the marble, draped in white wolf fur and silks that shimmered like the aurora borealis. His crown was made of golden thorns that seemed to sprout from his own skull. Unlike Kaelthar, whose beauty was sharp, the King's was devastating—a face sculpted from cold marble, with eyes of a silver so pale they appeared blind, though I knew he saw even the darkest intentions hidden in the folds of the soul.

"My subjects, my guests," his voice echoed through the hall, cold and deep as the ocean. "The Winter Solstice approaches, the moment when light bows before shadow and Failindor’s power renews its pact with eternity."

He sat upon the central throne, eyeing the crowd intently.

"This year," he continued, a frigid smile curving his lips, "the amusement will be greater. The Royal Wish is on the table. Many of you believe that brute force will be enough to conquer it. The labyrinth will show you that force is merely a toy for fools."

I felt the King’s gaze sweep the hall. For a terrifying second, I had the impression that those silver eyes lingered on me—huddled there in the shadows among the other servants. My heart raced, thumping against my ribs, a deathly human sound I feared he might hear. But he merely raised a cut-crystal goblet.

"Let the banquet begin. And may the blood of the weak fertilize our garden in the days to come."

As the guests toasted with shouts of joy, I saw Elian on the other side of the hall, laughing loudly while serving wine to a general from the Court of Atleryon. I bowed my head, but inside, something in me roared. The King wanted the blood of the weak, and Elian was already sharpening his claws. But while they celebrated the beginning of the end, I was counting every second.

The King had just given the signal. The game had officially begun. I needed to get out of there, reach the Witch's atelier, and find the answers I needed before the first moon of the Solstice reached its zenith. If the labyrinth fed on fear, I would have to learn how to turn it into something lethal before sunset.

The banquet was a symphony of excess and cruelty masked by melodious laughter. The smell of roasted meat with Fae spices mingled with the intoxicating scent of poppy wine, creating a haze of indulgence that seemed to numb the very air. Musicians played lyres made of whalebone, and the sound was so perfect it bordered on painful. At the tables, nobles from the Courts of Atleryon discussed war strategies and political alliances as if the fate of the world were merely a board game.

I remained motionless against the stone wall, head bowed, body merged with the shadows cast by the heavy tapestries. To anyone watching, I was just part of the furniture, an exhausted servant waiting for orders. But inside, my senses were on high alert.

I saw Elian again. He was more intoxicated now, his pale skin flushed with wine, laughing loudly as he ran a hand through his brown hair. With every burst of his laughter, my stomach twisted in loathing—but also in focus. He was the noise; I needed to be the silence.

King Valerius, on his throne, seemed to watch everything with a divine detachment, while Kaelthar, seated a few feet away, maintained an expression of deathly boredom. Kaelthar neither ate nor drank; he simply spun his cold iron ring, his blue eyes sweeping the hall with the precision of a hawk.

I seized the moment when a new round of wine was served and the movement of servants intensified. I stepped sideways, sliding along the wall toward the small service door that led to the servants' tunnels.

"Where do you think you’re going, little one?" a voice whispered near my ear.

My blood turned to ice. I stopped instantly, my heart hammering against my chest. Slowly, I looked to the side. It was Drax, Kaelthar’s brother. He held a goblet in his hand and wore a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"The... the kitchen, Your Highness. The head chef sent for the desserts," I lied, my voice coming out with the perfect rasp of someone merely performing a tedious task.

Drax examined me for an eternal second, his gaze traveling down my crimson dress to my trembling hands. He let out a short, dry laugh, nudging me slightly with his shoulder.

Drax still held that sadistic smile when a figure approached from behind him. It was Valen. The youngest brother’s eyes sparkled with childish malice, his silk tunic slightly disheveled, a goblet of golden wine in his hand.

"What do we have here?" Valen asked, tilting his head with a tone of amusement that made me clench my nails into my palms.

Drax let out a nasal laugh, never breaking eye contact with me.

"She says she’s on her way to the kitchen. It seems our little one is eager to serve the desserts."

Valen stepped forward, the scent of wine and magic radiating from him. He circled us, eyeing my crimson dress with undisguised disdain.

"Desserts? What a delicious coincidence," Valen said, and before I could recoil, he threw his arm over my shoulder, pulling me against his side with a force that knocked the breath out of me. The touch was possessive and humiliating, as if I were an object he had just found in the hallway. "I find myself suddenly hungry, Drax. Why don't we accompany the little mortal? After all, the entertainment in here is dreadful."

Drax nodded, his emerald eyes meeting mine one last time before positioning himself on my other side.

"An excellent idea, brother. Let’s see what kind of delicacies the kitchen has prepared... and how well Greenrolde can balance a tray."

I was dragged by them out of the main hall, my feet barely touching the ground while the two princes laughed at something I couldn't process. The noise of the banquet faded behind us, replaced by the sound of their boots echoing on the stones of the service corridors. I was trapped between the two, being led away from my escape route, while panic fought to break through the barrier I had built.

The swinging doors of the kitchen flew open with a crash as the princes shoved me inside. The humid heat and the smell of grease and sugar should have been welcoming, but the air suddenly froze. The frantic sound of knives hitting boards and the bubbling of pots ceased instantly.

The servants—lower-caste fae and gnome workers—bowed like wheat under a storm. No one dared to lift their eyes.

"Look at this silence," Valen mocked, tightening his arm around my neck, nearly making me trip. "It seems the arrival of our 'little rag princess' has stolen everyone's words."

Drax walked toward me, the emerald glint in his eyes appearing even colder under the flickering orange torchlight of the kitchen. He reached out and, with agonizing slowness, pinched the crimson fabric of my sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.

"Failindor silk," he murmured, his voice dripping with polished disgust. "Woven by ravine spiders, bathed in moonlight. An outrageous waste."

He dropped the fabric as if he had touched something infected and wiped his fingers on a linen handkerchief.

"You are a sack of rotting meat, Greenrolde. Fragile, perishable, and full of vulgar fluids. Covering your mortal nature with our silk does not make you one of us; it only insults our art." He took a step back, crossing his arms. "Take it off."

The air seemed to be sucked out of my lungs. The silence of the kitchen became deafening; I felt the weight of the lowered gazes of every cook and servant, their secondhand shame pulsing through the room like a suffocating heat.

"Your Highness..." My voice failed me, a broken whisper I hated myself for uttering.

"Did you not hear me?" Drax hissed, his smile vanishing to make way for an authoritative rigidity. "I told you to take it off."

I hesitated, my hands instinctively rising to the bodice of the dress, clenching the fabric in a desperate grip. I felt cold sweat trickle down my back. The embarrassment was a physical wave, a pressure that made my ears ring. I looked at Valen, searching for any trace of hesitation, but he merely leaned against a marble counter, swirling a grape between his fingers, his eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation.

"Come on, little one," Valen encouraged, his voice laced with a fake sweetness. "Or do you want me to help you with the buttons? It would be much less... graceful."

My nails dug into the silk. I could feel Drax’s gaze fixed on every tremor of my fingers.

He wanted me to strip away my last layer of dignity in front of everyone, turning me into nothing more than a private spectacle.

Slowly, my fingers so stiff they barely obeyed, I began to undo the first button at my throat. The sound of the metal sliding through the buttonhole felt like thunder in the silence of the kitchen.

As the silk slipped, I didn't look at the floor. I fixed my eyes on a random spot on the wall, counting my heartbeats. Every laugh from Valen was a nail I hammered into my memory. They thought they were exposing me, but I was merely learning the anatomy of my hatred. I stored every look of disgust as fuel; they would see that mud, once dried, becomes as hard as obsidian.

My golden hair fell like a curtain over my face, trying to create a barrier, however small, between my skin and their scorn.

"Faster," Drax ordered, taking a step forward, his shadow swallowing me whole. "I want to see the creature of flesh the Witch tries so hard to disguise."

The second button gave way, then the third. The humid air of the kitchen, once suffocating, now seemed to lick my skin with an aggressive chill. The crimson fabric began to slide off my shoulders, revealing the paleness of my collarbone, which rose and fell in the frantic rhythm of a cornered animal.

Drax tilted his head slightly, a glint of cruel satisfaction crossing his sculpted features. He didn't blink. He watched the hesitation of my fingers with rapt attention.

"Look at that, Valen," Drax murmured, his voice vibrating with dark delight. "See how her skin reacts to the cold. So reactive. So... primitive."

Valen let out a low chuckle and stepped forward, setting the grape aside. He reached out, not to touch me, but to trace the air inches from my exposed shoulder, as if appreciating the warmth my human body emanated.

"It’s fascinating," Valen agreed, his eyes shining with a malice that made me want to vanish into the stone floor. "The silk hid how small she is. How... breakable."

My fingers trembled so much I could barely hold the fabric. The dress was now held only by my waist. I felt the servants' gazes like embers on my skin, though none of them dared to lift their heads. The weight of my own golden hair, falling over my shoulders, was the only thing keeping me from collapsing under the weight of that humiliation.

"Why have you stopped?" Drax hissed, impatience cutting through his voice like a razor. "Take off the rest. Now."

With a movement that seemed to drain every drop of my will, I let the dress fall completely. The luxury fabric pooled at my feet, a crimson circle upon the gray of the kitchen's dirty marble. I stood there in only my thin undergarments, exposed to the scorn of two immortal princes who looked at me as if I were an object of morbid curiosity.

Valen let out a sigh of satisfaction, crossing his arms over his chest. He took a slow lap around me, lazily examining my arms and the curve of my spine.

"Finally," he said, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "Without the Witch’s adornments, you are exactly what I thought: a creature of mud and bone, waiting to be molded... or crushed."

Drax took a final step, standing so close I could feel the cold emanating from his skin. He used the tip of a gloved finger to tilt my chin up, forcing me to look into his emerald eyes.

"Remember this feeling, Greenrolde," he whispered, his voice so low it was meant only for me. "Remember how easy it is to take everything from you."

He pulled away abruptly, wiping his glove with a linen handkerchief as if the mere proximity to my mortal skin were a contagious disease. That gesture hurt more than the cold.

"That’s enough. Valen, I find the kitchen has become too small for my taste. Let’s head back. Leave the dessert... for the rats."

They left laughing, the sound of their boots echoing back toward the royal hall, leaving behind a silence broken only by my stifled sob and the weight of my own nakedness before the lowered eyes of Failindor.

My fingers, once rigid, now acted out of pure survival instinct. I leaned over, my hair sweeping the dirty marble, and grabbed the crimson dress with a strength that nearly tore the silk. Every second my skin remained exposed to that frigid air and those invisible gazes felt like an eternity of needles piercing my dignity.

I pulled the fabric up with jerky, clumsy movements. Tears burned the back of my eyes, hot and acidic, but I refused to let them fall there. Not in front of them.

"Elaysia..." the voice of one of the servants rose like a cautious whisper, a thread of compassion that nearly broke me.

"No," I cut her off, my voice coming out in a dry rasp.

I finished buttoning the bodice, my fingers bleeding from clutching the metal so hard. The dress, which had once felt like luxury armor, now felt like a shroud. I felt dirty—not from the kitchen floor, but from the way Drax and Valen’s gaze had stripped me of any humanity. They hadn't just taken my clothes; they had tried to prove I was nothing.

But they were wrong.

The shame flooding my chest began to change state. The ice of the tears I suffocated began to boil. Sadness was swallowed by a fury so vast and black it made the torchlight seem pale. If they wanted to see the creature of mud and bone, they would. They would see what mud is capable of when it has been trampled for too long.

I didn't wait for more looks. I didn't ask for permission.

I turned my back and bolted toward the side door. My feet struck the stone, and the sound was no longer that of a submissive servant; it was the rhythm of a war drum. I ran through the service corridors, the cold air whipping my face, cleansing the trace of Valen’s breath from my skin.

I wasn't going to my room. I wasn't going to cry between the sheets. They think they know me because they saw my skin. But they haven't seen what I hide beneath my ribs. The Tournament is no longer a wish; it is my only way out. If I win, the Royal Wish won't be to become one of them. It will be to have the power to destroy them.

I tore through the shadows with blind speed, climbing the staircases toward the forbidden wing. Every step was an oath of vengeance.

I stopped before the heavy door of the Witch’s atelier, breathless. Below, the banquet continued, but for me, the music had ended. I touched the cold doorknob and felt the weight of my destiny. I was going to steal every secret, every poison, and every weakness that tower hid. If the King wanted blood to fertilize the garden, I would ensure the blood wouldn't be mine. I entered, and the darkness of the room welcomed me like an old friend.

***Hello everyone! Welcome to the world of Heir of Chaos. 🖤🔥

This first chapter is only the beginning of Elaysia’s journey in Failindor. I wanted to show right from the start that while the palace may be made of silk and crystal, the cruelty flowing through those immortal veins is very real.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

What did you think of the princes' behavior in the kitchen? (I’ll admit, even I felt a surge of rage while writing this!)

How do you think Elaysia is going to strike back after this?

If you enjoyed this beginning, please don't forget to vote ⭐ and leave a comment. It helps the algorithm show the story to more readers!

See you in Chapter 2, where things are about to get even more intense in the Labyrinth!

— Jenna J. Ashford.