“Why is she still silent?” The king caressed his beard with one hand as the other rested against the arm of his throne. As he tapped his foot with impatience, he said, “I thought you mentioned her having the gift of speech.”

“She does, father!” Kris’s arm lingered against his elbow. He bit his lip and averted his gaze from the king’s. “At least…” he said. “She did.”

“Speak, girl!” The king shouted. He pounded his fist and glared at Olivia who knew not what to say. Just like before—when she had yearned to answer Elian’s question—her words would not come no matter what she tried. The king continued to scream, however at this point, Ophelia had drowned out his distasteful accusations of mockery and replaced them with silence as she observed the gold that dangled all around the throne room, the banners that danced above their heads; some with emblems Ophelia did not recognise.

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And then, she froze. As Ophelia laid her eyes upon a painting depicting the murder of two innocent deer her lips parted, she gasped, she took a step back.

Kris stopped apologising to his father. His father’s yelling faded. “Kris,” he said. “Is she one of them?”

“We do not know,” Ophelia heard Kris say. “She has no memories of her past, nor are there any witnesses available who could give us a clue.”

The King scoffed. He rose from his seat and marched over to where Ophelia stood. His navy, velvet cape draped off his throne and onto the floor like waves lapping at the sand on a shore.

Shaken and unwell, the images of bloodshed and pain—so much pain—flashed through Ophelia’s mind.

“No matter,” the king told Kris as he glared down at the young woman who cowered in fear. “We’ll be sending her to the army as punishment. Perhaps, then, she will finally learn her place.” He turned back to glance at Kris from over his shoulder. “Whichever services she is to offer them,” he said, “you choose.”