I wake to the sound of bells - deep, resonant chimes that seem to vibrate through the castle's bones. Dawn light filters through tall windows, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that feel too warm for this cold place.
The furs beneath me are still soft, but my body aches from sleeping on the floor. Every movement reminds me of yesterday - the brand on my hip throbs, and the collar around my throat feels heavier in daylight.
Kael is already awake, standing by the window fully dressed in black leather and silver clasps. He doesn't turn when I stir, but I know he's aware of my every movement.
"Rule one," he says without preamble, his voice cutting through the morning quiet. "You do not rise before I give permission."
I'm already sitting up, already defying him without meaning to. Something flickers in his reflection in the window glass - amusement, maybe.
"Rule two. You do not speak unless spoken to."
I bite back the dozen questions burning on my tongue. Where am I supposed to relieve myself? When do I eat? What happens if I'm sick?
"Rule three. You eat what I give you, when I give it to you. From my hand, like the pet you are."
My stomach clenches with hunger, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Rule four. When I call, you come. Crawling, if I so choose."
The image makes my skin crawl, but I don't let it show.
"Rule five. You sleep where I tell you. You go where I tell you. You exist at my pleasure and my pleasure alone."
He finally turns, those dark eyes finding mine across the room. "Do you understand, Pet?"
I nod once, sharp and defiant. Not broken. Not yet.
His lips curve in that cold smile. "Good. Now come here."
I stand and walk to him - not crawl, walk, and see something flicker in his expression. The first small rebellion, noted and filed away.
"Breakfast," he says, moving to a side table where servants have already laid out a morning meal. Silver platters hold delicacies I've never seen - pastries dusted with sugar, fresh fruit that gleams like jewels, meats that smell like heaven.
My mouth waters, but I wait.
He tears off a piece of honey-glazed bread and holds it out. "Open."
The command burns, but hunger burns worse. I part my lips and let him feed me, his fingers brushing my mouth. The bread is soft, sweet, perfect - and it tastes like shame.
"Good pet," he murmurs, and I hate how those words make something twist in my chest.
A knock at the door interrupts us. "Enter," Kael calls.
A young woman slips inside - pretty, with auburn hair and worried eyes. She curtseys deeply, but I catch her quick glance in my direction. Curiosity mixed with pity.
"Your Highness, your presence is requested in the council chambers."
"Of course it is." Kael's voice carries irritation. He looks at me, then at the servant. "Mira, isn't it?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Take Pet to the kitchens. See that she's... oriented to her new position."
The way he says 'oriented' makes it sound like a threat.
Mira curtseys again. "Of course, Your Highness."
Kael moves toward the door, but pauses beside me. His hand touches my throat, fingers tracing the collar. "Remember the rules, Pet. I'll know if you break them."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with Mira and the weight of his expectations.
Mira doesn't speak until his footsteps fade down the corridor. Then she turns to me with eyes full of sympathy and fear.
"Come on then," she whispers. "Best get you sorted before he changes his mind about leaving you with me."
She leads me through stone corridors alive with morning activity - servants hurrying past with linens and trays, guards changing shifts, the distant sound of horses from the courtyard.
Everyone we pass stares. At my collar. At the way I walk freely beside Mira instead of crawling behind her. At the defiance they can apparently see written across my face.
"You're the new pet," says a kitchen maid as we enter the sprawling space belowstairs. It's not a question.
"She is," Mira answers for me. "His Highness wants her... oriented."
The kitchen falls silent. And every servant in sight is staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and horror.
"How long?" asks the cook, a stern woman with flour-dusted hands.
"How long what?" I ask, breaking rule two without thinking.
"How long before you disappear," she finishes. "Like the others."
"Others?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
"Seven girls in two years," Margaret says bluntly, ignoring Mira's warning look. "All pets. All gone without a trace."
My blood turns to ice. "What happened to them?"
"Nobody knows. Officially, they were 'relocated.' Unofficially..." She shrugs, but her eyes are grim. "Empty rooms. No goodbyes. And rumors about screaming the night before they vanished."
"Margaret, please—" Mira starts.
"She deserves to know what she's walking into," Margaret cuts her off. "Maybe she's different. Maybe she's the one who won't break."
"Or disappear," whispers a scullery maid.
"What was I supposed to be oriented about?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Your duties," Mira says uncomfortably. "Serve his meals. Clean his chambers. Be available when he calls."
"Available for whatever he wants," Margaret adds. "That's what pet means, girl."
Seven girls. Seven who wore this collar, slept on those furs, and vanished when they either broke or refused to break.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
Margaret steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because maybe you're strong enough to survive. Maybe you're the one who can..."
"Can what?"
"End this," she breathes. "You're not like the others. I can see it in your eyes."
Before I can respond, footsteps echo in the corridor. "He's coming back," Mira breathes, pulling me toward the door. "Remember - you're not the first. But maybe you can be the last."
We reach Kael's chambers just as his footsteps round the corner. Mira pushes me inside and curtseys as he approaches.
"Was she... oriented?" he asks, something sharp in his tone.
"Yes, Your Highness. She knows her duties."
His dark eyes find mine, searching. "And what are your duties, Pet?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "To serve you, Master."
The word tastes like ash, but I say it anyway. Let him think I'm learning submission.
He nods, satisfied. "Good. You may go, Mira."
When we're alone, he studies me for a long moment. "You spoke to them."
It's not a question. My heart pounds, but I keep my voice steady. "They spoke to me."
"And what did they tell you?"
"That I should be grateful for your... attention."
His smile is sharp as a blade. "And are you? Grateful?"
"Yes, Master."
The lie comes easier this time. Maybe that should scare me more than it does.
"We'll see," he murmurs, moving closer. His hand touches my cheek, thumb tracing along my jawline. "Kneel."
The word hits me like a physical blow. I know I should obey. Seven girls learned what happens when you don't. But something in me - that wild, stubborn thing that refused to scream when the iron burned - rebels against the command.
I don't move. Can't make myself sink to the floor at his feet, even though every instinct screams that my life might depend on it.
"I said kneel, Pet."
"I heard you."
The slap comes fast, sharp across my cheek. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to sting. Enough to remind me who holds the power here. The taste of blood fills my mouth where my teeth cut into my lip.
"Rule four," he says calmly, as if he hasn't just struck me. "When I call, you come. When I command, you obey."
I touch my cheek, pride warring with survival in my chest. This is it - the moment where I choose. Dignity or death. Defiance or disappearance.
"And if I don't?" I ask, because I have to know.
His smile turns cold. "Then you'll learn what happened to the others."
So he knows I know. Of course he does. Nothing happens in this castle without his knowledge.
"Kneel," he says again, his voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous.
This time, I sink to my knees. Not because I'm broken. Not because I'm afraid - though I am, bone-deep and trembling. But because I'm learning to pick my battles. Because survival requires sacrifice, and I'm not ready to die for pride.
Not yet.
"Better," he murmurs, fingers tangling in my hair. "Much better."
The shame burns worse than the slap. Burns worse than the brand on my hip. Because part of me - a small, traitorous part - almost finds comfort in his approval.
But as I kneel there, his hand in my hair and his satisfied smile burning into my memory, I make myself another promise:
Margaret was right, i'm not like the others.