Chapter 4: The Gray Dress

**Sera**

The cellar was cold, but it smelled of rotting potatoes and damp earth instead of smoke.

I was sitting on the damp flagstones, my back pressed against the weeping rock wall, my knees pulled tightly toward my ribs to preserve what little warmth remained in my body. The bindings on my wrists had been removed when they dragged me down from the attic, but the skin beneath was raw, bloody, and hot with infection.

The cellar door creaked open at the top of the stone stairs.

A rectangle of yellow torchlight spilled across the dirt floor, followed by the heavy, measured thump of combat boots.

Kael walked down the steps.

He didn't look at me at first. He carried a coarse bundle of gray homespun cloth under one arm and a cracked clay jug of water in the other. He kicked the wooden door shut behind him, cutting off the warmth from the kitchen above.

"Get up," Kael said. He threw the bundle of gray cloth into the dirt at my feet.

I didn't move. I couldn't. The two phials Beatrice had drained from my arm an hour ago had left my muscles limp as wet rope. When I tried to push myself up, my elbows buckled, and my forehead scraped the cold stone.

"I said get up, Sera," Kael growled.

He stepped forward, grabbed me by the upper arm, and yanked me to my feet. The sudden movement made my vision go gray, black spots dancing wildly behind my eyes. I swayed on my feet, leaning heavily against the damp stone wall to keep from collapsing back into the dirt.

"Drink this," he said, shoving the clay jug into my chest. "Hurry. We don't have all day."

I took the jug with two hands. My fingers shook so hard the water sloshed over the rim, spilling down the front of my torn, soot-stained shift. I gulped down three mouthfuls of stale, iron-tasting well water. It hurt my raw throat, but it stopped the sickening dizziness for a moment.

"What is that?" I whispered, nodding toward the pile of gray cloth on the floor.

"Your dress," Kael said, crossing his thick arms over his leather cuirass. "Father’s orders. Camilla talked him into it."

"Camilla?" The name came out like a croak.

"She felt sorry for you," Kael sneered, his mouth twisting with that cruel arrogance he always wore when he looked at me. "She told Father that locking you in a hole while the high lords were visiting was unchristian. She said you should be allowed to serve the tea during the first greeting."

A cold dread pooled in my stomach—far colder than the cellar floor.

"No," I said, backing against the wall. "No, Kael, please. Look at me. I can barely stand. I look like a corpse. If the Northern lords see me—"

"That’s the whole point, you idiot," Kael interrupted, stepping closer until his shadow completely swallowed me. He leaned in, his amber Beta eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "The Duke needs to see order. He needs to see that even our lowest, most miserable servants know their place and bow to our pack’s authority."

He picked up the gray dress from the floor and shook it out. It was a scullery maid’s garment—stiff, unbleached wool that was coarse as horsehair. The neckline was high, designed to button tight around the collarbone, and the sleeves were long and tight.

"Put it on," he commanded. "Now. Or I will strip that burned rag off you myself."

I turned my back to him, shame burning hot in my chest, and pulled the charred linen shift over my head. The freezing air bit into my naked skin, raising goosebumps across my bruised ribs and the sharp, protruding ridges of my spine.

I pulled the gray woolen dress on as fast as my trembling fingers could manage.

The rough fabric scratched like needles against my freshly punctured veins. Every time the heavy cloth brushed the crook of my elbow, a fresh drop of blood seeped through the weave, leaving tiny, dark dots on the inside of the sleeve. I fumbled with the wooden buttons at the throat, trying to fasten the collar to hide the dark, yellowing choke bruises Kael had left on my neck when he dragged me from the woods.

"Listen to me, Sera," Kael said, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous whisper behind my ear.

He grabbed my chin with his calloused hand, forcing my head up until I was looking right into his eyes. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into my jaw so hard I could feel the bone grinding.

"You are going to take the silver tea service from the pantry," he hissed. "You are going to walk into the Great Hall. You will keep your head down. You will keep your eyes fixed on the floor stones. You will not look up. You will not speak. You will not make a sound, even if someone kicks you."

"Kael, please—"

"If you drop that tray," he cut in, squeezing my jaw until tears pricked my eyes, "or if you embarrass Camilla in front of Lord Cassian, I swear to the Moon Goddess I will drag you behind my horse until there is nothing left of you to bleed. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I choked out, a hot tear spilling over his thumb. "Yes, I understand."

"Good," he spat, releasing my face with a shove that bumped my head against the stone. "The Northern devils are crossing the drawbridge. They are savages, Sera. They eat weak wolves like you for breakfast. If you know what's good for you, you'll act like a shadow and pray they don't smell the disease on your skin."

He turned and marched up the stairs, leaving the heavy door propped open with an iron wedge.

"Move," he called down from the light. "The water is already boiling."

I looked down at my hands.

My knuckles were gray, my fingernails cracked and stained with soot. Beneath the coarse gray sleeves, my wrists were throbbing with that deep, agonizing hum that never truly went away.

*Just serve the tea,* I told myself, clutching the rough woolen skirts in my fists as I took the first step up the stone stairs. *Just survive the day.*