Etain braided her hair carefully, using a large, spotted mirror in a dusty, quiet corridor to make sure she caught every stray strand. The pale color glimmered in the last vestiges of pearly light shining through the windows behind her, taunting her, reminding her of how much she stood out among the dark-haired, honey-skinned Metians.

Her hands were steady as she wove her hair into neat braids, but her breath shook. She had been putting it off too long. She'd cut herself short.

Now the rumors flying among the slaves were that the prince was returning tonight.

Etain looped the last braid into place, pinning it there. For a moment, she simply stood, running her hands gently over the woven strands. The slavemaster didn't allow her to wear her hair like this—she said it looked too barbaric. Etain stuck her tongue out at her reflection and turned on her heel. She couldn't waste anymore time.

The chill coming off the stones cut through her thin clothes as she walked down the hall. Etain shivered, embracing the cold. It was the only thing here that reminded her of home. Almost immediately, her throat thickened at the thought.

She missed Brunia. The high, clear skies. The brush of wind through pine trees. She missed the snow that trickled softly down from the heavens to leave the world a glittering, frosted masterpiece. The smell of summer rain over rolling hills.

The windowpanes rattled beside her. Etain curled her lip at the sleet pouring down outside. Lightning speared the sky, illuminating the capital city of Levitum. Even the weather here was ugly.

She hated it here. She would do whatever it took to return home. Home, where her mother and cousin were waiting to welcome her with love and—they would find—with pride.

Her slippered feet were silent on the winding stairs. Just below her and to the north was the room she wanted. The room she was never given, despite volunteering to clean it. She frowned as she peered around the corner of the staircase into a wide hall. Perhaps her volunteering was precisely why she hadn't been given the duty. The slavemaster hadn't kept her position for so long by being an idiot, unfortunate as that was.

Etain's steps slowed as the corridors grew brighter, more candles dancing with light in their sconces. She lowered her head and folded her hands in front of her waist. Bowing her shoulders was always the hardest part, ignoring the years of training and pride that had kept them thrown back and straight. Lowering her head was what made her taste bile in the back of her throat.

But she did all of these things, knowing a defeated posture was the best camouflage in this place. Metians liked seeing conquered people like this—defeated, discouraged. Beaten.

Etain wasn't beaten. Not by a long shot.

A minister wandered past, his overlarge nose buried in a pile of papers. He didn't even glance at her.

Etain reminded herself not to speed her steps. She should look purposeful, but not eager. Hurrying drew eyes. People paid attention to someone who looked like they were going somewhere important. 

She continued moving deeper into the administrative section of the castle, praying she wouldn't be too late. After tonight, getting into his offices would be near impossible. He spent far too much time there.

Getting caught wasn't an option. 

Etain ran through all of her excuses. Her tone. The thickness of her accent. The brokenness of her speech. How much was too much? What would be suspicious? What would draw attention?

Playing dumb had worked with the princess because she wanted to pretend she was kind. Etain's nose wrinkled and she ducked her head more so no one could see her disgust. The prince was a different story. He didn't care to appear kind. It simply didn't matter to him. At least he was honest in that respect.

Subservience would work better, she had decided. Acting as though she were there to make things presentable for him. As though she were there just to please him. The warmth leached from her skin as she considered that last thought and all the ways something such as this could go wrong.

She already garnered too much attention simply for being Brunian—part of the empire's newest selection of playthings.

There would be no turning back, though. No retreating. Not until it was most advantageous. 

Etain steeled herself as she peeked around the corner into the last hall. She could survive anything that didn't kill her. Just as long as she wasn't dead, she could carry one.

She kept telling herself that as she pulled the slim paring knife from her waistband and moved toward the door. The locked handle rattled when she tried it. Etain swallowed against her dry mouth and risked glancing up and down the hall.

It was empty—for now. Any of the other doors might open at any moment, expelling men who would question her. Men who would punish her.

The knife slipped in her hand, stopping her heart. Etain turned back to the door, tightening her fingers and attempting to steady herself. Just like she'd done a million times before, Etain slid the knife between the edge of the door and the jamb. Allowing herself one more moment of fear, she looked along the hall again.

No step disturbed the silence. No shadow darkened the blood-red carpet.

A chill tingled down her spine and she slid the knife up, searching for the latch. Relief forced a sigh from her when she met resistance. A moment to play with it, and the latch popped free, loud as the crack of a whip.

Etain flinched, her eyes darting nervously down the corridor. The skin on the back of her neck itched like someone was watching her.

There was no one. No cracked door or convenient alcove.

Etain shook her head, scolding herself. Now wasn't the time to be jumpy. That could come later, when this was done and she'd found what she was looking for. Wincing at the creak of hinges, she pushed open the heavy oak door and slipped inside.

The storm had killed the last of the light. Much to her dismay, the room was still shrouded in darkness. Despite the rumors, it would seem no one had been sent to light the candles here. Etain frowned, wondering if she should take that as a hopeful sign.

Maybe she had more time than she'd previously believed.

Taking small, careful steps, she crossed the room until her hands hit the edge of the massive desk that dominated one half of the study.

Etain skimmed her hands over the surface to find a candle waiting on the edge. Slipping a flint from her pocket, she struck the knife against it. The candlewick flared with life. Paranoid, Etain cupped a hand around it, like that would somehow hide the light from other eyes.

The massive room stayed dark, the meager light not enough to reach the deep corners. Etain shivered against the damp chill that always seemed present in the absence of a roaring fire. She glanced at the cold fireplace.

If the prince was returning, surely someone would have been sent to stoke the flames. 

Licking her dry lips, she turned her attention to the desk. It wouldn't do to trust her fate to speculation. Regardless of whether the prince was returning or not, she needed to hurry. 

Books were stacked on the corners, some holding down maps. Papers were scattered haphazardly across the shined surface, some pinned in place by thin, elegant knives. One stack was held down by a chunk of what Etain thought might be raw rubies.

Putting the candle on a stack of philosophy books, Etain carefully lifted the ruby. Worry riddled her heart that he would somehow know. He would be able to see the slight shifts created by her riffling.

That didn't stop her from lifting the first stack of papers.

Recruitment numbers. Not what she needed. Etain flipped to the next page. 

Grain and medicine. No.

Ship manifestos. Drafts of treaties with... Etain's eyes slowed, a frown creasing her brow as she read the name. Laethanwyl.

The lettering was Metian, but the word was Brunian. She just...didn't know what it meant. Etain touched her tongue to her lip, staring at the word. That wasn't the name of any of the tribes that inhabited her island. In fact, it wasn't a proper name at all.

She stared at it for a few seconds more, but it stayed stubbornly indecipherable. Frustrated, Etain flipped through several more pages of useless information.

Her people already knew that more soldiers were coming. How many wouldn't matter. They would fight regardless. They knew where the Metian soldiers were now. That wasn't what was needed either.

She moved around the desk, peering at the top pages of the various other stacks. There were pages covered in scribbled musings, nearly illegible and unimportant. Etain didn't care about the squabbles of royal siblings. No matter who sat the Metian throne, the outcome would still be the same. The blood of her people would be spilled, the land of her island pillaged.

Her fingers flicked through those pages, only slowing when she came across slips of paper covered in runes. Again, Etain recognized them, but couldn't quite read them. They were like the Brunian runes, but not exactly the same.

More like...a precursor to her own language.

The thought sent an unpleasant tingle along her skin. She didn't like the idea of the prince having any true interest in Brunia. The shallow, materialistic interests the Metians already had in her land were more than enough.

It wouldn't do for a Metian prince to start prying into the secret past of her people.

Etain turned to one of the bookshelves. The tomes there were stacked messily on the shelves. Obviously, the prince did not treat his library with the care it deserved. She eyed the disaster for a moment before deciding not even the prince would be able to tell if something was misplaced.

She picked up a thin, dusty volume and flipped it open. Etain whispered a small apology before she tore the blank piece of paper free of its bindings. The title page of the book lay bare now. She closed the book and returned it to its place.

Turning back to the desk, she slipped a stick of charcoal she had stolen from the princess' empty rooms out of her pocket. As quickly as she could, Etain sketched the shape of as many of the old runes as she could.

Her efforts weren't particularly pleasing. Her handwriting had never been as lovely as her mother's. A pang fluttered her heart and she folded the page now covered in copies of the prince's runes. Etain slipped it into the waistband of her pants before returning to her search.

Sleet continued to rattle against the windowpanes behind her. Etain's chest tightened as her search remained fruitless. She couldn't allow this to be pointless. There was something here. There had to be.

The prince was too arrogant not to leave something lying around for her to find.

Etain began to open the drawers of his desk, hoping one would be locked. All she found were extra papers, quills and bottles of ink. More knives.

The most surprising thing she found was a box of glass-like hard candies from Sorveti. 

Heartbeat slamming against her ribs now, Etain reached for one last stack of papers. All she could do was pray as she brought them close to the waning candle. She had been here far too long. 

Troop movements.

Everything inside her leapt. A flush of excitement warmed her cheeks and she bent closer to the pages.

Her entire body wilted when all she found were careful columns of numbers.

"No," she hissed, flipping the pages over. There were little annotations along the side of the columns. Names, mostly. The one she recognized most—Julianus—was written several times down the page.

But that didn't tell her anything.

Etain began to swear under her breath. It was the information she needed, she just couldn't understand it. Not here, at least. Not with time and fear breathing down the back of her neck. Her body shook as she pillaged another book and began copying everything down. Row after row of numbers and names until her fingers cramped and her eyes blurred.

She wasn't even half through when she heard a sound that made the blood in her veins run cold. Above the rain, she could hear the soft click of the door opening. Etain stuffed the paper down her shirt and turned, excuses on her tongue.

They died when her eyes met his.

Etain blinked slowly. He looked more ragged than she'd ever seen him. His hair was too long. The shadows beneath his eyes too dark. He was paler than she remembered, his skin almost waxy in the low light. His clothes seemed a size too big and far too plain. His boots were dirty.

There had been rumors he'd been leaving the castle more and more often since the Heir had gone.

Prince Marcus took a long step into the room and shut the door behind him. His eyes flicked over her—over her face—then moved to the desk.

"What did you find?" His voice was low and raw. Nothing like the honey-smoothness she remembered from that day before Cairna. That day when he'd whispered in her ear that he had use for her, and she'd quickly agreed in a bid to lose his interest.

It had seemed to work. Until this moment.

Etain began to shake her head, but froze when he strode toward her.

"What did you—" His words cut off as his eyes glazed over. They shifted focus to the space beside her. Etain didn't know if she should take his preoccupation as a chance to run. She never got the chance.

Prince Marcus sucked in a breath as his eyes cleared. He grabbed her arm in a vice-like hand. He was thinner, but no less strong, it would seem.

"If you'd like to keep your head, you'll do exactly what I say."

Etain bared her teeth, but didn't resist as he blew out the candle and dragged her toward the door. How could she argue his point when he might very well be the one to take her head?

They slipped from Malitech's study, neither speaking as Marcus began leading her down the corridor. They managed to descend one flight of stairs before they heard something that made every muscle in her body clench.

The harsh laugh of Prince Malitech.

Marcus turned toward her, thoughts wheeling behind his golden eyes. "I'll trust you have some modicum of intelligence. Don't fight. Just know."

Then his hands were framing her face and he was kissing her. Shock kept her from doing anything as he pressed her against a wall. His hand was unbearably hot as it slid over her hip and down her thigh.

Just know.

There was nothing strange about a prince taking what he wanted from a slave. Though, Etain thought as she closed her eyes, the main corridor was perhaps a little public. 

She considered what would seem more authentic on her part: struggle or surrender.

Marcus' fingers slid through her hair, cleverly undoing her careful braids until most of her hair hung in a white-blond curtain. His mouth left hers to whisper in her ear, "Scratch my neck. Hard enough to draw blood." When she hesitated, he pressed his hips harder against her. "If you need me to give you a reason, I will," he threatened, voice dead and horrible.

She didn't need a reason. Etain hated him enough already to find joy in drawing his blood as she raked her cracked nails down the side of his throat. Bright red beaded up, soothing the rage inside her. When his mouth returned to hers, Etain bit down on his lip hard enough to taste copper.

The prince grunted in surprise, tipping his head back to look at her. Desire swelled behind his eyes, scaring her, and Etain pushed against his chest, struggling for real now.

"No need to oversell your disgust," Marcus murmured against her throat just as Malitech and another man she vaguely recognized as a noble rounded the corner.

Marcus grabbed her thigh just above the knee, forcing her leg up onto his hip as he pressed against her. Etain let out a strangled scream, choked by her rage, her fear and the fact that he frightened her at all. 

Her hand cracking against his cheek shocked her into silence. Her wide eyes met his. His throat bobbed.

A cruel laugh broke the silence.

Marcus stiffened and slowly turned, his fingers still locked around one of her wrists. His shoulders relaxed and a smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. "Lord Brother."

Malitech's eyes zeroed in on the slow trickle of blood moving down Marcus' throat. At the blood on his mouth, which Etain could feel smeared on her own lips. Her heart sped when the prince's cruel, dark eyes shifted to her.

"You always did have a taste for wild things," Malitech mused, taking in her blond hair and blue eyes—obviously northern features. "But isn't she a little feral? Even for you?"

Marcus just tilted his head, beginning to look bored. The man beside Malitech shifted backwards by a half-step. Etain didn't blame him.

The older prince tilted his head. "No need to force yourself on the thing. You could probably find one that looks just like it in one of those whorehouses you enjoy so much down by the docks."

Marcus didn't seem so much as ruffled by the implied insult. Etain, on the other hand, couldn't stop herself from snarling and stepping forward. The word it reverberated in her head, washing her vision red.

Something locked around her wrist stopped her and pulled her back. Malitech sneered as Marcus wrapped an arm around her waist and dropped a kiss onto her neck.

"I'm not," Marcus said with a huffed laugh. "This one just likes to play rough." His teeth flashed in a brutal grin that she could see from the corner of her eye. Etain resisted the urge to pull away from him.

Instead, she let her tongue touch the blood drying on her lip.

Malitech lifted an eyebrow, but before he could speak Marcus was pulling her down the corridor, away from the older prince. "Let's find somewhere a touch more private, lovely."

She struggled to keep up with his long strides as they traversed the corridor. Etain swore she could feel the prince's eyes on her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she found he and the other nobleman disappearing into the study.

Stunned, she allowed Marcus to drag her along for a dozen more yards before she stopped. Her feet simply refused to take another step.

Marcus turned, letting go over her wrist. She watched as he dabbed gingerly at his throat, face thoughtful as he looked at the blood on his fingers.

"Why—"

"Malitech likes to hurt," Marcus said simply. "He doesn't like to be hurt."

"Not like you." She couldn't forget that look in his eyes after she'd bitten him. Her arms wrapped around herself and she stepped back, like whatever sickness he had might jump from him and infect her.

Marcus snorted, touching his split lip now. His eyes flicked to her mouth. "We like the things we're used to, lovely. Now," he held out a hand, "what did you find?"

Etain blinked, her mind still trying to parse out what he meant. She wasn't prepared when he lunged forward, hot fingers sliding into the waist of her trousers. The crinkle of paper startled her and she leapt at him when he began to unfold her stolen information.

Nearly a head taller, it wasn't hard for him to lift the papers beyond her reach.

He fell very still when he found the page covered in runes. His thumb brushed over the smeared charcoal, and he turned to look at her. Etain's fingers dug into his shoulder, which she was using for leverage in an attempt to reach her hard-won prize.

The prince stared at her, his eyes boring into hers. Etain found she couldn't look away. She couldn't even step back from him. Slowly, he lowered his arm. Never breaking eye-contact, he folded the papers into her still-reaching hand.

"I told you once I had use for you."

Etain remembered. She remembered how his gaze had swept over her body, burning through her skin to peer at her soul. She remembered the fear on the princess' face, and how that had fed her own fear.

He cupped her chin, thumb gently stroking along the edge of her jaw.

"Help me," he whispered, his breath warm on her lips.

Etain swallowed. "Why would I do that?"

His smile sent a chill down her spine. "Because," he leaned closer, his nose skimming against hers, "we have common interests, lovely."

"We have nothing in common, snake," she replied, grateful her voice remained steady.

He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "You hate everything I am. Everything that made me." Etain gasped when his hand slipped down to her throat. His eyes flickered true gold, bright and deadly. "So do I."

Etain grabbed his wrist, but didn't attempt to pull away. "What are you suggesting?"

Marcus tilted his head, a smug smile playing on his lips. Etain resisted the urge to break his nose. "Find the meaning of these." He flicked the papers clutched in her hand. "Come to my rooms within the week. Preferably very late at night or very early in the morning."

"And if I don't?" 

"Then I order you transferred to my country estate where you can't cause trouble unauthorized by me, and you never return to your home." He bobbed his head. "Or have you killed. Really, one's just as easy as the other."

"Extortion doesn't make good bedfellows," Etain said, trying to pull away from him.

He tightened his grip. "No. But it makes obedient spies."

Then, he let her go. With a smile, he held up the page of numbers. The troop movements. Etain looked down at the single, crumpled page in her hand, furious beyond words.

"You can have this back when you tell me what those mean." Marcus folded the page, tucking it into his pocket. He rubbed the blood from his mouth, wincing as he pulled cut skin. "I look forward to our next little chat, lovely."

"Snake," she hissed.

Marcus only nodded before turning and disappearing down a dark hallway.