I lift my eyes, but keep my face neutral. “And how would you know?”

  He doesn’t answer, he just props an eyebrow up before standing. He grabs a linen cloth and presses it to his side, using the salve to keep it in pce momentarily before grasping for a longer strip meant for binding. His expression however, remains unreadable, like he’s carved from the same stone as these damn castle walls.

  It’s obvious that he can wrap it himself, but my brain flickers with an idea. You have to do something now to distract his train of thought.

  I step forward before I can talk myself out of it, and take the fabric from his hands.

  “I’ll wrap it.”

  He doesn’t stop me, his hand lingering for a moment before releasing the fabric into mine. I step closer, the heat from his skin radiating onto my own. I feel his eyes watching my movements, but I don’t look up. Wrap it and move away.

  The cloth is smooth between my fingers. I bring it around his torso, keeping it slow and firm, careful not to hesitate, to show that it is a calcuted move. The wound seeps slightly against the linen, but I press harder, just enough to feel him tense.

  Good. Let him think that we’re careless, foolish. Nothing else.

  One loop, then another, my fingers brush against his warm skin with each pass. I keep my eyes low, shifting my focus to tying a knot at his side.

  “Now,” I finally look up at him, and our eyes meet. “It’ll hold…” I mutter, my heart beating slightly faster at the realisation of how close our faces are. I instinctively take a step back, creating distance between us once again.

  “You’re more tolerable when you’re quiet.” Asshole. My heartbeat returns to its normal pace almost instantly. And whatever brief spark of warmth that had settled in the room vanished.

  “Your bedding is through here.” He turns away, walking to a side door half concealed behind one of the old tapestries. I hesitate as he stands by the door.

  “I thought I’d be in the servant quarters…”

  “You’re not a servant.” What? The words hit me like cold water. Then what am I?

  “You’re a responsibility,” he adds, it’s a reminder of his thoughts on me. Servants would have more freedom than I would. Of course, he doesn’t think of me as such.

  I nod slowly, my disappointment evident on my face. This opportunity, trust thing is going to be more complicated than I thought.

  He pushes the tapestry aside and holds open the door. I walk over, inside is a small stone room, the space obviously a reorganised storage closet. It’s narrow and cold, a single bed, a ptter of food, and a washbasin seem like the only new additions to the room. A rge dresser is pced against the opposite wall, filled with scrolls and parchment. There are no windows. Just a sliver of warm firelight, seeping in beneath the crooked edge of the door.

  It’s not a prison. But it’s not freedom either. Atleast I don’t have to sleep with someone ramming their foot up my arse every five minutes.

  Before I step in, I look back.

  Caspian has already turned away, tugging a new tunic over his head, his back turned to me again like nothing ever passed between us.

  “Sleep when you can. Ni will come for you at sunrise.”

  “And if I don’t?” He pauses, just long enough for me to regret asking that question.

  “Then you’ll receive no sympathies at breakfast.” Not a servant, but treated as one. Perfect. This is my hell, isn’t it? And with that, I close the door behind me.

  The stone walls feel closer once inside the room. I wash up with the cold water in the basin, and for the first time since I arrived in this world, I realise something straightforward and very real.

  I’m not just trapped in a different world. I’m trapped under someone’s watch.

  And Caspian never blinks.

  cxxx{}::::::::::::::::::::::::::::>

  Three sharp knocks to the door jolt me awake, followed by a voice no sane person would want to hear at daybreak. Ni. Of course, it’s Ni.

  “Rise. You’re expected.”

  I groan, dragging myself upright in the narrow bed. My neck, back and pride in tatters from staying in this room. A handmaiden, Genevieve? Well done, you’ve been promoted from a scullery maid.

  Ugh, he’s not going to let us out of his sight any time soon, is he?

  Peering around the room, I note that the walls feel closer than before, like they’ve crept forward in the night. Upgraded to a glorified broom closet? Well fucking done. Before I can even answer, the door creaks open, and Ni steps inside without permission. She stands in front of me, with fresh clothes in one hand and a ptter in the other.

  “Still in bed? You sleep like someone with no responsibilities,” she says, putting the ptter down and using that free hand to rip the bnkets off me. “That ends now.”

  She pces the bundle onto the end of the bed and ys it out. The uniform is simir to what Leia and Amaline were wearing, the only difference being the colour and the sleeve length. The once tight-fitted green dress is now a soft shade of purple with flowing sleeves, the hangeroc remains the same. Ni pces a bronze belt on the table, and my uniform is completed. It’s less dramatic than the gown from the feast, but it shows clearly that I’m higher than a scullery or chambermaid. I am a personal maid, and from what I know, they rank pretty high in a castle's employment system.

  I blink at her, not knowing what actions to take next.

  She gives me a once-over before giving me a harsh stare. “The green dress and silver cuffs, where are they?”

  I nod towards the stool near the washbasin, where I had folded them the night before. She clicks her tongue before moving over and assessing the pieces, softly counting them before nodding once.

  “Gd to see all the pieces are still here,” she says, like a pawnbroker looking for fakes. “I was half expecting you to sell the cuffs off for a comb.” She smirks. “Or freedom.” You cow, I’ll get out of here. You’ll see.

  She motions to the new clothes on the bed.

  “Congratutions. You’ve been upgraded.” She throws me a fake smile. “Personal staff.” She talks whilst she puts the jewellery in her pocket. “Well, if I’m honest, more decorative staff than staff.”

  So, it’s official, then. I’m not a servant, I’m just Caspian’s shadow.

  “Eat. Wash. Dress. Be out within five minutes.” She grabs the ptter from the dresser, and the gown from the stool and turns heel and leaves before I can even formute a response. The door sms shut with a sense of authority, akin to a silent threat of saying, ‘do what you’re told, or else.’

  I scurry out of bed and strip off my shift. I use the washbasin, dipping in linen cloths to clean my body before throwing on the new clothes. Slipping on my shoes and tying the ces, I meet Ni outside in under five minutes. Within Caspian’s now-empty room, she sits me on a stool in front of Caspian’s dresser and quickly fixes my hair. She gathers my long hair into a low, loose ponytail and weaves an embroidered ribbon through the strands, crossing it over the back of my head in an elegant pattern.

  She taps me on the shoulder once she is done and begins walking out of the room at a swift pace. I barely keep up with her fast steps as she strides down the corridor. Man, can this woman move.

  “You’re going to the war room. Don’t ask why.” You see, Ni, I would find it very useful if I did ask why.

  We move through twisting halls and murmuring voices. The deeper we go, the more I feel as though I’m being swallowed by a history that doesn’t belong to me. The war room is tucked away in the castle’s older wing, with colder stone, higher arches and a greater silence. The castle’s servants appearing more sparsely within the old wing. A pair of guards stands outside the door. They nod to Ni and gnce once at me before stepping aside.

  Ni grabs my arm and gives me one st stern look.

  “Don’t speak unless you’re asked to. And if you must speak…bite your tongue.” Charming.

  The door swings open, and I enter. The room’s conversation already deep in motion. The war room is dim, dark wood covers the wall, and a long table stretches out in the middle. Scrolls, carved tokens and sealed letters scatter the surface of the table, and at the head of it sits Caspian with his arms crossed. His hair is tied back today, but loose, curly strands fall around his temples. Sir Leiman and two other men from the journey are sitting beside him, and a young scribe is furiously scribbling away in the corner.

  No one gnces at me as I move towards Caspian and stand beside him. I stay still and quiet, like I’m just another piece of furniture in this room, and I listen.

  “This can’t wait till spring,” one of the men says, tapping the map. “If we don’t reinforce the city’s south gate, we won’t hold past the first frost, never mind the increasing growth of the ‘beast craze’. We’ll be short on internal trade supplies for a month!”

  “What about the eastern trade routes? Have you made any effort in sneaking them open?” Leiman asks the other commander.

  “Worse,” He replies lowly. “Two more caravans turned back yesterday. There will be no grain from the vilge of Kerston.”

  “And what of Paraman? Aren’t you due there in less than a fortnight?” One of the commanders cuts in.

  Caspian straightens in his chair. “I will be meeting Pavlore at the Arathus border in three days. He’s gathering his own allies in Peneroth—if they’re still willing to listen.” Caspian turns to Sir Leiman. “You will take Arken in my stead whilst I am away. I’ll be back before the hearing.” Allies…Is he going to start a war?

  “And the girl? Am I to watch her?” He gives Caspian a raised brow, and I straighten my back. Please, I’m too young to be on the front line.

  “No. She comes.” The men raise their brows at this, and I do as well. Wait. What?

  I feel my stomach drop. He’s taking me to a secret war meeting? I understand that I’m not to be trusted, but to take me to what feels like a cssified conference? Why? I clearly don’t have the authorisation to be there unless he has no choice—

  He doesn’t think of me as a spy, does he?

  No. He’s just indirectly confirmed that he knows I’m not from here. He sees me as an invasive threat.

  He’s not only confirmed my fake front, but confirmed that I’m never getting out of here.

  Leiman is the first to speak on the news. “You’re taking her to the king’s border?”

  “I’ll need a handmaiden. She’s proved to be of great use.” With pouring him wine?

  Wait, is he not telling Leiman everything? I briefly remember the conversation between the girls and me in the bathroom. Ah, right, Leiman is a major gossip…that makes sense as to why Caspian is withholding information about his distrust and thoughts of me.

  The room quietens, and Caspian leans over the table and traces a line towards Paraman. A western country…

  “And once there?” One of the commanders asks.

  “Depends on what the king needs…and Pavlore. If he brings allies, then we can start the pn.” The pn, meaning war?

  Leiman grumbles from his chair, a scoff erupting before speaking. “At least Ester weaselled his way out of this mess.”

  Caspian looks up from the map to Leiman. “He’s pursuing a lead.”

  “Must be nice,” Leiman mutters. “Researching this, prophecy that. He gets the nice southern sun whilst the rest of us are trying to rebuild a country.” Rebuild a country? Is Caspian pnning to commit treason? A COUP?! I gasp at the realisation, and Caspian shifts his head slightly in my direction.

  He takes note of something in his head and turns back to the men. “Paraman doesn’t value the use of blood-carved ferra. They’re spiritual users. Ester would be shunned, he’d be no use to us there.”

  Sir Leiman nods in understanding and drops the topic. The meeting concludes with dull stock counts, guard rotations and prepping scout missions to find the source of the ‘beast craze’.

  Chairs scrape, parchment rustles, and the young scribe hurries out with his scrolls as the men rise. The room empties, leaving just Caspian and me.

  Caspian is tying up his papers, but I remain rooted to the ground, my brain processing the information I just heard. They’re pnning to overthrow the king in a coup. A war. Another war.

  Caspian turns, not quite facing me, his hands still busy with organising the table.

  “You’re smart, aren’t you?” He says, as if it is obvious from my gasp earlier, that I pieced together what was happening. It’s not praise, it’s a sharp observation; he learned something from me.

  I don’t answer, my instincts telling me to avoid any contact with him.

  He turns fully and takes a step closer towards me, but only close enough for me to feel his warmth. “You understand what we’re doing.”

  It’s not a question.

  My mouth is dry, but I manage one word, my tongue thick as I speak.

  “War.”

  The word nds heavier than I expected. It bleeds with an inevitable hardness, grief and fear.

  He watches me closely, unreadable as ever. “Then you also understand,” he says, voice low, “why you won’t be given the chance to stay behind.”

  His words speak volumes, it’s not just that he knows about my lies, my false front. But he knows that this war will affect everything and everyone. Arken will be at the forefront of the war; it’ll be a target. Even though his words and reason for his distrust don’t make sense in keeping me out of danger, I fear that once I find out why he is, I won’t like the answer.

  He turns back to the table, rolling up a map with slow precision. “We ride out in two days. Get used to that uniform.”

  I exhale slowly.

  Dread beginning to dispce my feelings of trappness and hope.