Rapture by L.V. Lane
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Winter
TODAY IS THE day.
I dress without thinking, aided by my maid, eyes barely taking in the whimsical creation of pale blue silk and lace. Subconsciously, my fingers sought this gown from among all the others earlier. It is my favorite one, I reflect, and my heart needed the bolster today.
With my long hair swept over one shoulder, the maid busies herself fastening the tiny pearl buttons up my back.
A light tap upon the door coincides with my maid fastening the last button, and she hastens to the door.
Soft words are spoken before the door is shut again.
The maid returns to my side. “They are ready for you, mistress,” she says.
Nerves assault me, and I suck a sharp breath in.
Her gentle hand resting against my shoulder offers compassion I do not deserve.
A weak smile is the best I can do. “I am ready,” I say, although assuredly, I am not.
The first step is the hardest, but once the momentum is built, somehow, my feet take me forward. The door opens. Two hulking warriors wait for me on the other side. Then we are walking, taking the narrow corridors of Sanctum, down winding stairs, along farther passages, until we arrive at the grand double doors to the king’s audience chamber.
More warriors wait outside the chamber, moving swiftly to throw the doors wide open.
A hush settles over the great chamber. The high vaulted ceilings house flickering candelabras. Before me, a long aisle leads to the dais, where the king stands in wait. To either side of the aisle, crowds of humans, warriors, and fairies of every designation turn to stare.
I want to shrink back, turn, and run all the way back to my room. But I still have pride, and that carries me inside.
A mantle of sobriety infects the room. Like much of Sanctum’s undercroft, the only lights come from the flickering candles and high sconces adorning the stone walls.
After Sendar fell, I felt safest in the lowest chamber. But as the years went on, I missed the daylight and the stars at night.
My mind is cast further adrift with every step. Too frantic for coherence, I cannot settle upon any one thought for more than a fleeting moment. My eyes remain locked upon the king and my destination. To the left and right of the crowd are higher tiers from which the upper echelon observes. Everyone watches me. It takes every bit of my will to maintain my composure against the tide of their disapproval.
The great iron door closing sets my thoughts scattering like raindrops into an ocean.
I cling to my mental armor, convincing myself that this cannot end as I fear. I am high Blood.
Can they really mean to release Jacob from the binding?
“You are to become the first,”Blue said. “The first master gifted to a warrior—a warrior released from the binding.”
Try as I might, I cannot discount my deeds and actions, and which have led me to this moment. It is hard to credit that Jacob saved both Melody and me, despite my refusal to give him blood.
I should have fed him freely, even before we became slaves. And after, when we were slaves… Only a fool would be miserly with blood at such a time.
In some ways, I wish he hadn’t saved me, had snatched Melody from my arms and taken her to safety. Better I be dead than bring such shame upon my caste.
The many ranks of warriors and Blood surrounding me stir like constant ripples in a pond—gasps, murmurs, frowns, and sneers. I have endeared myself to no one for as far back as I can remember. It should not surprise me that they now regard me with open malice.
High to my left is the balcony where the Chosen watch on—Hook, Maggot, Blue, and others.
I have never needed their love nor sought even their approval. Once upon a time, I held their respect, and that had been enough. All respect is now gone. I am high Blood, and the few who likewise claim this lofty rank want me brought to heel for the shame I have brought upon their caste.
The underlings and the mid-tiers, who had once been far beneath me, now witness my demise with perverse satisfaction.
All relish my downfall with open, sadistic joy.
As I reach the dais, my steps falter as I see Jacob waiting. His hazel eyes hold a fervor of a man injured and kept short of blood.
I swallow. My feet root to the spot, refusing to take me farther.
His cheeks are a little hollowed, due to his abstinence and the prior torture. The force of his presence, his size and power over me, his rugged features that are unquestionably handsome, and his scent that I have been starved of, all act upon me. They may have untethered us such that he was able to speak freely, but the imprinting that began when we were orc slaves still holds me in its grip.
Seamlessly, he comes to stand at my side, covering for my fault in not taking the last step.
A hush falls over the gathered crowd as the king steps to the front of the dais.
I have been here many times to listen to the king speak of the war and events of every kind, from trials to the more joyous joining ceremonies.
“You are indebted to him, Winter,” the king says. “A life for a life.”
His words are greeted by silence. That I manage to hold my poise is a testament to my iron will.
“There will be consequences,” he continues when I remained mute. “Your actions could have cost your life, the life of a loyal warrior, and the life of a child. A keystone has been found, but another is now lost. You could have endangered every person here within Sanctum.”
Each word is a nail into the coffin of my doom. I can feel it as surely as if the nails were real and being driven into my flesh. I have been told that I am cold. Winter’s Chill, Winter’s Storm, The Ice Bitch—my names are many and never complimentary. But today, I am as frigid as death itself and I feel every year of my age.
My fingers ache as I grip my chiffon gown tightly enough to turn knuckles white while I await my fate.
The king steps back a pace. Both warrior class and high Blood, he will eventually transcend to join the Chosen. “It does not matter what your intentions were,” he says at length when I do not answer. “You were there the day Sendar fell. You know better than many here what is at stake. Your Blood status has allowed you abstinence from the war for longer than it should have. There is a balance between Blood and warrior. Respect must go both ways.”
Respect? He is right. When have I given my respect to anyone? I disdain the Chosen, and I accept the king. The warriors, the Blood, the Feeders, and the Breeders, all were previously of fleeting importance to me. I gave only the minimum of my time and blood.
And the war?
I do not even respect that we are at war.
I do not respect my own Goddess gifted life.
Worse, I have wasted many human lifetimes in self-pity, thinking myself above everyone and special because I suffered once.
I suffered once, but I made those around me suffer ever after.
I am not yet ready for my sentence, but I am reconciled that it must be done.
“Indebted,” the king says ominously. “And your greatest debt is to the warrior at your side.”
