My Newest Accessory is an Iron Chain

He led me into a chamber that could only be a throne room. The space was dominated by a single, enormous throne of gold, piled high with velvet and silk pillows. Gold was everywhere, an assault on the senses, glistening from every conceivable surface. The obscene display of wealth was punctuated by the dazzling fire of embedded diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Between two colossal windows that stretched from the polished floor to the frescoed ceiling, rich tapestries depicting historic battles hung upon the walls. Several guards stood sentinel within the room, and I saw a few richly dressed individuals standing near the throne, evidently awaiting their monarch. As we drew closer, my eyes caught on a solitary iron shackle and a medium-length chain bolted to the base of the throne itself. A hot, mortifying blush burned my cheeks. I knew instantly who that was for.

Rage simmered in my gut at the thought of him forcing me to sit on the floor like a common pet, but a part of me had to concede that my escape attempt and subsequent defiance had probably not helped my case. Still! All I had managed to do was leave my room! It wasn't he who had worked his fingers to the bone all day only to be treated like a servant. Surely that had been punishment enough?

My cheeks flamed even hotter as a guard approached to fasten the shackle around my ankle the moment the King settled onto his throne. The iron was gratingly cold and heavy against my skin. When the guard handed him the key, I watched the monarch thread it onto a chain he wore around his own neck. In that single, deliberate action, I understood. To escape this, I would have to risk breaking another bone unless he permitted it. He gestured to the padded step at the foot of his throne. I complied, leaning my head and resting my good arm against the gilded armrest. He leaned down, his voice a menacing whisper against my ear. “Say a single word, and I will break your other arm.” My throat constricted, but I managed a tight nod.

It took a mere five minutes for me to conclude that Mr. Psycho was a true tyrant, a dictator who held no regard for his subjects beyond how their welfare—or lack thereof—affected him personally. My opinion of him only soured further over the course of the long, tedious day as I listened to him discuss the widespread slavery in his kingdom with casual indifference. I pieced together that this kingdom was a feudal society where formal education was non-existent and where few people did not visibly fear for their lives in the King's presence.

Toward the end of the day, the leader of a well-known town approached the throne, his face etched with worry. He explained to the monarch that his village had no safe water, as their well had reportedly been poisoned. I could tell the King was about to turn the poor man away, leaving him utterly lost. I suppose I couldn’t help myself; I knew how to solve his problem.

“Filter it through rocks and sand, then boil it,” I said aloud. A ripple of surprise went through the room at the sound of my voice, hoarse from hours of disuse. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Psycho’s hand clench the armrest, his knuckles turning white. I shifted uncomfortably but was profoundly grateful that he seemed unwilling to display his rage in front of his court. With an impatient wave of his hand, he dismissed the startled peasant and moved on.

Next, a man came to complain about a disrespectful slave. I had to physically bite my tongue to keep from shouting that keeping slaves was what was disrespectful. I began to see a pattern: roughly ninety-eight percent of the people who came through those doors to air their grievances were men. I saw only one woman the entire day, and she was a silent shadow trailing behind her husband. It was glaringly obvious that women were not held in high regard here.

I don’t mean to sound callous, but listening to other people’s problems was excruciatingly dull. I had nothing to do all day but sit and listen to petitions and pronouncements. Perhaps that was the true purpose of the shackle. After five minutes of this, any rational person—excluding Mr. Psycho, of course—would have made a run for it.

An hour or so later, the King began to confer with men I assumed were his council, discussing what sounded like an impending war. This piqued my interest, and I leaned in, trying to hear. Unfortunately, their words were maddeningly vague, and I had the distinct impression it was because of my presence.

“The order for more soldiers to join the army has finally reached the farthest corners of the realm,” one man reported. “Thus far, approximately one able-bodied man from each family has answered the call.”

“It is no surprise it would take weeks for the word to spread,” another said. “The kingdom conquered most of the known world under the previous king’s reign.”

“But I find it suspicious that King Stefan’s kingdom has already made moves to thwart the royal decrees,” a third man interjected. “Is it not premature for their military to begin operating within our borders?”

“It’s highly probable those letters were not intercepted by Stefan’s kingdom at all,” the first man countered. “In fact, I would not be surprised if the rebellion is trying to undermine us.” A rebellion?

“Your Majesty, I fear the rebels will attempt to join King Stefan’s army. That kingdom could give them the support they need to evolve from a nuisance into a legitimate threat.”

Another councilor’s sharp eyes landed on me. “If it pleases you, my King, may I suggest we resume this topic at a later time? When there are fewer… loose ends.”

Victor—Mr. Psycho—agreed. I scowled. I had hoped to hear more, but it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Being referred to as a "loose end" was also mildly offensive, but in my opinion, Jerkface deserved to be betrayed. As the council departed, he ordered me to stand. I did so, trying to discreetly stretch my legs, which had gone numb from sitting. To my immense surprise, he unlocked the shackle himself. The brief thrill of being allowed to leave that stuffy room was all-consuming, but my relief was short-lived. We walked back to my chamber in a tense silence. The moment the door closed behind us, his hand shot out and clamped down on my injured arm.

“I thought I told you not to speak,” he growled, his grip tightening mercilessly. His earlier threat came flooding back, and I flinched. Pain, white-hot and blinding, surged up my arm, and I fought to wrench myself free, but he was far too strong. I didn't stand a chance.