The following morning, the medicine provided by Horde had barely begun to circulate in Hannah's system. Her muscles felt like lead, and every breath still carried the sharp, burning reminder of the Demon Lord's kick to her ribs. However, the heavy iron doors of the West Wing didn't wait for her recovery.
An old woman stood in the threshold. Her name was Foina, the head maid of the palace's inner sanctum. Unlike the younger, envious maids at Thorn's estate, Foina was a creature of ancient, withered skin and eyes that looked like clouded marbles. She didn't look at Hannah with hatred, but with the cold, detached apathy of someone who had watched a thousand humans wither and die within these walls.
"The Sovereign is awake," Foina croaked, her voice sounding like dry parchment rubbing together. "He requires his morning bath. You are to prepare it. Immediately."
Hannah struggled to her feet, leaning briefly against the bedpost for support. Robert moved to help her, his eyes wide with worry, but a guard blocked his path with the blunt end of a spear.
"I'll be fine, Robert," Hannah whispered, her voice still raspy.
Foina led her through a labyrinth of cold, echoing corridors until they reached the kitchens. It was a space of staggering proportions—vaulted ceilings stained black by centuries of soot, and iron hooks hanging from the rafters. But there were no modern appliances, no sleek metal surfaces. In the center stood a massive, soot-covered hearth with a gargantuan iron cauldron suspended over it.
"Heat the water here," Foina commanded, gesturing to a pile of thick, jagged logs in the corner.
Hannah stared at the logs, then at the empty hearth. "Firewood? Why... why do you not use gas or electric heaters? Surely a palace of this stature has the infrastructure—"
Foina's eyes snapped toward her, cold and sharp. "The Sovereign loathes the 'conveniences' of your kind. Anything born of human ingenuity is a taint to him. He prefers the old ways—the heat of the earth, the wood of the forest. He will not have the smell of human gas in his chambers. Now, move. When the water is boiling, you will carry it to the bathing chambers and fill the tub. Do not be slow."
Before Hannah could ask how she was supposed to carry a hundred gallons of boiling water across a palace, Foina vanished into the shadows of the pantry.
Hannah stood alone in the freezing kitchen. She looked at the fireplace. There wasn't even a glowing ember. For a woman who had spent her life in high-tech laboratories and climate-controlled apartments, "lighting a fire" was a theoretical concept she had only seen in historical simulations.
She grabbed a heavy log, her arms trembling under the weight. She piled them as best she could, her fingers getting slivered by the rough bark. She found a flint-striker on the mantle and began to hack at it.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Nothing. The kitchen was damp, the wood was stubborn, and her body was screaming for rest. She felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. I can't do this, she thought, her knees buckling.
Then, she saw Robert's face in her mind. She saw Hebner's black sword hovering over his throat. She saw the Demon Lord's promise: Every time you fail, your friend loses a finger.
A raw, primal surge of adrenaline hit her system. Hannah slammed the flint against the steel with a desperate, frantic strength. Sparks showered the dry tinder she had shredded. A tiny, orange glow appeared. She hovered over it, shielding the flame with her body, blowing gently until the wood finally caught.
The heat began to rise, the cauldron groaning as the water inside began to simmer. But the battle was only half-won.
The magnificent bathroom was located three floors up and several corridors away. When the water finally reached a rolling boil, Hannah realized the true cruelty of the task. The cauldron was bolted to the hearth; it couldn't be moved.
She looked at the small, bucket she had been given. It held maybe two gallons.
She dipped the bucket into the scalding water, the steam rising up and blistering her hands. She began to run.
She ran through the cold halls, the hot water slopping over the sides and scalding her bare ankles. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her sickly lungs burning like they were filled with acid. She reached the bathroom—a room of white marble and gold fixtures—and dumped the water into a tub the size of a small swimming pool.
It looked like a single drop in an ocean.
She turned and ran back. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, dip the bucket, back up the stairs.
Three times. Ten times. Fifty times.
Her legs were shaking so violently she nearly collapsed on the twentieth trip. Her palms were red and raw from the rough handle of the bucket. By the time the tub was finally steaming and full, Hannah was slumped against the marble wall, her hair matted with sweat and soot, her chest heaving in agonizing cycles.
The heavy doors to the bathroom swung open.
Hebner Grand entered. He was clad in a simple, charcoal-grey silk bathrobe that hung loosely off his broad shoulders, revealing the terrifyingly perfect V-taper of his torso. He looked rested, powerful, and utterly bored.
He stood at the edge of the steaming tub, looking down at the water Hannah had spent hours agonizing over. He didn't look at her—not at her blistered hands or her gasping breath.
"Is it ready?" he asked, his voice a cool shadow in the humid room.
"Yes... My Lord," Hannah panted, forcing herself to stand.
Hebner turned his amber eyes toward her, a look of deep suspicion crossing his face. "Humans are desperate creatures. Cunning and full of venom. How do I know you haven't laced this water with a toxin that seeps through the skin? How do I know you aren't trying to finish what you started in the Square?"
"I have done... only as I was told," Hannah rasped.
"Prove it," Hebner commanded. "Test the water. Show me it is safe for a King."
Hannah stepped forward. She knew the water was scalding; she had just boiled it. But she couldn't hesitate. She reached down and submerged her entire hand and forearm into the steaming depths of the tub. The heat was a white-hot flash of pain, but she kept her face a mask of submissive calm, even as her skin turned a vivid, angry red.
She pulled her hand out, the water dripping off her trembling fingers. "It is... safe, My Lord."
Hebner stared at her wet, reddened arm for a long, silent moment. A flicker of something dark and unreadable passed through his eyes. Then, his lip curled in a sneer of pure, calculated malice.
"It is tainted," he said coldly.
Hannah blinked, confused. "What?"
"You have touched it with your filthy human hand," Hebner stated, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "The water is now polluted with the scent of mortality and weakness. I will not bathe in the dregs of a human's touch."
He turned away, walking toward the door without a single glance back at her shattered expression.
"Empty it," he commanded. "Scrub the tub until the scent of your skin is gone. Then, fetch more wood and heat a new cauldron. If the bath is not ready—and pure—by the time I'm back in here, I believe your lover has ten fingers. It would be a shame to start shortening them so early in the day."
The door slammed shut.
Hannah stood in the silent, opulent bathroom, looking at the steaming water she had nearly died to fetch. Her hand was throbbing with a rhythmic, burning pain, and the task ahead felt like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon. She looked at her reflection in the polished marble—dirty, broken, and humiliated.
For a second, she wanted to scream. She wanted to let the virus in her blood take her. But then, she thought of the world outside these walls. She thought of the cleansing at the East Border and someone else....
She reached for the drain plug. Round two, she thought, her eyes turning into flint.