Chapter 3 — A Noble's Whim
The Ashmere estate smelled of polish and rot.
Elowen noticed it most on mornings like this when the halls gleamed too brightly, when the servants had been ordered to scrub every surface until their knuckles bled, when the house pretended at dignity it no longer possessed. Fresh wax masked mildew. Perfume masked decay. Silk banners hid cracked stone.
She knelt on the floor of the east hall with a bucket of soapy water beside her, sleeves rolled past her elbows, fingers raw and red. Sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows, catching in the dust she hadn't yet swept. Outside, carriages rolled in one by one.
Visitors.
That alone was enough to tighten her chest.
"Elowen."
Her name snapped through the hall like a whip. She didn't look up fast enough.
A shadow fell across the polished marble. Fine leather shoes new, she noted distantly stopped inches from her hands.
Lady Ashmere.
"Elowen," her stepmother repeated, voice thin with irritation. "Did I tell you to be scrubbing here when guests are arriving?"
Elowen lowered her head. "No, my lady."
"And yet here you are. On your knees. As usual."
The words were sharp, deliberate. Meant to remind her of her place.
"I was told to clean the east hall," Elowen said softly. "By the steward."
Lady Ashmere sniffed. "Then the steward is a fool. Get up. You'll embarrass us if someone sees you like this."
Elowen bit down on the familiar response I always look like this and rose quickly, water dripping from her fingers onto the hem of her worn dress.
"Go change," Lady Ashmere continued. "Put on something presentable."
Elowen hesitated. "My lady… I don't "
"Don't what?"
"I don't have " She swallowed. "I don't have anything else."
A flash of annoyance crossed Lady Ashmere's face, followed by something colder.
"Then go to the servants' quarters and borrow something. You are still a member of this household, Elowen. Try to remember that."
The lie settled between them like dust.
Elowen curtsied and retreated without another word.
As she passed beneath the archway, she caught sight of her reflection in the polished wall mirror a slim girl with ash brown hair pulled into a tight braid, skin too pale, eyes too large for a face that had learned to stay expressionless. Her dress was clean but threadbare, sleeves patched so many times the original fabric was barely visible.
A member of the household.
She almost laughed.
The servants' quarters were cramped, low ceilinged, and smelled of starch and sweat. Elowen borrowed a simple grey dress from Mara, one of the kitchen girls, who pressed it into her hands without comment.
"They're saying important guests are here," Mara whispered as Elowen changed behind a screen. "Something about a military contract."
Elowen's fingers paused at the laces.
"Military?" she asked.
Mara nodded. "The master's been pacing since dawn. He's nervous."
That, too, set her stomach twisting.
Lord Ashmere was only nervous when the stakes were high and when he had something to lose.
Elowen smoothed the borrowed dress and thanked Mara before returning to the main house.
The drawing room doors were open now, voices drifting out in measured tones. Elowen hovered near the wall as she approached, instinctively shrinking herself.
Inside, Lord Ashmere sat straighter than she had ever seen him, his greying hair slicked back, his rings polished to a shine. Across from him stood two men in dark uniforms bearing no crest she recognized only a black sigil worked into silver thread at their collars.
Blackspire.
Her breath caught.
She had heard the name, of course. Everyone had. Blackspire was spoken of in taverns and whispered in prayer an iron dominion at the edge of the kingdom, ruled by a warlord so powerful that neighboring lords paid tribute just to avoid his gaze.
Lord Kael Draven Blackspire.
The Void King.
The Butcher of the Borderlands.
Elowen's fingers curled into her skirt as the words she'd overheard over the years echoed back to her. Stories of armies erased overnight. Of magic so dark it swallowed light. Of a ruler who never smiled and never spared.
What would Blackspire want with House Ashmere?
"Elowen," Lord Ashmere called sharply.
She flinched and stepped forward.
"Yes, my lord."
"Pour wine."
Of course.
She moved to the sideboard, careful not to meet the emissaries' eyes as she filled crystal goblets. Her hands shook despite her efforts to steady them.
As she approached the table, she felt it a pressure in the air, heavy and cold, though neither man had spoken. It wasn't magic exactly. Or if it was, it was contained, coiled like a sleeping beast.
She set the goblets down silently and stepped back.
One of the emissaries finally looked at her.
His gaze lingered.
Not leering. Not dismissive.
Assessing.
Elowen's skin prickled.
"Is this all your household consists of now?" the man asked, his voice low. "One servant and a few fading banners?"
Lord Ashmere stiffened. "House Ashmere has seen better years, but our loyalty to the crown is unwavering."
"Loyalty does not win wars," the emissary replied. "Power does."
Elowen stared at the floor, heart pounding.
The second emissary spoke for the first time. "Lord Blackspire is offering you protection."
Lord Ashmere leaned forward eagerly. "Yes yes, we are honored by his consideration."
"In exchange," the first continued calmly, "for something of equal value."
Elowen felt it then a slow, creeping dread crawling up her spine.
Lord Ashmere hesitated. "Gold?"
The emissary's lips curved slightly. "Lord Blackspire has no need of gold."
"Land?"
"Ashmere land is… limited."
Silence stretched.
Elowen lifted her gaze just enough to see Lord Ashmere's eyes flick toward her.
Once.
Twice.
Her blood went cold.
"Ah," the emissary said softly. "You understand."
"No," Elowen whispered, before she could stop herself.
The word hung in the air.
Lady Ashmere turned sharply. "Elowen, leave."
But the emissary raised a hand. "No. She should hear this."
Elowen's knees felt weak.
Lord Ashmere cleared his throat. "My lord Blackspire seeks… a wife."
The room seemed to tilt.
"A union," the emissary continued, voice unchanging, "that would bind your house to his. In return, House Ashmere will receive military protection, gold for restoration, and political immunity."
Elowen shook her head, the motion small and helpless. "You can't "
"You will be silent," Lady Ashmere snapped.
"Elowen is not " Lord Ashmere stopped himself, jaw tightening. "She is… suitable."
Illegitimate. Disposable. Convenient.
Elowen's chest burned as if she'd swallowed fire.
"She is unwed," the emissary observed. "Unattached. And of age."
"She's a maid," Elowen said hoarsely. "I clean floors."
"Yes," the emissary agreed. "You do."
His gaze softened just slightly.
"And yet," he added, "Lord Blackspire asked for you by name."
The room went utterly still.
Elowen's breath stuttered.
"By… name?" Lady Ashmere echoed.
The emissary nodded. "Your lord's spies are thorough. He knows what you are. And what you are not."
Lord Ashmere's expression shifted from shock, to calculation, to something disturbingly pleased.
"How soon?" he asked.
Elowen's vision blurred.
"You will leave within the week," the emissary replied. "The marriage will be formalized at Blackspire."
"No," Elowen said again, louder this time. "I won't go."
Lady Ashmere slapped her.
The sound cracked through the room.
Elowen staggered, cheek burning, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. She tasted blood.
"Know your place," Lady Ashmere hissed. "You will do as you are told. For once, you will be useful."
Elowen looked at her father then really looked at him.
He didn't meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, and it was the most dishonest thing he had ever spoken.
The emissary watched the exchange in silence. Then he turned to Elowen.
"Lord Blackspire is not a cruel man," he said quietly.
The lie or truth meant nothing to her.
"I am not a bargaining chip," Elowen whispered.
The emissary's gaze sharpened. "In this world," he replied, "everyone is."
That night, Elowen sat alone on her narrow bed in the servants' quarters, hands clenched in her lap.
Blackspire.
Marriage.
The ruthless warlord.
Her family's voices echoed in her head how easily they had agreed, how quickly they had traded her life away.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing shallowly.
She had survived this house. The hunger. The blows. The endless reminder that she was unwanted.
She would survive this too.
Somewhere far away, beyond the borders of Valemor, a man with the power to erase kingdoms had spoken her name.
And the world, cruel as it was, had decided that was her fate.