Seraphina 8

The night after the dining hall incident was long and restless. I lay in the opulent bed, the luxurious silk sheets a cruel joke against the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. Sleep offered little comfort.

When the first sliver of dawn peeked through the heavy curtains, I opened my eyes, feeling every bit as tired as when I had closed them. My limbs ached, a deep, weary throb that spoke of hunger and the lingering tension from the previous evening.

"My lady," Lara whispered, already by my bedside, her small hand gently touching my shoulder. Her voice was soft, but her eyes held a familiar worry. "It's morning."

Pushing myself up felt like lifting heavy stones. My muscles protested, and a faint wave of dizziness washed over me, blurring the edges of the grand room for a moment. I gripped the edge of the bed, waiting for the world to steady.

Lara was there instantly, her small, steady hands helping me swing my legs over the side. She was a silent, indispensable support, her presence a small comfort in this hostile place.

"Thank you, Lara," I murmured, my voice a little rough. Every movement felt like a conscious effort. I yearned for a hot bath, for the soothing warmth to ease the stiffness in my bones and clear the fogginess in my head.

We made our way to the adjoining bathroom, a lavish space of polished stone and gleaming fixtures. I expected to find a maid already there, stoking the fires, drawing steaming water as was customary in any household of even moderate standing.

But the bathroom was utterly empty. No rising steam, no soft towels laid out neatly, just the cold, hard gleam of the empty tub.

I walked to the large stone tub and placed my hand on its surface. It was icy cold.

The water in the taps, when I tested it, was just as frigid. There was no hot water, no one to assist, no sign of any preparations for my morning bath.

A fresh surge of cold fury coursed through me, sharp and bitter. This wasn't an oversight. This was another deliberate, petty insult, aimed at stripping away my dignity, reducing me to nothing more than a common servant, or worse.

First the food, now the bath.

They were systematically trying to break me, to show me my place. My jaw clenched so tightly I could feel the muscles ache, a mirror to the anger that now consumed me. This Pack and it's Alpha, was truly determined to humiliate me.

Lara, who had followed me in, saw the emptiness, the cold water, and the anger rising in my face. Her own expression tightened with distress.

"My lady, this is unacceptable! They can't treat you like this! I'm going to go to the staff, to Aaron! I'll demand they send someone immediately!" She turned, her small frame rigid with a sudden, fierce determination to stand up for me.

"No, Lara!" I called out, my voice sharp, cutting through the silence. I reached out, my hand clamping around her arm, holding her back.

The strength in my grip surprised even me, fueled by a cold, new resolve.

Lara turned back to me, her eyes wide with confusion and a hint of frustration. "But, my lady! You need a warm bath! And they are treating you so poorly!"

"Let them," I said, my voice dropping, low and steady. The anger was still there, but it was now controlled, refined into something sharper, colder. "Let them do whatever they want." A plan, ugly and desperate, was beginning to form in my mind. "Every insult, every slight it will serve a purpose."

Lara looked at me, her brow furrowed, but she stayed. She might not understand the full scope of my thoughts, but she understood my unyielding will. She silently poured the cold water into a basin and found a rough cloth, helping me wash myself as best we could.

The frigid water was a shock, but it also served to sharpen my senses, to remind me of the harsh reality of my situation.

After dressing, with Lara's quiet help, we made our way to the dining hall for breakfast. My stomach grumbled, a hollow ache that was becoming a constant companion.

The formal dining hall, vast and echoing, felt even colder in the morning light. The Alpha's seat, predictably, remained empty. Elias's absence was a constant, stark reminder of his indifference, or perhaps, his complicity.

A different servant, older and with eyes that carefully avoided mine, approached the table carrying a new tray.

As he neared, a wonderful scent drifted through the air, the rich, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread. It was a smell I hadn't encountered since leaving the Sect's kitchens, a scent of warmth and home. My stomach gave another, louder rumble, and for a brief, hopeful moment, a flicker of genuine hunger stirred within me.

Perhaps, just perhaps, they had understood their mistake. Perhaps they were finally offering something proper. My guard, lowered by the tantalizing smell, faltered.

The servant placed a plate before me. On it sat a few slices of what looked like a golden-brown loaf, alongside a small, pale smear that might have been butter, and a glass of thin, watery juice. It looked simple, humble even, but the scent of fresh bread was so strong, so inviting.

I reached for a slice of the bread, the aroma filling my senses. It seemed warm to the touch. With a hopeful sigh, I took a bite.

The moment it touched my tongue, the illusion shattered.

It wasn't fresh. It was stale. Horribly, utterly stale.

The crust was hard, almost brittle, and the inside was dry and crumbly, completely devoid of the soft, yielding texture the scent had promised.

It tasted like sawdust, like something left out for days, then perhaps briefly warmed to fool the unwary.

The delightful aroma, I realized with a fresh wave of bitter understanding, must have been deliberately piped in from the kitchens, a cruel trick to tantalize and then disappoint.

My mouth went dry, the tasteless crumbs sticking to my palate. I chewed once, twice, the disgust rising. My stomach recoiled. I swallowed with difficulty, fighting the urge to spit it out.

The small, hopeful flicker inside me died, replaced by a cold, hard knot of fury. This wasn't just neglect; this was active deception. They wanted to crush my spirit with false hope, to mock my very hunger.

I calmly placed the half-eaten slice back on the plate, wiping my lips delicately with a linen napkin. My gaze swept across the silent dining hall, then to the impassive Aaron across the table. His face gave nothing away. He knew. They all knew.

"I seem to have lost my appetite," I said, my voice clear and cutting, loud enough to carry in the silence. I pushed the plate away, the stale bread a testament to their continued malice.

Lara looked at me, her eyes wide with fresh worry, understanding dawning on her face. She saw my composure, but she also saw the barely contained fury in my eyes.

She understood that the test continued, and it was becoming increasingly difficult. I would not break. Not yet. Not ever, if I could help it. But the days ahead promised only more suffering, and I knew I had to endure.