Thorne Steelhart, a prince of Great Lyria, had become the nation’s disgrace. Once a source of pride, he was now consumed by shame-and he blamed it all on Amerosia. His fury burned, and he vowed to unleash it on one particular woman.
As Thorne prepared to act on his anger, the butler rushed into the room, bowing respectfully.
“Prince Thorne, Prince Alaric has summoned you,” he said.
“The crown prince?” Thorne sneered. “He wants me there to mock me, doesn’t he?”
In Great Lyria, a land of nomads, the crown prince didn’t always inherit the throne. Thorne had long coveted the position of High Sovereign, and his rivalry with Prince Alaric ran deep. But as much as he detested Alaric, he couldn’t openly defy the order.
After a moment of thought, Thorne said, “Tell Prince Alaric I’ll be there shortly.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the butler replied, bowing again before leaving.
Thorne turned to Lindsay Windson, a woman bound and gagged before him. “Take her to bathe,” he commanded his guards. “When I return, I’ll enjoy her properly.”
Lindsay’s muffled cries were filled with despair. Tears streamed down her face. She would rather die than suffer the fate Thorne had in store for her. She’d thought of escaping, but the prince’s heavily guarded palace made it impossible. Once just a celebrity on Earth, she’d never faced such horrors-until she joined the Jefferson family and began training as an Aetherbinding practitioner. Danger had followed her ever since, pushing her to the brink of collapse.
Now, she could only pray. Chris… please, save me.
—
Meanwhile, at the Silver Crown, Prince Alaric’s palace…
Thorne arrived by carriage shortly after being summoned. He entered the grand hall, only to be met with Alaric’s scorn.
“Thorne Steelhart! Captured by Amerosia and still shameless enough to return alive? You’ve humiliated all of Great Lyria!”
Alaric’s voice rang with disdain. Though he was the crown prince, his brothers refused to respect him-especially Thorne, his fiercest rival. Now that Thorne had suffered disgrace, Alaric seized the chance to humiliate him further.
Thorne’s face darkened at the insults. His hands clenched into fists, but he dared not retaliate. Alaric was still the crown prince, and defiance could cost Thorne dearly.
Through gritted teeth, Thorne growled, “You’ll see. One day, I’ll march on Amerosia’s capital, Pinkshire, and capture their so-called Princess of Monroe. I’ll erase today’s shame with my own hands.”
“Is that so?” Alaric smirked. “Then I’ll wait and see.”
Later that evening, Thorne returned to his palace, his mind clouded with anger and alcohol. He’d spent the day drinking after Alaric’s relentless mockery, and when he finally arrived home, he called for his butler.
“Where’s that Amerosia woman?” he demanded.
The butler, cautious of Thorne’s temper, replied, “Prince Thorne, she’s already been taken to your chambers.”
Without waiting for another word, Thorne stormed to his room.
—
Thorne’s chamber was the grandest in the palace, adorned with rare furniture, priceless paintings, and ancient relics. At the center of the room, tied to his bed, was Lindsay Windson. Her eyes widened in terror as Thorne entered, reeking of alcohol.
He laughed cruelly. “Amerosia is the reason for my disgrace. And you’re an Amerosian woman. Tonight, I’ll take my revenge on you.”
He moved toward her, but before he could act, the butler’s voice called from outside the door.
“Prince Thorne, an urgent matter requires your attention!”
Thorne snarled, “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
The butler replied nervously, “Prince Thorne, the High Sovereign himself has summoned you to the palace.”
“My father?” Thorne’s drunken haze evaporated instantly. In all of Great Lyria, there was one man he feared: the High Sovereign.
Forgetting Lindsay in an instant, Thorne turned and left the room. As his footsteps faded, Lindsay’s tears began to fall once more. She knew he would return-and when he did, her fate would be sealed.
“I have to escape,” she whispered to herself, determination hardening her expression. She scanned the room for any opportunity.
Just then, a maid entered with a tray of food. “Prince Thorne ordered you to eat,” she said. “He wants you to be ready for him when he returns.”
The maid set the tray down and turned to leave, but Lindsay groaned in pain, her face contorted in agony.
“What’s wrong?” the maid asked, alarmed.
“Please,” Lindsay gasped, “help me. My stomach… it hurts so much.”
The maid hesitated, unsure of what to do. Thorne had been clear-Lindsay was not to be freed under any circumstances. If she escaped, the maid and her family would face execution.
Desperation filled Lindsay’s voice. “Please, I’m begging you. Untie me. I can’t stand the pain. I won’t survive like this. If I die here, Prince Thorne will blame you!”
The maid wavered, torn between fear of Thorne’s wrath and the possibility of Lindsay’s death. Lindsay pressed on, her voice weak but urgent.
“Look at me,” she said. “I’m too weak to run. Even if you untie me, I couldn’t escape. But if I die… you’ll answer for it.”
The maid bit her lip, her resolve faltering. After a moment of hesitation, she nodded.