Page 17 of Wrath of the Never Queen

“Quiet,” he orders before dragging me away from the table. The servants part for us as he marches me to the door. I recognise Inez among them. She breaks away from the group and scurries after us.

“Get your hands off me!” I claw at the prince’s hand but he squeezes hard enough to leave bruises. He pulls me through the corridor until we reach the door to my bedchambers. Terror seizes me and I lash out with my whole body, desperately trying to free myself from his grip like a wild animal caught in a trap. I sink my teeth into his forearm but the prince pays me no mind.

He opens the door easily with one handand flings me into the room. I spin, teeth bared and ready to fight. The prince stands in the doorway and, for the first time, his eyes meet mine. He opens his mouth to say something but I do not give him a chance.

“If you touch me, I will kill you,” I snarl.

He closes his mouth and regards me for a moment. I stare back, eyes wild and chest heaving. Blood trickles down his arm from where I bit him and I can taste the tang of blood on my tongue.

“Yes,” he replies eventually, his voice calm. “I believe you would.”

I remain tense and ready to pounce as soon as he makes any movement towards me. But he does not. Instead, he dips his head.

“Goodnight, Miss Shivani,” he says and then he is gone.

Chapter 8

My food is laced with drugs.

Every day, myophidgrows more and more lethargic. Sleep eludes me. I lay awake each night, taut with fear of an attack from the prince or the king. Or that myophidwill wither away from underuse. The magic I usually feel so strongly thrumming beneath the surface of my skin has gone nearly silent. I weep for hours, unable to do anything about it. It is not only a strength I have lost but a connection. To my aunt and my mother and my identity. It has been ripped from me. I am a witch with no witchcraft.

Crocas can outrun any other animal in the swamp, including people. Their legs are short compared to their scaly bodies, more suited to swimming in the thick swamp water. But on land, they are deceptively quick, patiently waiting for their moment to strike. In order to tame them, the croca shepherds clip a muscle atthe back of their legs. Not deep enough to cripple them completely, but enough that they cannot run.

I wonder if any of them feel as I do now.

Clipped.

The maids continue to visit each morning, although they rarely speak to me. Inez brings breakfast trays filled with soft, fresh bread, salted butter, and mounds of cooked eggs. Hot tea is routinely brought throughout the day, served in delicate ceramic mugs and accompanied by bowls filled with sugar cubes. I eye them warily and yearn for the spiced cinnamon tea Aunt Meena used to make for me whenever I was stressed over my studies.

My heart aches, and hot tears bubble to the surface whenever I think of her. I dream of her library and the warm glow of herau’manaand the smell of the books. I miss drawing with her, scraping together materials to make paint, and creating art she would proudly display on the walls of her home.

I miss her, but I refuse to grieve for her. Grieving means she is lost to me, but I will get her back.

I draw my knees up to my chest and bury my face in my arms, refusing to eat the food the maids bring to me. I hope I can outlast the hunger until the drugs wear off and myau’manareturns to me. Maybe then I have a chance at escape.

After a few days, I begin to feel dizzy when I stand and my stomach cramps painfully. I attempt to get out of bed but my legs buckle beneath me, and I crumble to the floor like a piece of flimsy paper. Inez catches me before I hit the ground, her arms strong but her grip soft, and she places me back into bed.

“Please, Miss Shivani,” she begs me. “You are killing yourself.”

I rub my tired eyes. My limbs are as heavy as lead, and I struggle to find the energy to fight anymore. Inez glances at the rest of the maids as they peer at me with curious eyes and shoos them away. Once we are alone, she sits on the stool beside my bed.

“I know you do not trust the food,” she whispers, sitting me upright against the pillows. “But it does not come from the king. I can promise you that.”

“It is laced,” I croak back, insistent. Tears spill down my face, but I do not have the energy to brush them away. “Myophidis…it does not work. Something is dulling it. It must be the food.”

Inez picks at her nails, looking at me with worry in her eyes.

“I am sorry, miss. I do not know the intricacies of witchcraft,” she says before clasping my hand. “But the food is not being tampered with. Please, just…just eat.”

I eye the tray of breakfast food.

“How will you fight when you have no energy?” Inez nudges the tray closer to me with an encouraging smile. I search her eyes carefully. There is no malice there. Despite myself, I give a small smile back and take a bite of the bread roll.

As I start and end each day with a full stomach, I find my old energy returning. But myau’manaremains frustratingly out of reach. I inspect each meal thoroughly, turning over each bit of food and holding it in my mouth for discrepancies in taste before I swallow. But I am either being incredibly well deceived, or Inez is right, and the food is not spiked. Both possibilities send my mind whirring as I try to understand what is blocking my magic from me. If I can just figure it out, I can break through this castle and find my freedom again.

Regardless, I find myself sleeping better as I recover. Several days cycle on, and the threat of a sudden attack in my bedchamber wanes in my mind. I am still caged, but I am fed and—for the next six months—safe. I picture an hourglass over my head, the grains of sand trickling slowly through until my six months is up. I can escape before then. I can return to my Aunt.

But something else gnaws at me, which I had not considered. The isolation.

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