The journey to the Obsidian Citadel was a blur of darkness and biting wind.
Carried effortlessly by King Theroren's unnatural speed, Andrea's head spun until she was dizzy and nauseous.
When the movement finally stopped, she found herself not on solid ground, but tossed unceremoniously onto a cold, dirty stone floor.
She scrambled to her knees, coughing, the stench of old dust and dry stone filling her lungs.
Above her, the massive, brutalist ceiling of the Obsidian Citadel loomed a fortress of black, jagged rock that ate the light.
The room she was in was not a dungeon, but a sparsely furnished servant's quarter a cot covered in thin linen, a wash basin, and a single, cracked window overlooking the bleak, sharp mountains of Carcalidum territory.
Theroren entered, his speed replaced by a slow, deliberate walk that oozed menace.
He looked down at her, still covered in the filth of the Blood Forest, and his expression was one of cold, detached appraisal, as if she were a new tool acquired for a dusty basement.
"The Stiltworts are arrogant and wealthy," Theroren stated, crossing his arms.
"They believe that because they offered gold once, they can ignore the rules of war.
You, however, are now paying their penance."
Andrea glared up at him, her throat tight with a desperate, powerless rage.
"I am not a slave. I am a witness to the truth you refuse to see."
"You are a hostage, witch," Theroren corrected, his voice flat.
"And while I wait for your Grand Witch Duskevil to respond to my claim if she ever deigns to you will earn your meager sustenance.
My guards would throw you in a cell, but I find that inefficient."
He stepped closer, the rich smell of his leather and the cold spice of his unique vampiric scent overwhelming the small room.
"You possess advanced knowledge of archival maintenance, magical wards, and historical records," he continued, listing her skills as if reading from a ledger.
"Knowledge you were kind enough to spend twenty years acquiring at the Coven's expense.
You will now apply that knowledge to the service of the Crimson Court."
He pointed toward a narrow door opposite the cot. "Beyond that door is the Lesser Archives.
It is a disgrace—centuries of disorganized treaties, reports, and political communications.
It needs to be cataloged, cross-referenced, and cleaned of mundane and magical dust."
Theroren's gaze hardened.
"Your sentence is simple: until the Coven meets my demands, you are my personal servant.
You will manage the Archives. You will speak only when spoken to.
You will eat what you are given. And you will not, under any circumstances, attempt to use any magic you may have left."
He bent down slightly, his expression chilling. "The moment a single elemental wisp appears, the moment a page is destroyed, or the moment you attempt to flee, the debt will shift, and I will be forced to use measures that make Grand Witch Duskevil's severance look like a lullaby."
Andrea felt the sting of humiliation more acutely than any physical pain.
A Stiltwort prodigy, reduced to a scholar's scullery maid.
"You are despicable," she whispered.
"I am efficient," Theroren countered, standing straight. "Your first task is simple: clean this room, then report to the Lesser Archives.
You have until dusk to begin cataloging the section on Pre-Truce Trade Routes. Do not fail."
With that, he turned and left, the heavy wooden door closing with a dull thud, leaving Andrea in silence, the overwhelming scent of her enemy still hanging in the air.
Furious, Andrea kicked the stone wall. The pain was dull and real a stark reminder of her powerlessness.
She was a slave now.
She marched to the narrow, dusty door Theroren had indicated and pushed it open. The Lesser Archives was a dark, cavernous space lined with shelves reaching toward the vaulted ceiling, and thick with the scent of aged paper and neglect.
As she dragged a stool to the first shelf, her fingers brushing over a stack of yellowed maps and brittle treaties, she noticed a single, strange book pushed deep into a corner.
It was smaller than the others, bound in dull, deep-red leather, and titled
"The Carcalidum Curse A Critical Analysis.
" It looked out of place among the political documents.
A flicker of hope ignited in the cold emptiness of her chest.
Theroren had given her labor, but he had also given her access
. If she couldn't fight him with magic, she would find the weakness in his fortress and the flaw in his history. Her exile was now a mission of espionage.
King Theroren leaned against the doorframe of the dusty archive, watching Andrea scrub centuries of grime from the shelves.
His presence alone was an icy dismissal of her existence.
"You speak of truth and justice, yet your greatest asset, your powerful magic, abandoned you at the first sign of real danger," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion.
"You claim the Stiltworts are innocent, but your defense is as flimsy as your lost wards. Be cautious, little witch, for your tongue now the only weapon you seem to possess is a pitiful and powerless thing, far too weak to ever convince a King."