Page 14 of The Demon's Tongue

As I scrub myself down, my mind wanders. I think of Calix, of his piercing red eyes and that infuriating smirk. What game is he playing? And more importantly, how do I win it?

"Time's up!" The servant's voice cuts through my thoughts, shrill and annoying. I think of Miss Pickett and how she would let us go days without showering if we made her too angry.

I grab a threadbare towel, quickly drying off. My brief moment is peace is interrupted by Derina, one of the dark elf servants who loves to pick on me for any little reason.

She grabs me by the arm, which makes me stumble forward. I grimace, hoping the crystals don't fall out of my grasp. If they do, I'm as good as dead.

"Come along, girl. We need to get you dressed."

"What?" I ask. "What for? I had clothes over there?—"

"Stop asking questions."

Derina's grip on my arm tightens as she drags me down unfamiliar corridors.

"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice echoing off the ornate walls.

Silence. Derina's face remains impassive, her eyes fixed ahead.

"Hello? Can you hear me?" I scrunch up my nose. "Or did your ears suddenly stop working?"

Still nothing. Great.

We stop in front of an intricately carved wooden door. Derina pushes it open, revealing a bedroom that's definitely not mine. The opulence is jarring after days of sleeping in cramped quarters.

"Whose room is this?" I ask, stepping inside. The plush carpet sinks beneath my feet. "What's going on?"

Derina bustles around the room, pulling items from an ornate wardrobe. Her silence is maddening.

"Fine, don't answer. See if I care," I mutter, crossing my arms. Maybe I can steal her soul with one of these crystals. I wouldn't mind that at all.

The only problem is that I have no fucking idea how to do that, which is a shame.

She approaches with a bundle of fabric that looks more expensive than anything I've ever touched. I take a step back.

"Oh no, I'm not wearing that. Where are my clothes?"

Derina's eyes narrow. She gestures impatiently at the garments.

"Nope. Not happening. I want my old clothes back."

Swiftly, Derina's hand lashes out, catching me across the cheek. The sting brings tears to my eyes. "Stupid girl. Stop asking questions."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

As Derina helps me into the outfit, I can't help but feel like a doll being dressed up for someone else's amusement. The fabric is soft against my skin, but it leaves little to the imagination. My stomach churns with dread.

"Can you at least tell me why I'm wearing this?" I ask, tugging at the low neckline.

Derina's lips twitch, almost like she's fighting a smile. But then her face smooths back into that infuriating mask of indifference.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror and barely recognize the girl staring back. The dress, if you can call it that, clings to every curve. It's a far cry from the shapeless sacks we usually wear.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, turning away from my reflection.

The door swings open with a creak, and my heart leaps into my throat. Sylas stands there, his white hair gleaming in the dim light. His eyes, cold and calculating, sweep over me, and I fight the urge to cover myself.

"Well, well," he drawls, a smirk playing on his lips. "Don't you clean up nicely?"

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