A Father's Wickedness

I was led into my father's study, in the main manor, a building my mother had specifically forbade me from ever getting close to.

Standing in the midst of bookshelves and sophistication, I felt like an intruder in a world that wasn't mine.

The space was vast, dark, and suffocatingly elegant. Polished wooden floor and shelves stacked with books lined the walls behind my father, who was sitting behind the desk, gloomy eyes on the letter before him.

He'd broken the seal, read the letter, and it seemed that the message didn't sit well with him.

An middle-aged woman sat before my father, legs crossed. She looked elegant in a way that's unsettling.

When I entered, she turned to give me a look. However, that look sent a chill down my spine for some reason.

The guards closed the door behind me and left.

Unsure why I was brought here instead of the pit and gallow, I lowered my head, unwilling to dwell on any more painful memories.

Instead, I chose to notice how the wood was cold against my bare foot. And also how my worn servant clothes hung from my shoulders like a tired ghost.

Finally, after what felt like forever, my father spoke and his tone was as harsh as ever.

“Lift that head of yours and take off that veil,” he groaned.

I hesitated. I even considered refusing.

The veil had been the shield I had depended on all my life. Without it, I'd feel bare, scared, clumsy, and a panicking mess with absolute low-self-esteem.

“Did you not hear me?” He barked, slamming his palm on the desk, jolting me out of my mind. “Remove it!”

The table rattled. The scrolls rolled over, and the feather pen and ink slab jumped.

The woman rose from her seat, walked toward me with a smile that looked kind, yet unsettling and yanked the veil from my face.

I flinched, subconsciously shielding my face with my hands. Earlier, Jeanine had only lifted the veil for less than two seconds, too quick for me to react. But now, all of my face was out for everyone to see.

My father humped with distaste.

“Even dressed like this, the resemblance is uncanny, My Lord,” the woman said.

However, the look on my father's face was anything but pleased. “What can you do about those eyes?”

He didn't care that I reminded him of Jeanine.

The woman stepped closer. I stepped back until my back hit the door. She maintained her smile reached out and pressed my shoulder down. I tried to wiggle out of her grip, but she had the strength of a werewolf. I was just human.

“Stay put, little one.

Something about the way she said it made me involuntarily obey. I could tell she wasn't simple.

First, she had a strong accent. Secondly, she smelt faintly of herbs. Thirdly, her features and the way she was dressed was different from the natives of Naderlands.

She was most likely a healer from another kingdom, here for pilgrimage.

The woman’s fingers tightened enough to remind me that struggling was pointless.

She leaned in close. Too close.

Her breath brushed against my cheek as her gaze lifted to my eyes. Observing it.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

“Fascinating,” she murmured at last.

My stomach twisted and a chill ran down my spine.

Something about this woman didn't feel right. The way she felt thrilled as she examined me. The sudden interest… I didn't like it. My instinct didn't.

Maybe because she was the first to look at me with interest. The few people who ever saw my eyes–my family, my mate, and the oracle–only ever showed disgust.

My father’s voice cut through my discomfort and for once, I was thankful.

“I did not summon you to admire her defects.”

The woman straightened, unbothered. But she was still examining me. “They are not defects, My Lord,” she replied calmly. “In my homeland—”

“This Lord does not care about your homeland. Answer the question," he snapped again. "Can you remedy them?"

Remedy?

My father wanted to treat my eyes when I was supposed to be dying? Why?

I didn't know whether to be happy or not, but I felt within me that this didn't feel right.

"I didn't need them to be remedied," I suddenly said, surprising even myself.

He paused, looked at me and then glared. "Your opinion is better stuck on your throat." Then, he turned to the woman. "Continue."

Her fingers returned to my face, firmer this time. I stiffened, but didn’t dare pull away again.

“This one is too vivid,” she murmured. “It will resist.”

Then her gaze shifted to the grey one.

“This one…” she paused, a hum of approval leaving her throat. “…is already fading. It will take the color easily.”

My fingers trembled at my sides.

What was she talking about?

The woman finally released me and turned fully to him. “These eyes cannot be disguised, My Lord. But they can be remade.”

My breath caught.

Remade…?

“Can that be done?” my father asked, interest lacing his voice.

“In my homeland,” she began, “there is a forbidden practice reserved for those who wishes to change their bodies.”

She stepped back to the desk and sat down.

“What does it entail?” my father inquired.

“Sometimes, it requires an insertion of a needle to color the eye. But in cases like this, when the eyes are…” she glanced back at me with a smile that said too many things and nothing at the same time.

A shiver ran down my spine. I couldn't tell if it was from how she looked at me or what she just said.

“...well, unique, requires the separation of the outer layer just enough to add the color brewed from roots and plants. After that, perfect honey-brown eyes will be born.”

“NO!” My vision blurred. “I don't consent!” I cried.

However, none of them listened to me. They ignored me as though my opinion didn't count.

“Is there anything to worry about?” My father asked.

She nodded, “The success rate is very low. She could lose both eyes.”

My father's jaw locked. He was silent for a moment then said. "Whatever it takes. Even if you must take her eyes out and put another, I don't care. All I want to see are successful, working honey-brown eyes.”

My body locked.

My heart trembled. I turned to run, but the door was locked from the outside. I banged it, screamed, begged, nobody came to save me.

I turned to my father, knelt down and begged desperately. “Father, please—I'll do anything you want. I'll die. I'll die quietly!—I won’t speak, I won’t be seen—I’ll do anything, please don’t—”

I didn't even know why they wanted to change my eyes. I just begged.

“Hold your tongue,” he snapped.

The woman tilted her head slightly, watching me unravel like it was interesting.

“She will need to be put to sleep,” she said, almost thoughtfully. “She's too feral and would ruin the process.”

Panic surged violently through me. “No—no, please—!”

Suddenly, the shelf behind him creaked and split in half. A hidden door came into view. He stood up and headed for the door.

At the same time, the door which had refused to open for me, burst open. I scrambled desperately for it, attempting to escape, but two guards blocked me by the entrance, knocked me out and everything went dark