The world Serena entered was not one of glittering halls or royal feasts, but one of shadowed corridors and a suffocating air of dread. The journey to Pashadom had been grueling. Her wrists and ankles were bound in heavy chains, leaving raw marks on her red skin. She had been transported in a poorly ventilated carriage, crammed with other slaves, the stink of sweat and despair clinging to her senses. Every bump in the road jarred her aching body, and the jeers of guards who accompanied them were a constant reminder of her new status.
Pashadom was starkly different from Emberhold. While her homeland burned with an eternal brilliance of fire and grandeur, Pashadom smoldered in decay and neglect. Its streets were narrow and winding, the cobblestones slick with filth. The air reeked of mold, sewage, and something sour she couldn't quite place. Unlike Emberhold, where pleasure workers were respected and even exalted in society, here the weakest and the lowest were crushed beneath the boots of the powerful.
The people of Pashadom seemed to shuffle like shadows, their faces gaunt, their eyes sunken with despair. Pleasure workers here were not celebrated artisans or warriors like in Emberhold; they were tools, stripped of all dignity. Serena shivered as she observed their hollow gazes, dressed in rags and painted with makeup so thick it could not hide their hopelessness.
When the carriage halted in front of the prince's estate, Serena's breath caught. The mansion stood tall and extravagant, a grotesque mockery of wealth. Its dark walls were trimmed with gold, the gates adorned with sharp spikes as if daring anyone to approach. The building was surrounded by a garden of withered plants, their lifeless forms a testament to neglect.
As Serena was hauled through the gates, she caught sight of the guards—hulking men with cold eyes who sneered at her. The grand double doors of the mansion creaked open, revealing an opulent interior. The floors gleamed with polished marble, mirrors lined the walls to reflect the flickering light of crystal chandeliers, and tapestries depicting the prince's victories hung proudly.
But the beauty of the mansion was tainted. The silence was heavy, oppressive, broken only by the distant sounds of weeping and the harsh bark of commands. The air inside was perfumed, but it couldn't mask the underlying metallic tang of blood.
Serena was dragged into the grand hall, and there, seated upon a gilded throne-like chair, was Prince Theorin of Pashadom. He looked younger than she had imagined—perhaps sixteen—but his presence was commanding. His long, golden hair fell in waves over his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed with a cruel intelligence. His body was imposing for someone so young, muscular and powerful, as if carved from marble.
Theorin's beauty was deceptive; it masked a soul full of malice. As Serena was forced to her knees before him, his lips curled into a smirk that sent a chill through her.
"So," Theorin drawled, his voice smooth yet venomous, "this is the gem Emberhold sends me. A red-skinned wench. Fitting, I suppose. Fire should be contained, after all."
Serena's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Her instincts told her to resist, to fight, but her chains and her weakened body reminded her of her current reality.
Theorin approached her, circling like a predator savoring its prey. He lifted her chin roughly, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I will break you," he said, his voice soft but laced with promise. "Your fire will serve me, or it will burn out."
Her first night in Theorin's mansion was a nightmare. He demanded her submission, treating her as if she were less than human. When she hesitated to obey his commands, his anger was swift and brutal. He struck her across the face with a heavy hand, sending her sprawling.
"You will learn," he said coldly, standing over her as she struggled to get up. "Or you will suffer."
The days blurred into weeks of torment. Theorin's cruelty knew no bounds. He beat her for the smallest perceived slight, his blows calculated to inflict pain but not to kill. He taunted her about her origins, calling her weak, mocking the very fire that coursed through her veins.
At night, Serena would lie on the cold stone floor of her quarters, her body aching, her spirit close to breaking. She thought of Emberhold, of the queen who had cared for her, of the life she had been robbed of. She thought of her parents, who had traded her away like a commodity.
But even as the tears slipped down her cheeks, Serena clung to one thought: I will not break.
She would endure Theorin's wrath. She would survive the hell of Pashadom. And one day, somehow, she would reclaim her fire.