SWEET SORIRE

Episode Four : The Gilded Cage

The gates of the estate closed with a heavy clang, sealing Sorire inside. The sound echoed through her bones, final and merciless. She stood in the courtyard, wrists still bound, surrounded by stone walls too tall to climb. The raiders had gone, their laughter fading into the streets beyond. Now she belonged to this place—this house of wealth that gleamed like gold on the surface but reeked of chains beneath.

A steward approached her. He was tall, with sharp eyes and a thin mouth that rarely moved except to bark orders. He untied her bonds but not out of kindness. “You belong to the master now,” he said flatly. “Defiance will be punished. Do as you are told, and you may live quietly.”

Sorire rubbed her raw wrists, her throat tight. She said nothing.

They led her inside. The estate was vast, each hall lined with polished marble and tapestries that shimmered in the lamplight. Servants in plain uniforms moved swiftly, their eyes lowered. Not one dared to look at her, though she could feel their curiosity burning from the corners of the room.

The wealthy family revealed themselves that evening. The master, Lord Fenric, sat at the head of a long dining table, dressed in silks embroidered with gold thread. His wife, Lady Irelle, was no softer—her jewels sparkled, but her gaze was sharp and cold as glass. Their two sons lounged nearby, one older with a cruel smile, the other younger and restless, tapping his foot beneath the table.

The steward presented Sorire with a bow. “This is the new servant, my lord.”

Lord Fenric’s eyes narrowed. He gestured lazily with his goblet of wine. “She will do. Put her to work. The kitchens need more hands.”

Lady Irelle tilted her head, studying Sorire as though she were a stray animal. “Pretty. A shame such features will be wasted scrubbing pots.” Her lips curved into a thin smile that made Sorire’s stomach twist.

The order was final. By nightfall, Sorire was thrown into the heat and smoke of the kitchens. Pots clanged, knives chopped, and steam rose in clouds that clung to her skin. Older servants hurried past, some too fearful to speak, others too beaten down to care. Sorire was handed a rag and set to scrubbing until her hands burned red.

Hours blurred. Her body ached, her heart heavier still. Every scrape of the rag across the floor echoed with memories of her mother’s voice, her father’s laughter, the twins’ small hands clutching hers. Tears pricked her eyes, but she swallowed them. She could not break here. Not yet.

When the kitchen fires dimmed and the other servants collapsed onto straw mats in the quarters, Sorire curled into a corner. The night was quiet, but the silence was nothing like home. No crickets, no gentle wind. Only the distant sound of guards patrolling and the occasional cry of another servant punished for some unseen mistake.

She pressed her forehead to her knees and whispered to herself. Be strong. For Leona. For Keona. For Mother and Father. I will not let them erase me.

Her new life had begun—not in freedom, but in chains. Yet even in this gilded cage, Sorire vowed to endure. For though the walls were high and the masters cruel, a fire still flickered in her heart, refusing to die.