The King's Cursed Bride

The Master of My Sea

Second Thing Second:
Don't You Tell Me What You Think That I Can Be.
I'm the One At the Sail;
I'm the Master of My Sea, oh.
The Master of My Sea, oh.

"Believer" by Imagine Dragons

Author's Note: And being one of my earliest readers (long before I'd even begun this story or joined WattPad), I'd like to dedicate this chapter to TheLadyDothReadTooMu

***

Akasha was fairly uncreative as far as torture was concerned.

Three men had used her that night. The smell of wine had been thick on their breath, and they'd been particularly rough, but it wasn't anything she hadn't experienced before. Thankfully, none of them had lingered once they'd finished.

Carissa forced herself onto her side, ignoring the painful jab in her chest. She gathered a sheet to her mouth and coughed heavily. A warm, coppery taste flooded her mouth, and when she withdrew the sheet, red stained its snowy surface.

She was dying.

Carissa snorted. Nothing she didn't already know. It seemed Akasha's punishment for her had been nothing more than working her like the other nightwomen had been worked.

Unless that wasn't Akasha's punishment. Unless Akasha had something else in mind.

"Enjoyed your night?"

Carissa bolted upright—and instantly regretted it as pain seized her. She glared at Akasha through a curtain of sleek black hair. "Is that your best?" It came forth as a dare, and as soon as Akasha's face lit up, Carissa knew she shouldn't have said it.

"Of course not. I thought we'd simply get another night's use out of you before your... departure." In a blink, Akasha was at Carissa's side. The unearthly speed sent a strange tingle down her spine. "And, of course, I didn't want to miss out on the chance to taste you."

Carissa frowned; she wasn't sure she liked the sound of that. "Taste m—"

Akasha pressed her palm to Carissa's chest. A chill speared through her sternum, flooding her veins with ice. She couldn't breath. Couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

It reminded her of the initial moment when she'd stepped into a cold creek to wash—except that single moment seemed stretched into an eternity. The sudden breathlessness. The tension in her muscles. And the merciless appetite of the frigid water for heat.

And then it all faded. Color and warmth seeped back into the world, and air flooded her lungs. But something was wrong. Her chest seemed oddly hollow, as if someone had scraped it clean. Tingles pricked her skin, leaving numbness in their wake.

Akasha withdrew her hand, cradling three perfectly round rubies. Soul Pieces.

Carissa should have been angered. But just the thought of emotion was draining. She stared at those glowing spheres until they branded her vision. Suddenly, they seemed rather inconsequential. After all, what dying person needed a soul?

"Fear not. I didn't take everything." Akasha flapped her hand. "Far too much energy." She glided towards the door, tossing a smile over her shoulder on the way out. "I do hope you enjoy your last few hours with us."

Hours. Was that how long she had to live? Or until something else happened?

The door shut behind her. Akasha didn't lock it this time.

Carissa pressed a hand against her side, vainly trying to dull the pain. She should hide. Run. Fight. She gained her feet, biting her lip to suppress a groan. But what was the point? Why try to resist when she would fail? When she had already failed? Even if she'd aroused suspicions as to Akasha's true nature, Akasha would be leaving soon.

She summoned her last bit of strength to stagger out the door and down the stairs. Could Aleck have been right? Could she have chosen this route merely because of her own pride?

It didn't matter now; her choice had been made for her, and there was nothing she could do.

Carissa stopped at the level below, where the nightwomen resided. She pressed her uninjured side against the wall. If she tried to sit, she feared she wouldn't be able to stand again.

The pain subsided enough for her to think. And she thought: of Aleck, of Iver, of Akasha, of the letters. No, she had a choice; she'd always had a choice. Every step of this journey had been hers to take, no matter how much she'd denied it. In truth, she hadn't been trapped by circumstances; she'd been trapped by her own choices.

But if her choices had brought her to this, surely they could bring her out.

Carissa straightened, forcing herself to walk without hobbling. The pain was as crippling as it'd always been, but her purpose was stronger than the pain. Akasha could drain her of feeling and even chip away at her will to live, but Carissa's choices were hers and hers alone.

She closed the door to her room behind her, stopping to catch her breath. She was  leaving Iver; she refused to remain idle as Akasha toyed with her as she pleased.

Carissa slung her satchel over her shoulder, the coins she'd managed to save jingling inside. She opened the satchel to brush her fingers against the butter-smooth paper before ripping a tiny piece of the corner. There'd be time to read the letters later. Right now, the King's words rang true: she did need him.

She withdrew a charcoal nib and scrawled wispy letters across the torn paper.

To His Highness, King Elon,

I'm at Iver. If you come for me, I promise to be your bride.

Carissa paused a moment before adding:

If you'll still have me.

-Carissa

Carissa tucked the nib away and folded the tiny wad of paper. She stared at the empty room, and a sudden sense of despair jarred her, like being splashed with a bucket full of ice water. What was the point of fleeing? Or even of asking for help? Not only was she in a lifetime of debt; she was dying. Why bother trying to save what was condemned?

Carissa fisted her hands and pushed open the door. Yes, she was dying, deteriorating with every step, fading with every breath, unraveling like an abandoned doll. But if she were to die, it would be knowing that she'd taken her fate into her own hands as best she could. Yes, she'd made mistakes, and those mistakes might have been too long in the making to undo in a single attempt, but she would try.

Though some could claim ownership of her body, none would claim her soul. She was the one at the sail, the master of her sea, as Captain Cook would say.

Carissa left her room, taking the first step in reclaiming what was left of herself.