The castle was one of the few places in the upper city that was still as pristine as it had been before the war began. The Fae preferred it that way. Ruins everywhere but their own home.

  In the beginning, young Faedemons were sent to clean the place daily or hide the bloodstains that wouldn’t entirely come out.

  Corabelle had been among the first clean up crew, back when the orders came to end the royal family and their guard.

  While she was assigned to remove tiny bodies from bassinets and haul larger ones from elaborate canopied beds. She was thankful, at least, she hadn’t been the one to end their lives. That had been left to someone older, stronger.

  Scrubbing the stains from cloth was near impossible by the time she arrived. The blood had long staled, the rot setting into the corpses that were slowly becoming one with the fabrics.

  But the Fae demanded the palace be returned to how it had been when humans ruled.

  Though, she knew they didn’t really care about the history. They knew they would rule; they didn’t need a castle. It was simply another play in their never ending stream of psychological torment.

  Surprisingly, though, this war had gone on far longer than she’d expected.

  While the Fae had control over the major kingdoms of Greater Verdiante, the smaller villages still harbored resistances.

  The Fae took over the large nations expecting the best fighters to die in the process, but they didn’t expect the smaller Houses of Magic to band together or the physical strength of blacksmiths and farmers.

  Those with miniscule Sparks were practically invisible to them.

  Fae tracked magical power, which made the weaker humans far stronger. Most Fae killed were ambushed by those who didn’t even practice magic.

  Though she hardly thought about it anymore, some part of Corabelle's mind told her that any family she might have left was well hidden, safe.

  “Mistress Cora?” A voice tore her gaze away from the stained bassinet.

  She raised her eyes to see one of the few human slaves hovering tensely in the doorway.

  She never addressed the slaves. She refused to speak their Faegiven titles and if their birth names were spoken, they’d be killed immediately and she wouldn’t dare subject them to that.

  One never wanted to be a fresh body in the home of the Fae.

  This young woman knew this fact all too well, and didn’t wait for Corabelle to speak, “The High Masters wish to speak with you.”

  It was not uncommon for the Fae to send a human slave to deliver minor orders. For a short while they used Zaramir for this, forcing him to control her, to break her.

  But they had been separated long ago, the day she’d been brought to the palace. Since that day, all she’d heard from him was orders shoved into her brain from afar. Around a year ago, though, they stopped sending messages through him all together, favoring human slaves instead.

  She gave a short nod as she blew out the only candle illuminating the shadowy room.

  Muted footsteps hardly echoed in the empty hall as she made her way to the throne room. The beautifully woven rugs had been moved ever so slightly to cover the stains of decay on the flooring. The tapestries had patches sewn over, images blended with the original artwork.

  The whole place smelled ever so vaguely of blood and rot even years later.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Two younger Faedemons flanked the large oak doors to the great hall, dressed in scarlet to better hide the bloodstains of their corrections.

  They bowed their heads respectfully as she approached. One used to be a human slave, hardly recognizable with his perfect skin and clean auburn hair. His name used to be Althio; She'd heard it only once.

  He now had a Faedemon designation that could not be spoken aloud by anyone other than himself or his master. This name she didn’t know.

  The other was a woman, perhaps turned a few months prior to him. Her raven hair was cropped short, slicked back with tallow to keep the unruly strands from her eyes.

  Corabelle didn’t know her name, human nor Faegiven. She wasn't a palace slave. Perhaps she used to be a mage; killed in battle or maybe she was a peasant who died of starvation. There were any number of ways she could have died in this gods forsaken war.

  It was just unfortunate her body had been found fresh.

  They pushed the heavy doors open as she reached them, revealing the expansive throne room. This was the only room that had been changed.

  Plants grew from planter beds placed all around; High Flower that filled the room with a scent far worse than old blood. The scent that followed the High Fae everywhere; The overbearing, betraying scent of beautiful nature.

  Representatives of the High Fae Courts sat atop large thrones at the far end of the room. Three had belonged to the previous king, queen, and their eldest daughter. The remaining dozen were salvaged from other kingdoms, leaving a strange assortment of mismatched grandeur.

  Each Fae sat in a more refined version of the armour of Zaramir’s design. Sculpted for mobility and elegance. The first iterations were sloppy but functional. They kept the Fae alive in the first wave of the invasion. The newest had become the intricate artwork of only the most competent of the freshly enslaved dead.

  The metal consisted of tiny panels so smooth and well fitted they almost moved like fabric or the skin of a serpent. The material became an elegant robe for the fae, like gods draped in silver.

  Some of the Fae had demanded crown jewels be fitted into the headpieces to mock the human royalty. The helms now had enchanted tempered glass across the front so one could gaze upon the face of their new rulers crowned in the gems of old.

  Corabelle silently paced into the room with her head low, stopping as she reached the king’s dais.

  She fell to her knees, curling into the expected deep bow. The heavy tight knot of long hair on the back of her head pushed her forehead further into the stale carpet. Her legs were tucked tight against her stomach. Her elbows kept her balanced, her hands folded under her chest, pinned to the floor; A position of complete subservience and vulnerability. She could be killed in a second and she would never even see them move.

  The voice of the center most Fae pierced her mind, “Corabelle.” Ice ran through her veins, her body turning as rigid as stone as her eyes bored into her own loose white gown of a middle tier Demon billowed around her.

  She hadn’t heard her real name in years. She even kept it from her own mind. She hadn’t even known that Fae knew it. They weren’t her direct masters. She hadn’t told them, so they must have gotten that information from Zaramir.

  He'd even hardly ever used her real name, even before she belonged to him, especially after she did.

  It hadn’t occurred to her why he chose not to use her real name until long after they were separated. A name tied a Demon to a master, gave them dominion. He never wanted to consider himself her master. He’d never even wanted her to call him ‘Sir’.

  Corabelle knew he'd never willingly offered this to them. For him to have given direct control over her to them they would have had to extract that information from the recesses of his brain. It would have been slow, torturous.

  She didn’t dare to move, to react. Whatever they were doing, whatever mental war they were raging, she knew she had to stay still and silent.

  She couldn’t give them a reason to pry further. However they’d extracted this information, she didn’t wish for it to happen again.

  Still she couldn't stop the cold sweat from breaking across her body, couldn’t stop her extremities from numbing.

  But when their thrall provided no response, they communicated again, driving nails through the soft grey matter, “You belong to my court now. Your orders shall come from us alone.”

  What happened to Zaramir? The traitorous thought surged through her brain before she could still her mind.

  “Your old Master will not be giving you orders any longer.” Their words were simple but void of any real answer. Though they were truthful. Fae couldn’t lie.

  The last time she heard from Zaramir, a snappy pained order to kill a slave, was the last time she’d ever hear his voice.