A Court of Illusion and Pain

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Cold wrapped around her like an icy embrace. Aerell's fur lined cloak did nothing against the savage winds atop the Illyrian Steppes. Her hands—blistering and raw, she stuffed them into her pockets and continued her walk home from a long day in the shop. Her father had worked her hard; threatened to beat her bloody if he caught her taking a reprieve. He had not cared that the High Lord—Rhysand—had outlawed this treatment of females, or any fae for that matter. So she worked—worked harder than any of the other damned fae who didn't bother to put in effort.

     The cold trek home was a solace she accepted with open arms. It was the only time of day she had to herself—other than sleep of course, but even those few moments were scarce. Her father—Taman was his name—was always inviting warriors over, there was always something to be celebrated. He had a knack for showing off his many daughters; he tried desperately to find the most suitable warriors—the ones with the biggest coffers—to marry them off to. Taman would accept nothing less than what he thought he deserved.

Aerell was never considered one of her father's bargaining chips—for that she was grateful. But her three elder sisters, she worried for them. They were all beautiful and docile and very eligible. Aerell however, she was a bastard with a loose tongue and a broken wing.

She stepped through the front door of the ramshackle cabin, one hand going straight for the copper buttons along her hand-me-down cloak. Aerell quickly stripped it off and hung it on the coat rack before descending down the stairs into the basement. She liked to sleep next to the furnace in the winter. A small cot lay in wait on the concrete floor, the blankets warmed from the lit fire. Athima—the oldest of her sisters, and the only one Aerell truly felt understood her—always made sure to light the coals before Aerell was to come home.

     It felt good to come home, take off her clothes and slip under the heated covers after a long day. Sometimes it felt like a waste to stay and work for her callous father, but she had to endure it, if not for herself, then for her sisters. She couldn't abandon them to a life of brutality amongst the Illyrian males.

"How was everything at the shop today?" A delicate, lulling voice spoke from somewhere in the dark basement. "No squabbling I hope." It was Athima, Aerell knew. Her sister had a habit of checking on her each night.

     "No squabbling," she reassured with a tight smile. Her night blue eyes directed toward the furnace, watching as the flames danced and licked at the metal bars. It was beautiful—the way fire could shape and move. Aerell sometimes wished she could tame the warm tendrils, have them slither up her arms, unscathing. She wished she could wield the light instead of the dark gift she was given, but wishing wouldn't change anything, wouldn't dull the pain—it only made the ache worse.

"Goodnight," Athima said as she crept closer and placed a small kiss on Aerell's forehead. The latter slipped under the covers, she gently brushed back her blonde locks and placed her head against the pillow. She shared many similarities to Athima in appearances—both had eyes the color of the night sky, skin pale as the snow covering their homeland, small button nose, full peach lips, and a thin, short build. They differed in hair colors, where Aerell's was light, sun-rayed, Athima's was black as coal.

"Goodnight," Aerell repeated.

***

Morning came too soon. A crisp breeze filled the air outside. Aerell dressed in many layers—a wool blue dress with her torn cloak buttoned. Thick gloves covered her calloused hands, long socks up to her knees, short sturdy boots hugged her aching feet. She was ready for another day at the shop, running errands, organizing stock, cooking meals for her father and his coworkers.