Escape from the Snake Pit

The kitchen was thick with steam and the scent of roasted herbs when Celine swept in three days later, her pale blue gown pristine against the smoke-stained walls. I had finally recovered enough to resume my duties, though my arms still bore faint traces of the phantom wounds—invisible to others, but tender to the touch.

"Oh, Elaine," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "You shouldn't be working so soon after your... spell. Let me help."

I stiffened at her approach but forced a polite nod. "I'm quite recovered, thank you."

She moved closer anyway, positioning herself near the large pot of water I'd set to boil for the evening's soup. The copper vessel hung over the flames, its contents roiling and spitting steam into the air.

"Such a dangerous place, the kitchen," Celine murmured, running her fingers along the edge of the worktable. "So many ways one could get hurt."

Something in her tone made the hair on my neck stand up. I shifted slightly, putting more distance between us, but she followed with the graceful determination of a cat stalking a mouse.

"Martha mentioned you were bleeding when you collapsed," she continued, her eyes fixed on the boiling pot. "Blood from nowhere. How very strange."

My hands tightened on the knife I'd been using to chop vegetables. "It's a condition I've had since childhood."

"How unfortunate." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Logan works so hard to keep this household safe, and his own wife brings such... complications."

Before I could respond, she reached for a ladle hanging above the pot—or pretended to. Her hand knocked against the copper vessel's handle with deliberate force. Time seemed to slow as the massive pot tipped, its contents arcing through the air in a glittering cascade of scalding water.

I threw my arms up instinctively, and the boiling liquid struck my exposed skin. The pain was immediate and blinding—real this time, not phantom. My screams tore through the kitchen as the water seared my flesh, leaving angry red welts that would surely blister.

"Elaine!" Celine shrieked, her voice pitched perfectly for maximum attention. "Oh god, I tried to catch it—I tried to stop you!"

I collapsed to my knees, cradling my burned arms against my chest. Through the haze of agony, I saw Celine backing away, her own hands suspiciously dry, her dress unmarked by a single drop of water.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Logan burst through the door, his face flushed from his recent return home. His eyes swept the scene—me on the floor, Celine standing near the overturned pot with tears streaming down her face.

"What happened here?" His voice was sharp, commanding.

"I tried to help," Celine sobbed, pressing her hands to her mouth. "She was reaching for something, and the pot—I grabbed for it, but I wasn't fast enough. Oh, Logan, I'm so sorry!"

I looked up at my husband, my vision blurring with tears of pain. "That's not—"

"Enough," Logan cut me off, his expression hardening. "Your carelessness has disturbed the entire household again. Can you not perform even the simplest tasks without incident?"

The injustice of his words stole my breath more effectively than the pain. "I didn't—"

"You never do, according to you." He turned to Celine, his voice softening instantly. "Are you hurt? Did any of the water touch you?"

"No, I'm fine." She wiped at her eyes with delicate fingers. "I'm just grateful it wasn't worse."

Logan helped her to her feet with a gentleness that made my chest ache worse than my burned arms. He didn't even glance my way as Martha and another servant rushed in to help me.

"Get her cleaned up and bandaged," he ordered without looking at me. "And post someone to supervise her kitchen work from now on. I won't have my household disrupted by constant accidents."

As the servants helped me to my feet, I caught Celine watching me over Logan's shoulder. That same predatory gleam flickered in her eyes, along with something new—satisfaction. She had hurt me, turned my husband further against me, and emerged as the sympathetic victim, all in one perfect strike.

The message was clear: this was only the beginning.

---

Two days after the scalding incident, Logan departed for another campaign. I watched from my chamber window as he mounted his horse in the courtyard below, Celine standing close to say her farewells. He kissed her hand with a tenderness that sent a dull ache through my chest—this one entirely my own.

Within hours of his departure, the familiar agony began. I was sitting in my chambers, trying to apply fresh salve to my healing burns, when the first jolt hit. A sword wound, sharp and deep, tearing through my left shoulder. I dropped the jar of salve, its contents spilling across the floor as I fell to my knees.

Then came the burns—different from the scalding water, hotter and more vicious. Greek fire. I could smell it even though none touched me, could feel the unnatural heat eating through skin that showed no wounds. My screams echoed off the stone walls, but this time, no one came running.

I crawled toward my bed, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body. The door to my chamber opened, and for one desperate moment, I thought someone had come to help. But it was Celine who slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

"How convenient," she said softly, "that everyone is so accustomed to your episodes. They've learned not to disturb you during these fits."

I couldn't respond, couldn't do anything but curl tighter around the pain that radiated from my shoulder and across my chest.

Celine moved through my room with purposeful efficiency, opening drawers and examining my belongings. "Logan mentioned your family has shamanic blood. How interesting. I wonder what other secrets you're hiding?"

She rifled through my things while I suffered on the floor, unable to stop her, unable to call for help. The phantom burns intensified, and I lost consciousness to the sound of her footsteps retreating from my chamber.

When I finally woke hours later, the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. But something felt wrong. I looked around my room, trying to identify what had changed. Everything appeared to be in its place, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that Celine had found what she was looking for—or worse, had left something behind.