Chapter 7
604 Words
She bolted from the king's chambers, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor as hot tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision completely.
Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her body still marked from the king's rough use, and she didn't see the tall figure ahead until it was too late.
She crashed straight into Commander Vaelith's armored chest, the impact jarring her small frame.
His strong hands shot out and gripped her upper arms tightly, halting her escape.
"Watch where you are going, slave," he growled, his voice low and commanding, fingers digging into her skin.
She said nothing.
No apology left her lips.
She didn't even meet his eyes.
The moment he released her, she turned and hurried away down the corridor, her tear-streaked face lowered, heading straight for the slave baths as the rules demanded.
Every slave had to bathe after leaving the king's chambers.
The bath chamber was dim and utilitarian.
She stripped off what little she wore and stepped into the large stone basin.
The water was ice-cold, drawn from the deep wells with no warmth ever provided for slaves.
She gasped as the frigid liquid engulfed her body up to her waist, her n*****s tightening instantly from the shock.
Shivering violently, she scrubbed at her skin with rough soap, washing away the king's seed and sweat while fresh tears mixed with the cold splashes.
Her teeth chattered, but she kept her movements mechanical and obedient, finishing the required cleansing without complaint or delay.
Elara lay motionless on the thin straw mattress as the first gray light of dawn filtered through the narrow slits in the stone walls.
Her eyes remained open, bloodshot and dry, fixed on the rough ceiling above her.
The blanket scratched against her skin, but she barely noticed.
Every muscle in her body ached from the hours spent curled on the cold floor of the slave baths, yet the physical pain felt distant compared to the hollow emptiness inside her chest.
She had not closed her eyes since midnight.
Every attempt brought the same vision: the king's face hovering above her, his mouth twisted in that familiar smile, his hands gripping her thighs as he forced himself deeper.
She shifted slightly, feeling the dried evidence of his violation crusting on her inner thighs, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.
The silver-eyed man waited in the darkness behind her eyelids.
She could almost hear his voice whispering promises of freedom, of escape, of a life beyond these walls.
But now those words felt like poison. Had he known?
Had he watched while the king used her body?
The thought made her fingers curl into the thin blanket until her knuckles turned white.
Outside, the first whistle of the morning echoed through the castle corridors.
Slaves around her began to stir, yawning and stretching, their movements slow and automatic.
None of them looked her way. None of them noticed the way her body remained rigid, refusing to rise.
The routine of another day pressed in around her like the walls of a tomb.
Elara forced herself to sit up.
Her legs trembled as she stood, the rough fabric of her slave tunic brushing against the bruises the king had left on her hips.
She moved toward the door with the others, her feet dragging across the stone floor.
The weight of the night pressed down on her shoulders, but she kept walking. There was no choice.
There never had been.
As she stepped into the corridor, the first rays of sunlight touched her face.
She did not feel their warmth.
- Writer
