Chapter Text
If Lysandra were to listen to her brother’s vain idiotic ramblings for another minute, she would have no choice but to reach across the dinner table and rip his tongue out.
Lucian had thrown one of his infamous banquets, in honor of some meaningless event she didn’t bother to memorize. These parties were nothing but excuses to make himself the center of attention and keep court talking about the oh-so-charming Golden Prince, and how when High Queen Aliana finally decided to relinquish the throne to him life in the High Palace would be a neverending revelry.
It made Lysandra sick to the bottom of her stomach to think such a fool would inherit the crown over her simply by being born a mere three years before her - a historical feat in and of itself, since fae children tended to be born at least a few centuries apart.
She was the one suited to rule. She had the superior magic and the far superior battle prowess, while all her brother could concern himself with were luxurious clothes, extravagant parties and petty cruelties against those weaker than him.
Although… he can be quite creative, she mused, even if his best ideas are wasted on torturing random servants.
Yet, his schemes remained much too small for someone who would one day become High King of the Sun Vale, regardless of how mortals trembled at the mention of his name and courtiers fell all over themselves to please him.
He had no interest in subjugating the independent courts of the Wandering Isles, or plotting to have one of their scheming nobles stripped of their power and status, or anything else that would teach the gentry to properly fear his name and keep them in line. Even when dealing with rebellion and attempts on their family, he insisted upon leaving all sorts of loose ends alive, rather than putting an end to traitorous bloodlines.
"Treachery is in our nature, Lysandra," he would sigh, as if explaining a very simple concept to a small child. "If we execute all who covet the crown, we will be left with no people to rule over."
But off course he wouldn't care. He wasn't the one who had to deal with each and every threat against their family.
No, all Lucian could occupy himself with was holding court for the rich lords and ladies of the land, and spending his days drinking wine and coming up with increasingly novel ways to torment his humans.
Lysandra rolled her eyes at whatever nonsense he was going on about this time and resisted the urge to drive her silver spoon into the pretty eyes of the airheaded girl sitting by her side.
The girl laughed and laughed at the crown prince, tossing her honey-colored hair over her bare, sparkle-dusted shoulders. She wore an intricate violet dress with detailed gold stitching along the bodice—work too fine to be fae spellcraft. No doubt it was crafted by a human master artisan, kidnapped from the mortal realm.
Lysandra’s own gown of midnight blue had been made by three of her favorite personal artisans, whom she had handpicked centuries ago. The skirt danced around her legs as she moved, the crystal beads embroidered into them shimmering like constellations.
The girl’s laughter mixed with the incessant giggles of the other courtiers surrounding them, all of them desperate to gain Lucian's favor. The sound rang strident in her ears, like a silver knife dragged carelessly along a porcelain plate’s surface.
She lightly nudged her heel into the ribs of the mortal kneeling at her feet, the girl’s small whimper muffled by the smooth, pastel pink silk mask she had over the bottom half of her face. The accessory had been carefully arranged there to conceal the ball gag in her mouth, large enough that she would feel it constantly, but not so large that she would drool all over Lysandra’s feet.
The girl gazed up at Lysandra, her delicate brows slightly furrowed. Lysandra patted her own thigh with her ring-clad hand, signaling for her pet to rest her head in her lap, and smirking at the look of relief in the girl's eyes as she realized nothing bad was about to happen to her. She obeyed promptly, her lean body relaxing as the princess ran her elegant fingers through silky, blonde hair, eyes closing at the feeling of long nails grazing her scalp lightly.
Lysandra's fingers moved through those soft strands, savoring how perfectly trained her little pet was. Mortals were such fragile, short-lived creatures, but they had their uses. This one had been so easy to acquire—a few carefully worded promises about a special work position laced with praise, and the foolish girl had walked willingly across the border.
The law was quite clear about consent, after all. No unwilling mortal was allowed to enter Faerie. What they chose to do once they discovered the truth of their situation... well, that was entirely up to them.
Unlike some fae she knew, Lysandra had never seen the point in keeping her pets glamoured into mindless obedience or damaging them beyond repair. Where was the satisfaction in that? Most of the palace's servants were dull-eyed, perfectly obedient humans, but they were mostly functional, rather than amusing. Lucian's collection might be impressive in its own twisted way, but his creations couldn't appreciate their situation. They couldn't choose to submit, couldn't learn to crave approval.
This was so much more rewarding.
The way the girl's breathing had slowed, how she melted into Lysandra's touch—that was genuine contentment, earned through careful training rather than magical compulsion. Not to mention that miserable humans were terribly ugly, and Lysandra despised ugly things almost as much as she despised the weak. Her girl stood head and shoulders above any miserable slave. She was sweet and pliant, features delicate in an almost fairy-like way. Stumbling across her in the human world had been a stroke of luck. Lysandra couldn't help but want to pamper and spoil her.
“Pet,” the girl’s blue eyes met her molten gold ones, “I’m bored of this party. We’re going.”
Although every gaze in the room turned to her for a split second, no one dared make a comment about her leaving early. Not even her brother, as much too busy with his umpteenth glass of peach wine and yet another tale of his latest travels to the Summer Lands with his inner circle. Her girl made to crawl behind her, but Lysandra dragged her up to her feet with the hand she still had on her hair.
“Walk. I don’t wish to stay longer than necessary.”
-
And so the fae princess left, her long, lush midnight hair flowing behind her. Rosalie walked behind her, attempting to pick up her pace to compensate for her much shorter legs, without stepping on the trailing skirts of her mistress’ dress. The whole piece was made of a shimmering, butterfly wing-like silk, which would undoubtedly rip apart the moment a clumsy foot stepped on it.
And Rosalie would much rather keep her head tonight.
Even as her life depended on being careful and attentive, she couldn't stop but steal awed gazes at the princess while they walked. Beautiful wasn't a strong enough word for her. Flawless hair cascading down her back, left naked by the dress; unreal golden eyes that har Rosalie squirming when under their prolonged attention. And her face.
Her features were delicate, yet cold, like an ice sculpture brought to life; her skin was smooth and unblemished, with an innate glow from the golden seelie blood flowing in her veins. Every aspect of her was inviting, as if she had been handcrafted by Mother Nature herself to lure unsuspecting mortals across the border.
As they left the Sunset Ballroom, they walked past traces of the party which had spilled out of the arched doorway. Loud conversations between gentry who had overindulged in Lucian’s wine. Couples entirely too close to each other in poorly secluded corners of the palace halls. Even a handful of human artists who had to be dragged away from the dance floor lest they danced themselves to death.
Rosalie rolled her eyes at the scene. It baffled her how careless the artisans and artists could be. It was a well known fact humans had to be careful when dancing among fae, their glamour so deeply interwoven into the very air of their ballrooms it was easy for mortals to lose themselves in it.
Even when she was stumbling over the halls like a newborn fawn, still learning her place in this peculiar new world, she hadn’t fallen prey to such simple traps.
As they walked deeper into the palace’s entrails and towards the South Wing, the sounds of the party finally became too faint to reach their ears. Rosalie’s, at least. She still wasn’t entirely sure how much more delicate fae hearing was. They made their way up the stairways and halls of the palace, footsteps echoing against polished marble floors until they reached the southeastern tower, where Lysandra took residence. She walked in, paying no mind to the human servants who stopped scrubbing the floors to bow deeply to her, letting heavy wooden doors to her private quarters slam shut behind them.
The click of the heavy doors closing behind them drew some tension from Rosalie’s shoulders. Being in such close proximity to His Highness the Crown Prince tended to make her very jittery, as she never knew what to expect from him.
“Heavens, Lucian’s banquets never fail to be more dreadfully boring than the previous one,” she said, dropping her black velvet cape and leaving her delicate satin shoes by the door. Rosalie walked close behind her with practiced expertise, picking up each item the princess discarded and taking them to their appropriate places in the closet. “Providing such a poor excuse for entertainment should be considered a punishable offense.”
Rosalie's bare feet sank into carpets so thick they seemed to swallow sound itself—silk and wool tapestries that had cost three human lives to complete, their intricate patterns telling stories of conquest in thread-of-gold. The room stretched before them like a sanctuary of shadows and firelight, every surface designed to catch and reflect Lysandra's beauty back at her. Gilt-framed mirrors lined the walls between oil paintings, each canvas featuring the princess' favorite spots across Faerie: The Whispering Gardens, the fairy village of Moonlit Falls, a snowstorm in The Northern Peaks.
Two archways broke the perfect symmetry—one opening onto the balcony where Lysandra would sometimes stand in silence for hours, with just the night sky for company; the other, covered by heavy curtains, leading to her sleeping chambers.
The fire flickered to life as Lysandra draped herself over the couch with a sigh, her eyes falling shut. The action made Rosalie anxious. Boredom tended to lead her mistress to coming up with all kinds of ways to amuse herself.
Rosalie knelt beside the couch, letting out the smallest sound she dared—just enough to draw Lysandra's attention without seeming demanding. She kept her eyes properly downcast but allowed a hint of pleading to show, knowing exactly how the soft pink of her dress caught the firelight against her bare shoulders.
The snap of Lysandra's fingers sent relief flooding through her as the enchantment dissolved. Rosalie removed the gag with careful, practiced movements, her free hand immediately moving to massage her aching jaw. The silk cover had been beautiful, but wearing the gag for hours had left her jaw muscles cramped and sore.
“Was that hard, pet?” Lysandra cooed, cupping Rosalie’s face with a cold hand.
“A little bit, mistress. But nothing unbearable,” her voice was small and tentative as she rested her face on Lysandra’s hand, her eyes fixed on the floor. She had to be careful with her words, for speaking too strongly of her discomfort would come across as complaining, which could get her punished, and making too light of it could make her mistress think of something more challenging for her to endure next time. The gag hadn't even been a punishment, only something Lysandra had come across while traveling in the mortal world and had decided to try on her.
Lysandra made a pleased sound, and Rosalie shivered at the weight of her gaze inspecting every inch of her.
“Mistress?”
“Yes, pretty thing?” Lysandra answered, her lips curling into a smirk at the blush that dusted Rosalie’s face at the pet name.
“Please forgive me for asking, but…” she hesitated, blue eyes coming up to meet golden ones, “Will Felix remain tied up for much longer?”
The princess’ eyebrows furrowed for a second, as if she had no idea whom Rosalie spoke of. And she likely hadn’t.
Last time she spoke my name, Rosalie mused, was probably the day she tricked me into coming here thinking I’d be her personal esthetician. I doubt she remembers it.
“Well remembered, little one,” Lysandra smiled, recognition settling over her features, “Our little friend had completely slipped my mind.”
The princess got up from the couch in one smooth movement, her bare feet completely soundless against the carpet.
Rosalie followed her into the bedchamber, keeping a careful distance. Hanging from the ceiling by his bound ankles was her servitude companion, Felix, face red from all the blood rushing into his head. He flinched when the door opened, an impressive feat considering how exhausted his body must’ve been after several hours in that position.
With a wave of Lysandra’s hand, his bindings came undone, Rosalie’s stomach turning from fear he might break his neck in the fall.
Thankfully, he turned just enough for his shoulders to take the worst of the impact, his body lying limp on the floor in a tangle of limbs. The scene brought back the strangest memory, from a puppet show Rosalie had watched with her aunt when she was little.
Halfway through the play, the strings of the prince puppet had snapped, and he had flopped off stage and to the floor, much like Felix once his ropes were released.
“Tired, are we?” Lysandra drawled, circling the boy on the floor like a cat with a wounded bird. “Good. That means you’ve had time to reflect.”
She paused for a minute, eyes raking over his fallen figure, no doubt delighting in her handiwork.
“Kneel,” came the cold command.
He obeyed sluggishly, settling before her with his head low. The position probably felt terrible, his limbs no doubt pricking with blood just now starting to circulate normally again.
“Do you understand what you’ve done wrong, pet?”
Felix grimaced, nodding slowly as if even that small movement caused him pain. Which was likely the case.
Rosalie suppressed a sigh before Lysandra's voice rang through the room once again. Annoyance flickered across the princess's features, the light from the enchanted crystals floating overhead enhancing the cold glare of her golden eyes.
“Regardless of how much I discipline you, you truly refuse to learn your lesson.”
He opened his mouth, eyes lit with confusion at the reprimand, but Lysandra silenced him with a flick of her wrist. His voice vanished mid-breath, lips still moving uselessly.
“Now, not a single word from you. If you cannot speak when spoken to, then you will not speak at all. ”
What a fool he is. Two years and he still struggles with a simple ‘Yes, mistress’, Rosalie thought, her sympathy waning.
Stupidity had always been the quickest way to tear at her patience, and not even her radical change of scenario had been able to erase that trait.
Lysandra bent down then, touching her blood-red lips to his forehead in a mockery of tenderness. Felix was frozen in place, watching her with wide, terrified eyes. He knew what would come next. The sweet scent of orchids filled the room as the princess’ magic took hold of his mind.
Felix gasped silently and collapsed, his body convulsing. His dirty blonde hair fell messily over his eyes, dark with sweat. Suddenly, the air itself seemed to shift—heavy and oppressive in the way of powerful enchantments.
“This charm,” Lysandra said, turning toward Rosalie in that almost motherly tone of hers that she had whenever she was teaching her about cruelty. “Will make his brain go over all the times he disobeyed me recently. Every time he fails to behave properly, his body will feel like it's being consumed by fire. And the more he struggles, the hotter the fire will feel.”
Rosalie swallowed. Her gaze lingered on Felix’s trembling frame, how his hands curled into claws against the stone, how his mouth hung open in a scream no one could hear. It was… strangely fascinating. The charm was perfect for him and his stubbornness. Maybe with endless repetition of his wrongdoings, he would finally understand the importance of good manners. Or, maybe he wouldn't learn anything at all.
Lysandra hadn't always been this cruel to him. No. At first, she'd been gentle. Understanding. Felix had been the architect of his own misery with his refusal to listen, to obey.
Something familiar and sickeningly alien stirred in her chest—a voice that had been whispering in her ear more frequently, one she had been pointedly trying to ignore.
It was a twisted sense of delight.
A sick, warm rush of satisfaction bloomed in her stomach. She knew it should disturb her, but instead, she found herself fascinated by the elegance of it. No blood, no bruises. Just clean and invisible agony. Earned agony.
“Sweep him into the corner, pretty thing,” Lysandra said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Let him contemplate the nature of obedience from there.”
Rosalie moved as ordered, fingers gentle but unpitying as she dragged Felix by his arms to the far side of the room. He curled in on himself, shuddering violently, his silent torment a backdrop to the quiet crackle of the fire.
As she returned to her mistress’s side, Lysandra reached out and scratched her scalp with those long, elegant nails. Rosalie let out a soft, involuntary sigh, eyes falling closed.
She once again thanked God in her mind that she wasn't the one on the receiving end of her mistress’ temper. Rosalie instead got to spend her days blissfully by her feet, sharp claws massaging her scalp, sometimes even curling up against the princess's side at night.
If someone had told her three years ago she would spend the rest of her life as a slave, a meaningless plaything to an immortal being of unimaginable cruelty, she might have considered ending it all.
But looking at her situation now—all things considered—it wasn't so bad. Sure, she had to mind her manners under threat of cruel punishment or death, but she got the best food she'd ever eaten, luxurious clothes, silk sheets for napping. And all she had to do in exchange was kneel at a gorgeous princess's feet and give her massages? There were definitely worse ways to live one's life, she decided.
Though she hadn't always seen it that way. When she'd first realized this was forever, she'd fallen to her knees weeping—a dangerous gamble that could have earned her real cruelty. Instead, Lysandra had simply cupped her face and suggested a warm bath.
The luxury had worked like a charm. Rich oils, sparkly satin, gold and precious stones—Rosalie had never been shallow, but she'd never had access to such things either. And when Lysandra had fastened that diamond collar around her neck, calling her the prettiest little pet in the world...
Well. That was nobody's business but her own.
Felix, on the other hand, had gotten the short end of the stick. He'd arrived a year after Rosalie, screaming about being his own man, not some pet to toy with. That defiance had earned him punishment within thirty minutes.
He should have learned to obey after that. Should have.
Rosalie lost track of how long she remained kneeling by Lysandra's feet, watching Felix's silent torment. It was especially cruel, she thought, to rob someone even of the safety of their own mind.
"I cannot stand this human stench any longer," Lysandra groaned, summoning her magic with a wave. Vines and branches grew in from the windows, stretching and curling until they formed vaguely humanoid, enormous fairy beasts. A strong smell of wet wood and rich earth accompanied them, so strong it used to make Rosalie gag; these days, she had grown used to it. They carried Felix away like a ragdoll to the adjacent bathing chambers, for exclusive use of Lysandra’s pets. "Help him clean up. I don't want to wake to such a mess on my floors."
Then, she turned to Rosalie. Her face was softer now, molten gold eyes almost warm. It was jarring, how quickly her moods could shift.
But Rosalie was grateful. So, so grateful.
Because as cruel as the princess could be, she was still gentle with her. As gentle as an immortal, bloodthirsty, beautiful creature could be, at least.
"Now, pretty girl. Come prepare me for bed."
Rosalie's legs felt unsteady as she followed Lysandra to the vanity, nearly tripping before catching herself on the bedpost. Her hands moved with practiced precision through the familiar ritual—removing jeweled pins, combing through waves of midnight hair, massaging jasmine oil into Lysandra's scalp. This was perhaps her favorite part of the day. The princess's hair was flawless, so silky that Rosalie had to fight the urge to nuzzle into it.
"Such a dedicated pet," Lysandra murmured, eyes closed in pleasure. "Your hands are so firm now, they used to tremble as if the smallest mistake could cost you your life."
Which it could, Rosalie thought, carefully braiding the lustrous strands.
When Lysandra dismissed her to prepare for sleep, Rosalie found Felix already passed out in a blue set of cotton pajamas, his energies drained after the punishment.
Once changed into her own sleeping clothes, Rosalie settled into the familiar comfort of their shared bed, glancing at Felix beside her. His breathing was still uneven. A year ago, she might have whispered comfort, might have reached out to touch his shoulder in the darkness.
Now she simply turned away, pulling the warm covers closer.
There are definitely worse ways to live, she reminded herself, listening to Lysandra's soft breathing from the bed above. The princess had given them luxury, safety, purpose. All they had to do was be grateful.
All they had to do was remember their place.