Chapter 2
1440 Words
The palace woke before the sun, driven by the insatiable hunger of the nobles who lived within its walls. And so did the slaves.
Elara stood in a jagged line with dozens of others, her teeth chattering. Her dress was soaked through, clinging to her skin like a second layer of freezing, wet flesh.
An hour ago, an overseer had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head for "standing too slowly.
" Now, the fabric rubbed raw against her n*****s, chafing her skin until it burned.No one spoke.
Speaking invited attention.
Attention invited punishment.
And punishment here wasn't just a slap on the wrist. It was r**e. It was mutilation.
It was death.The old woman beside her stared at the floor, her eyes dead. A boy, no older than thirteen, swayed on his feet, his eyelids drooping.
Nobody helped him. Nobody dared. In this place, kindness was a liability, and compassion was a death sentence.
The sound of heavy boots echoing on the stone sent a jolt of terror through the group. Every slave straightened, hearts hammering against ribs.
The overseer appeared. He was a thick, muscle-bound brute with a permanent scowl and a leather whip hanging from his belt like a p***s he couldn't keep in his pants.
His eyes swept over the line, hunting. He wasn't looking for workers; he was looking for victims. Looking for an excuse to unleash the violence that simmered in his gut.His gaze landed on the young boy.
The boy swayed. Just a fraction. A momentary lapse in consciousness from exhaustion.It was enough.
CRACK.The whip sang through the air, the leather biting into the boy's back with a sickening tear of fabric and flesh. A scream shattered the silence, high and piercing.
Elara flinched, her body recoiling instinctively.The boy collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball. The overseer didn't stop.
He struck again. And again. The sound of leather hitting flesh was wet and rhythmic. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.Nobody moved. Nobody looked. Nobody spoke.
Because tomorrow it could be them. And if they intervened, they'd be next, or worse, they'd be sent to the King's chambers to be broken in ways that made a whipping look like a caress.
"Pathetic," the overseer spat, kicking the boy in the ribs. "Get up, you useless piece of shit."
The boy struggled to his feet, blood soaking his shirt, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the dirt. He didn't make a sound. He knew better.The line remained silent.
The palace remained silent. The world remained silent. As if suffering had become as ordinary as breathing, as normal as the sunrise.
"Kitchen slaves," the overseer barked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Move. Now."Elara lowered her head and followed the others, her stomach twisting.
The kitchens were a hellish inferno of heat and chaos. Steam filled the air, thick and oppressive.
Servants shouted over the clatter of pots and the sizzle of meat. The smell of roasted boar, glazed with honey and spices, filled Elara's nostrils.
Her stomach cramped, not because the smell was bad, but because she was starving. Her belly was a hollow pit of pain.
The nobles would feast on this. They would gorge themselves until they vomited, then eat more. The King would feast.
The royal court would feast, their mouths full of wine and lies. And the slaves? The slaves would eat whatever scraps remained.
If anything remained. Usually, it was just congealed fat and bones sharp enough to cut the throat.Elara spent the morning scrubbing pots large enough to bathe a person in.
Her hands, already raw from previous days, burned with every scrape of the wire brush.
Her back screamed in agony. Steam stung her eyes, blurring her vision. By midday, her fingers were bleeding, the skin peeled away to the raw meat beneath.
By afternoon, she could barely feel them at all. They were just numb hooks attached to her wrists.Still, the work continued.
It always continued.A servant shoved another stack of dirty dishes toward her, the grease splattering onto her face.
"These too, b***h. And if I see one spot, I'll make you lick them clean."Elara nodded, swallowing the bile in her throat. "Yes, master."
No complaints. Complaints earned beatings. Or worse. She had learned that lesson years ago, in blood and pain.
Around her, dozens of slaves worked until sweat soaked their clothes, mixing with the grime and grease. Some looked exhausted, their souls crushed under the weight of existence.
Others looked defeated, their eyes empty shells. Most looked like ghosts, already dead, their bodies just waiting to catch up. As though the palace had slowly, methodically stolen every piece of them. Every dream. Every hope. Every reason to smile. Every shred of dignity.Suddenly, a crash echoed through the kitchen. A tray hit the floor, metal clattering loudly.Everyone froze.A young girl, barely sixteen, stood beside the broken tray. Her face had gone white, her eyes wide with terror.The servant nearest to her, a man with a face like a bulldog, exploded with rage. "You stupid little w***e!"He didn't hesitate. His hand came up and slapped her so hard she spun around and hit the floor with a thud. Blood spurted from her nose.Nobody moved. Nobody intervened.
Elara lowered her gaze, staring at the greasy floor. She hated herself for it. She hated the cowardice that kept her feet planted. But she lowered her gaze anyway. Because kindness was dangerous here. Kindness got people hurt. Kindness got people killed. Or it got them sent to the King's bed, where they would be r***d until they begged for death.The girl was dragged away moments later by two guards, her screams muffled by a hand over her mouth. She was crying, begging, pleading.Nobody asked where she was taken.
Nobody wanted to know.
They all knew.
She would be used, abused, and discarded. Or worse, she would become one of the King's permanent "guests," a slave to his s****l whims until her body gave out.By the time the sun began to set, Elara's entire body was a mass of pain.
Her muscles were torn, her skin was broken, and her spirit was fraying. But the work wasn't finished. It never was.
The slaves cleaned corridors. Washed floors. Carried water. Emptied chamber pots filled with the feces and urine of nobles.
Polished silver. Scrubbed blood from the training yards where the guards practiced their sword work on dummies that sometimes looked too much like real people.
Whatever the palace needed. Whatever the palace demanded.The palace consumed people.
It chewed them up and spat them out. And the slaves paid the price, their bodies and souls the currency.
As darkness settled over the kingdom, Elara finally found herself alone. For the first time all day. She stood beside a narrow window overlooking the royal gardens.
The view was beautiful, moonlight illuminating the flowers and fountains. A beautiful lie for a beautiful prison.
For everyone except the people who maintained it, who were never allowed to enjoy it.A soft breeze brushed against her face, cool and gentle.
Elara closed her eyes.
For one precious moment, she let herself imagine. Silver eyes. A warm, strong hand. A familiar, deep voice whispering in her ear.
I will always find you. I will protect you. I will make you mine, and no one will ever hurt you again.Her chest tightened, a mix of pain and longing.
A foolish fantasy. A childish delusion. The kind a twenty-two-year-old woman should have outgrown years ago. She was a slave.
A piece of meat. A tool. No one was coming to save her. No prince in shining armor existed. Only monsters.
Yet every night she waited for him. Every night she searched for those silver eyes in her dreams.
Every night she listened for promises she knew weren't real. Because sometimes, those dreams were the only thing that made the next day bearable.
The only thing that kept her from throwing herself off the nearest wall."Slave."Elara's eyes snapped open. The spell shattered. Reality crashed back in, cold and brutal.A servant stood in the doorway, his face impassive.
"The evening meal is being served. Get to the hall. And if you're late, you know what happens."Another command. Another task. Another endless day of hell.
Elara lowered her head, the spark in her eyes extinguished. "Yes, master."And without another word, she followed, her feet dragging on the stone.
Tomorrow would be the same.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Until she died. Or until someone decided to use her body for their pleasure and then discard her like trash. Which, in this place, was the same thing.
- Writer
