Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Serving The Beast

VALORIA WILDEROSE

“She will be serving me today.”

A wave of nausea hits me, and the world around me begins to topple over itself.

Suddenly, all eyes shift to me—silently and murderous—pressing down on my windpipe and restricting the flow of oxygen.

I wish to disappear into a ball of nothing, to be swallowed whole by the floor beneath my feet, to be set ablaze into a wall of flames—anything but be here right now.

“Did you not hear me?” he speaks again, raising a brow.

I shake out of my trance, forcing air painfully down to my lungs.

I rise from my seat slowly, fighting through the painful stares, taking each step closer to the king, walking up to the very front of the table like a stiff log of wood until I am standing in front of him.

Right in front of the beast that watches me with pure amusement. His smile never falters for a moment, beaming with delightfully deranged and sickly enjoyment.

I wondered why me, seconds ago, confused as to why out of every one of the stunningly gorgeous women seated around, but the look on his face explains it.

I realize I made the mistake of thinking he had let me off the hook for some miraculous reason, though he knows I’m a spy.

No, it was all to make me hope for a moment.

The torture begins now.

A cold chill runs down my spine, my breathing turns labored. Every second it takes until I reach him is filled with dread.

“Serve me.”

My trembling hands reach for the meat first—the juicy, fat-roasted pork.

I grab the serving fork and knife, slicing through the meat that now feels like a piece of brick fashioned with superglue and granite.

Sweat beads form on my forehead before I am able to get the ugliest, thinnest piece onto his plate with a loud, clumsy clatter.

The sides follow next, creating a messy pile I can barely manage on his plate.

Then I move for the wine jug. It takes precision and focus I can barely manage with the constant stares, but by some miracle I pour his glass without spilling a single drop.

Thankful and satisfied, I move to place the wine and plate in front of him, counting my small steps before I can reach him—but then, something underneath the table trips me all of a sudden, just as I am about to drop it.

My left leg is hooked, and I fall forward with all the food in my hands. The food hits first, dirtying the floor before I fall into it.

The wine crashes last, spilling all over me instead of the tiled ground.

Disoriented and confused, my mind rushes to figure out what happened, until my gaze falls on his outstretched foot that had been purposefully set in my way, retracting back to its rightful place.

I meet his eyes, slowly shaking like a leaf in the wind, just as he erupts into a dark, demented laugh.

On command, everyone in the room follows suit, echoing him as loudly as possible, mocking me.

Their harsh whispers and taunts sink deep into my flesh with every passing moment I remain on my knees, dirtied with food.

“My, my, you’ve made quite the mess, little mouse.” He looks down on me, grinning wickedly, not done with me. “Be a good rodent and clean it up, will you? Eat it.”

I remain still and silent, staring down at the pile of food mushed together—delicious, yet filthy. Hot tears gather in my eyes.

“Don’t be shy. It’s probably cleaner than anything you’ve eaten in your life.”

He isn’t wrong. It is cleaner than the moldy bread I’m used to eating—much richer and more nutritious.

I tremble with fear, hesitant to do it, but then my face is suddenly pushed down into it without warning. His foot sits on my head, holding me down.

“Don’t waste my time,” he growls, hints of annoyance in his voice.

I cry harder, shutting my eyes, hating myself again with every passing moment. Even now, I’m too terrified to do anything. My fear is my shackle once more.

I tell myself that it’s okay, taking the first bite and swallowing without chewing.

I remind myself that I’m fine, and it will soon end—that I just need to keep going, and maybe soon he will get bored and let me go.

“Good girl,” he praises lowly once most of it is gone, without letting me up for air even once. “You missed a spot.” He presses down harder instead.

I remind myself again to be patient—that the taunting always ends at some point, just like back home.

They always got tired, always left me alone when the joke eventually ended.

But it never really ends, does it? The joke did, but not their cruelty—not the circle of having to endure it because of fear.

Something in me snaps, followed by a flicker of light, something similar to the sparks I felt on that battlefield yesterday when everything was at stake.

Suddenly, all the fear is gone, and all I feel is anger, disgust—repulsed by his childish oppression, all of it more overbearing than my own fear of death.

“If it’s n-not to your liking, m-maybe you should j-join me, your m-m-majesty.”

The words slip out of me before I can stop them, straight from my bitter heart to my lips, reaching my ears for the first time.

The room goes deathly silent.

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