Rag-like clothes clung to her frail frame, accentuating the stark pallor of her skin. Her long, white, silky hair, usually a tangled mess, was surprisingly neat this morning, a detail that only amplified the unsettling nature of the situation.
Her green eyes, usually bright with a hidden defiance, were now wide with a dawning horror.
Alisa woke with a start, the rough-hewn floor of the basement digging into her cheek. Three months.
Three months since the tragic incident that had ripped her from her previous life, and three months since she'd become a slave in this brutal new world.
This life, she realized with a shudder, was a far cry from the hell she'd left behind. It was a living tomb.
A slave. Nothing more than a tool for the wealthy and powerful nobles. The thought coiled in her stomach, a cold knot of despair.
"Alisa!" Her mistress voice, sharp as a shard of glass, shattered the silence. Alisa flinched, her breath catching in her throat.
"Coming, Miss," she said, almost a whisper, her voice barely audible. She scrambled to her feet, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor.
A wave of nausea washed over her as she stumbled towards the basement door, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She pushed the heavy wooden door open, her hand trembling. The sudden burst of light momentarily blinded her.
She blinked, trying to adjust to the harsh sunlight. Her mistress stood there, her face a mask of something that vaguely resembled a smile—a smile that sent a chill down Alisa's spine.
Beside her stood Melissa, the mistress's daughter looking on with a mixture of indifference and curiosity.
And then there was the man—tall, imposing, with eyes that seemed to assess Alisa like a piece of livestock.
Her mistress gestured towards her, a silent command. Alisa felt a tremor run through her, a primal fear that made her knees weak. It was the first time her mistress had ever called her with such a tone.
In the past three months, the only times her mistress had addressed her were to inflict pain, that doesn't match the mistress's expectations.
Alisa bowed her head, her fingers clenching into fists beneath her ragged clothes. The man's smile widened as he took a step closer, his gaze lingering on her face.
He reached out, his touch light but invasive, as he tapped her shoulder. Alisa recoiled instinctively, a gasp escaping her lips. Her feet trembled violently, threatening to buckle beneath her.
"She really is beautiful," the man stated, his voice smooth but chilling. "All she needs is a little wash, and she can be the sacrifice for the prince." The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Alisa froze, her mind struggling to grasp the meaning.
Sacrifice? For the prince? The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow.
"I know, right. However, if the prince doesn't like her—" her aunt began, the man interrupted smoothly.
"Don't fear, Prince Draco likes girls who have green eyes. I'm sure he'll like it." With unnerving speed, he snatched a cuff from his jacket and pressed it into Alisa's trembling hand.
Alisa stared at the cuff, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and bewilderment. She looked up at her mistress, her gaze pleading, desperate for some explanation, some shred of hope. But her mistress's face remained impassive, her eyes cold and hard.
"Don't you dare resist, Alisa," her mistress hissed, the threat laced with a chilling finality.
She weakly bowed her head, the weight of her utter powerlessness pressing down on her like a physical burden. The rough hand of the man, calloused and strong, dragged her toward a waiting carriage.
The smell of dust and sweat clung to him, a stark contrast to the fine silks she was accustomed to.
He heaved open the carriage door, the hinges groaning a mournful protest, and she stumbled inside.
The carriage lurched and swayed, the rough cobblestones jarring her teeth. Each jolt sent a fresh wave of nausea through her already churning stomach.
The air inside was thick with the smell of damp leather and something else… something metallic, like old blood.
She pressed her forehead against the cold, hard wood, trying to still the frantic beating of her heart. The rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves was the only sound, a relentless drumbeat counting down to her doom.
Through a crack in the curtains, she glimpsed flashes of the city—dark, narrow streets, shadowy figures lurking in doorways, their faces hidden in the gloom. Each glimpse fueled her growing terror.
The carriage finally stopped before a massive iron gate, its black surface dull and pitted with rust.
It was far less ornate than she'd imagined, devoid of the glittering gold leaf and intricate carvings she'd seen depicted in court paintings.
Instead, it was stark, almost menacing in its simplicity. The gate stood open, revealing a glimpse of a courtyard beyond—dark and shadowed, with tall, ominous trees casting long, skeletal branches across the stone.
A chill, deeper than the autumn air, snaked down her spine.
The carriage rolled through the gate, and she gasped. The mansion loomed before her, a monstrous edifice of grey stone that seemed to swallow the light.
It was far grander, more imposing than anything she could have imagined.
Towers pierced the sky, their windows like dark, empty eyes staring down at her. It wasn't just twice the size of her mistress's mansion; it dwarfed it, a colossal, brooding presence that seemed to exude an aura of cold, regal power.
The sheer scale of it pressed down on her, crushing her with a weight of dread. A tremor ran through her, not just from the cold, but from a primal fear that burrewed deep into her bones.
The man gently grasped her arm, his touch surprisingly light considering his strength.
He carefully examined her, his gaze lingering on her face. He knew the prince's expectations, and knew the price of failure.
He knew the stories, the whispered tales of the previous sacrifice, the bloodbath that followed their transgression.
The memory of that bloodbath, a tapestry woven with screams and the glint of steel, sent a fresh wave of icy terror through her.
This wasn't just a sacrifice; it was a ritual, a desperate plea for mercy from a capricious god-king.
One wrong move, and her life, like the lives of so many before her, would be forfeit. The weight of that knowledge was almost unbearable.