Chapter 3 - Setting the Stage

After Elanor finished practicing her new tune, she checked her System clock.

Strange, she thought, they’re usually here by now…

Leaning her head against the bars of her cell to peer into the hallway, she saw only a bit of red on the floor, nothing else. There was an odd tang in the air. It reminded Elanor of when she got nosebleeds in the dry winters.

“What is that smell?” she whispered, deciding to retire to the other side of her chamber and wait to be called.

A while later, she heard shuffling in the hallway and bunch of yelling. Someone came and rattled the door to her cage, then ran away and checked the others along the hallway.

More shuffling and some muffled whispers.

She sat quietly, fingers tapping phantom strings in her lap, rehearsing the dirge she’d play for those monsters in just a few hours.

It was to be the last song of her set for the night.

“Ashes of a Golden Lie” was, thus far, her own personal Magnum Opus.

She hummed the tune a bit longer before nodding off for a short nap.

Clanging of keys on the cell door woke her, and a guard she’d never seen before held the door open while a maid came in to bring the clothes she’d wear for the show tonight.

Since the guard seemed insistent on standing in the doorway, Elanor went behind the partition to change, handing her dirty prison clothes to the maid. The maid then tightened the strings on her corset, and helped Elanor polish and tune her instruments, as was the norm at this time of day.

When the guard was distracted by someone talking to him in the hallway, the maid whispered.

“Good luck tonight, Miss Elanor. And happy birthday!”

She pressed something into Elanor’s hand as she left the room, the guard locking the door from the outside.

When the coast was clear, Elanor opened her hand and saw a note folded up tightly. Opening it, she read the neatly written words:

I left something for you in the folds of your morning clothes.

My quest is complete. The rest is up to you.

Good luck, Songweaver.

In shock and afraid that someone had found her secret already only hours after opening her path, Elanor rushed to the pile of clothes left on the dresser for her to wear tomorrow.

Nestled deep in the folds was a blackened metal dagger. It was longer than she thought it would be, and was in its own leather sheath.

The sheath’s hooks clipped easily to the inner lining of her robe, as if the outfit had been made to hide this very weapon. She finished donning her clothes with slow precision, then slid the dagger into place. It would be within reach if she needed it tonight.

After dressing, she polished her instruments a little bit more and placed them carefully into their cases. If all went well tonight, she would never return to this wretched cell again. She looked around the cramped space, memorizing every crack in the stone, every stain and shadow, burning them into her memory like old scars beneath the skin.

The searing hatred that had kept her alive for two years had not faded. If anything, it had sharpened. Her resolve had never bowed. There would be no surrendering to her circumstances. No quiet acceptance of her fate.

No, she may have learned how to play a part, but the real Elanor had never bent the knee.

She was still the proud daughter of Thandor and Eve Veralyn. And she would be free.

Perhaps, she thought, today is that day.

Knowing they would come for her at any moment, she sat cross-legged on the cold floor and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Her mind cleared.

When the keys turned in the lock once more, she opened her eyes.

“On your feet,” the guard said gruffly.

They made their way through the labyrinthine halls of the cellar, past locked doors and torchlit corridors, ascending two narrow staircases toward the heart of the mansion. As they climbed, the sounds of movement grew louder. Clattering trays, barked orders, and the hurried murmur of cooks and servants preparing for a feast.

Elanor caught the rich scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and sugared fruits. Cooks and staff bustled past them, carrying silver platters laden with delicacies toward the central entertainment room.

She recognized it as the same grand hall she’d performed in only once before. It was her debut in Myrrindel, shortly after being taken. After that, she'd been carted off to private homes, salons and rented taverns to entertain the Lord’s favored guests.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

They always blindfolded her during transit, ensuring she couldn’t memorize the routes. Most guards shoved her along the cobbled streets so she’d stumble into crates, into passersby, into the delicious scents of food she was never allowed to taste.

But one thing she’d noticed: the venues were always closed to the public. Without exception.

Lord Goldenvale kept his songbird secret.

She once overheard a noble mention a System-enforced non-disclosure contract. An oddity he thought, until he heard her play. Then he understood.

The Lord wasn’t just hoarding her talents.

He was protecting truly precious property.

Elanor was led to a modest stage to the left of the head table. The grand hall was laid out with elegant round tables, each surrounded by wooden chairs cushioned in crimson fabric and embroidered with golden thread. The tablecloths matched the chairs, stitched in patterns that glittered softly under the glow of the many grand chandeliers lining the ceiling.

She moved with practiced precision, taking her instruments from their cases and arranging them on the stands provided. The cases she tucked neatly behind the stage. Then she took her seat and waited, hands folded in her lap, eyes scanning the room.

Most of Lord Goldenvale’s gatherings had drawn no more than a few dozen leering sycophants. But tonight…

She counted twelve tables, eight chairs apiece. Then five more seats at the raised head table.

One hundred and one.

This would be the largest audience she’d ever played for.

A servant approached with a jug of water and a porcelain mug, setting them beside the stage with a soft smile and a whispered, “Good luck.” With a wink, the servant turned and vanished into the flow of activity.

Moments later, a guard gestured. Time to begin.

Elanor lifted her flute and began to play—a soft, meandering set of background melodies meant to drift across the room as the guests arrived. She repeated the tune in gentle loops, her eyes trained on the tall double doors.

The nobles filed in, clad in evening finery and loud entitlement. They sauntered to their tables, began barking orders at the servants, and poured wine with careless indulgence.

None of them were armed, of course. That would’ve been gauche. Only the guards bore steel.

As she played, Elanor watched. Observed. Stored faces.

She saw one man grab a servant girl’s breasts. Another pinched a maid’s behind and laughed when she flinched. Her stomach twisted. She struggled to maintain her composure as she played.

She was only fourteen. But she understood consent.

And in this world, consent was a luxury granted only to the powerful. These people had no need of permission. They took what they wanted and spared no thought for those they harmed in the process.

The rage inside her simmered.

She saw Lord Malric’s brother ascend the steps to the head table and take his seat. He was followed by three others she knew only as Malric’s business associates. Men who had mocked her past performances and called her “Malric’s little pet” with wine-slick tongues.

Then a bell rang.

The murmurs faded. A servant raised a small coronet, and a sharp fanfare split the air.

In strode Lord Malric Goldenvale.

He wore red suede lined in gold filigree, a theatrical cape golden in color draped over broad pauldrons. His boots were black as pitch and polished to a mirror sheen. White gloves on his hands. And—because of course, atop his head: a golden crown.

A coronet and crown.

He’s not even in the line of succession, Elanor thought bitterly.

But among friends, who’s going to tell him no?

All in the room rose to their feet, applauding.

Malric strutted down the aisle like a man descending from the heavens. He paused to whisper into ears, to smirk at old friends, to squeeze a shoulder here and there as if bestowing favor.

At last, he ascended the dais.

With a sweeping motion of his cape and a flourish of his arms, he called for silence.

The room obeyed immediately.

Elanor sat quietly, her expression composed. But inside, her soul spat ash.

Why do they show him such reverence?

Why do they clap for a monster in silk?

And then Lord Malric stepped forward, raising his goblet with theatrical flair. His voice range out with the practiced cadence of a man far too used to being obeyed.

“Ah, what a fine evening to be alive, and even finer to be in such exquisite company. Look at you! All of you, glistening like polished coins in a freshly cracked coffer.”

A ripple of laughter swept through the hall.

“I don’t have much to say tonight. We’re here to dine, to drink, and to be… entertained.”

He took a languid sip from his wine, teeth already stained red.

“Tonight, I offer a rare delight. My personal treasure. A living instrument. Trained to perfection, broken in properly, like every good tool should be. Most of you haven’t yet had the pleasure.”

He glanced at Elanor but looked through her, as if she were nothing more than an object set on a shelf.

“I was passing through the countryside, oh, two years ago now. I don’t recall the name of the piss-poor village, but the smell… Gods, the smell, lingers in my memory.”

He wrinkled his nose dramatically. Another round of quiet laughter rippled from the guests.

“They tried to put on a show for me. Scantily-clad dancers. Fire-eaters. Food so salty I thought they were trying to embalm me. And wine that tasted like piss warmed by sunlight. Called it their best.”

Nobody made a sound, letting him ramble as he was wont to do on such occasions.

“Then they brought her out. This girl. And I’ll say it plain. She’s the greatest musician I’ve ever heard. Twelve years old, maybe? Doesn’t matter. Just a child. But when I heard her play… I knew. I had to have her.”

Another sip.

“I offered five thousand quills for her. Generous, I thought. Her parents declined. So I killed them both on the spot. The village just watched. Spineless peasants, they just stared as their brightest star was taken from under their nose.”

He smiled, and for a moment there was nothing human in the expression.

“On our way to Myrrindel, she tried to escape so many times that we had to chain her up in one of the wagons, forcing six landowners to walk the rest of the way. They lodged complaints with my father, and it caused me just enough of a headache that I sent men to burn her little village to the ground. Every man, woman and child was put to the axe.”

He glared at her now, pure venom in his voice.

“Nobody crosses me.”

Elanor’s fingers twitched. Anger flared in her chest like kindling beneath a match.

Then the Lord burst into laughter.

“Ah! This is the first she’s heard of it! Look at that expression!”

He laughed again—a cruel, barking noise that echoed in the stone hall. A few others joined in.

“I keep her caged like any good songbird. But tonight, my friends, she will sing for you.”

He doesn’t even know my name, Elanor thought, as she positioned her hands on the strings of her lute for the first song in her set.

But tonight...

I will give them the performance of a lifetime.

The last performance of their lifetimes.