The tension in the dining room was thick and choking.


    No one touched their food.


    My father, ever composed, held his glass high, waiting.


    Typhon followed, his smile deepening.


    Zagan was next, with a roll of his eyes. The disrespect went unchecked.


    The librarian, Franklin, Lord Amber—my great-uncle lifted his glass, dumped it on the floor, and set it face down on the table.


    My mouth dropped open. The glass that was half raised froze mid-air.


    Tracey gasped. Her hands, as unsteady as mine, spilled some of the red liquid on her fingers.


    The Duchess snapped her fan closed before lifting her glass, smiling at her husband.


    Selena mirrored her mother.


    Bastien, calm, portraying the picture of indifference, raised his glass.


    We all stood while one man remained seated.


    "To loyalty," the Duke said.


    There it was again—that word—like he''d peered into my mind and peeked at a secret. It crawled over my skin and made it feel too tight, caged in a way that had nothing to do with walls.


    I glanced at my great-uncle. He radiated uncooperative silence, and his relationship with the Duke seemed contentious, but silence could mean many things. It could be safety, but it could just as easily mean betrayal.


    The family, the main members—those in on the secret, acted like they didn''t notice Franklin''s actions.


    I sat. The scent of meat wafted towards me. All over again, I couldn''t breathe.


    The fire. My—Milly''s scream. Blackened skin and the smoke.


    I swallowed hard, my hand pressing against my stomach.


    "You look unwell," the Duchess said, a hint of amusement in her voice.


    I felt the weight of everyone''s gaze. I knew it was on purpose. With the room sealed room, where would wind come from? I''d waited for the test, relieved when it happened, but burning anger boiled through me.


    I forced my head to me, dropping and shaking from side to side.


    "Not hungry?" Selena asked with concern, regaining her confidence.


    I was glad I was the unifying factor that allowed them to find their footing.


    I didn''t answer.


    The Duke''s gaze lingered, and then, satisfied, he turned his attention to Typhon. "You''ve served the family for many years," he said, sipping his drink. "I hope you and your son will continue to do so."


    Typhon dipped his head. "I''ll think about it, my lord. I''ve gotten old, and I''m looking forward to my retirement."


    "That is my intention, my lord," Zagan said, his attention on me more often than not.


    The Duke picked up his knife, and the others followed suit. I''d never had an appetite, and my stomach wouldn''t allow me to fake eating. Still, I forced myself to pick up my knife, my hands unsteady.


    "She made a mess in my library, and I expect her to fix it. And take the blasted roast off the table. William must have dropped you on the head if you think this nonsense is acceptable." He wasn''t talkative, but made an impact when he spoke. "Typhon you''ll serve the mangy one at the end of the table—the one with the pink hair—at least then some of my books will find the right shelf. Zagan, you''ll serve the other mangy one at the end of the table. Maybe you can curb her wild ambitions before she gets in trouble."


    The meal was tense, only the sound of cutlery breaking the silence.


    Franklin seemed unaware of the storm he''d cause, eating with relish.


    The Duke sat stone-faced, his jaw working, causing a muscle to jump in his cheek.


    I ate small bites, the food tasting like ash, regretting and grateful I''d taken a fasting pill.


    The roast was gone, but my stomach hadn''t settled. I wasn''t sure it ever would. Anxiety had taken over as the cause of my upset, though the smell lingered, clinging to the linens and mind.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Franklin hadn''t betrayed me, but this would attract the eyes of the Kala Tribe.


    I''d have to see how he treated me before deciding if I needed to share another secret, a larger one.


    I knew his wording was an excuse for the family, but they wouldn''t tolerate any kindness.


    "You look pale," the Duke said, no doubt attributing to my fear of what was to come at the hands of Franklin. Well, he wasn''t totally convinced, watching carefully.


    My hand paused, twirling the fork. I hadn''t touched the dinner knife, never did, and shouldn''t start now, but my fingers twitched towards it, craving the illusion of safety it would bring.


    "Perhaps she''s unwell," Zagan said, his tone playful. He turned sparkling eyes towards me, bright and far too focused.


    "She has a match," the Duke said, sounding—disappointed...


    Zagan only smiled, turning back to his meal.


    The Duke exhaled, making an odd sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "Eat," he said, gesturing towards my plate.


    I hesitated for too long.


    "Is there something else disagreeable on the table? Have I served something else you deem unfit?"


    I didn''t understand before something on my plate caught my eye. My hand threatened to rise, jerking before I forced it back onto the table. "No,"  said.


    The demand settled like lead in my stomach, heavy as a hand on the back of my neck.


    Roast sat on my plate, hidden among the carrots and Brussels sprouts.


    Ah, there it was, the expected cruelty. However, Selena was usually the one who engaged in this sort of pettiness. My fingers tightened around my fork.


    It was punishment for the librarian humiliating him. I could eat it now, or risk finding a plate waiting in my room—that might happen, anyway.


    I speared the meat, unable to stop my mind from linking this to my son''s flesh. The juices pooled, bubbling from where the fork wounded it, and the scent curled and burrowed into my lungs.


    My stomach twisted.


    I raised the bite.


    I couldn''t get my mouth to open, a tear streaming down my face.


    I gagged.


    Just get through it. Get it over with.


    I brought it closer, holding my breath...


    Then there was a sound—someone moved—just slightly, but it was enough. The chair creaked, and my father''s gaze snapped away, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.


    It was enough.


    I shoved the fork toward my face, touching it to my lips where I used the contact to put it into the system''s storage—but it wasn''t enough and too much.


    The texture was too soft, too wet, yet somehow sticky. There was no blood—the meat thoroughly cooked, but I could smell the heavy metal tang of blood and the acidic stench of piss. I knew what it would taste like. I had memories of that, but what I''d eaten before and what my mind associated it with now melted into one. The texture clung to my teeth, erasing the mint, staining so deep I''d never be free.


    My stomach twisted.


    My body turned, heaving, and what little I ate ended up on the floor.


    "That''s new," Selena said. "Is she pregnant?"


    ***


    I lay in bed, face covered with a damp cloth.


    The sickness rolled through me, similar again to seasickness but different, worse in ways I couldn''t explain—a deep testing nausea, sharp and relentless, lingering out of malice that had nothing to do with the meat but everything to do with the mind.


    No water or sweet dispelled it.


    No remedy pill eased its effects.


    I curled onto my side, swallowing the bile. My stomach had nothing left to give. I pressed my head into the pillow—that musty, mildew smell rose to greet me.


    My body couldn''t stop shaking.


    A war raged inside me—mind vs body, reality vs imagination. There would be no winners.


    Cathrine stood close, more for her presence than to offer any help. She''d done her best: wiping my brow with a damp cloth, feeding me water, and trying to distract me.


    I wanted to rest. "Fill the bath." This would be my second for the night, but I couldn''t stand the stickiness that coated me.


    She didn''t speak. She hadn''t said a word since we left the dining room. I wasn''t sure why, but I was grateful for the silence. I didn''t know the type of person I''d be if we spoke now.


    I sank into the warm water, not even flinching as my head slipped beneath the water. There were no sounds except that watery thump—the muffled, rustling gurgle.


    I broke water, gasping, my stomach revolting, but quieter, drowned out by the racing, panicked thump of my heart.


    I didn''t linger, rising and shrugging on my night-chemises.


    As I sat at the vanity, Cathrine reaching for the towel to dry my hair--there was a knock at the door.


    My heart stuttered to a stop before picking up an erratic beat.


    The knock came again, and I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to follow the plan and crawl into bed.


    My eyes glanced over.


    Would they drag me out? I wondered.


    Cathrine''s gaze met mine, the question clear ''Should I answer?''


    I opened my mouth, but couldn''t force the words out any more than I could force the meat in. I nodded with a resigned sigh.


    Cathrine squared her shoulders and took a steadying breath, looking every part the young girl I kept confusing with her older self. She walked to the door and pulled it open.


    My breath hitched, my eyes glued to the widening crack.


    I watched Cathrine''s back, trying to guess what she saw—maids? A giant plate of meat?


    She didn''t look tense.


    Time was the same, but it seemed to slow, the words reaching me through a layer of water, blurred and distorted.


    "Mss."


    "Mi"


    A hand grabbed my shoulder, giving me a firm shake. "Miss, it''s the priest."


    I blinked, the words taking a moment to filter through the fog as my mind struggled to process them. "Priest?" I asked.


    Cathrine''s eyes were shifty as she glanced at the two men in the room—two men my mind had ignored, seen through as if they weren''t there. A breath swooshed out of me, my shoulders sagging.


    "They''re here to--" A blush stained her cheeks and her eyes wouldn''t meet mine.


    "Oh," I said, annoying myself. I sounded inane and vapid, not unlike what I was at this age, and not unlike the character I was portraying, but it was a different thing entirely when it was, by choice, an act, and not this bumbling panic-stricken mess. "I''m not," I said when their eyes drifted to my stomach.


    I wasn''t sure Catherine and Typhon believed, but the priest, another new one, his tabard blank, looked skeptical.


    Why are there so many priests?


    "We''ll know for sure after I check," he said, as if certain of his findings.


    The priest unholstered his wand, waving it over me, drawing raised eyebrows from the chamber''s other occupants. Typhon crossed his hands, his smile taking on a shark-like quality.


    "Results?" I asked, wanting him gone.


    He sniffed. "You''re not pregnant, but there are some minor ailments." He took out a potion—most likely from a storage ring—uncorked it and handed it to me. "Drink so I can check the effectiveness."


    I didn''t need to guess what was inside. And this time, I couldn''t escape.


    I grabbed the vial, knocking back the liquid.