CHAPTER 2: FESTIVAL OF THE OWNED
1529 Words
The wagons had carried them for two days through dust, forest, and unyielding sun. At the foot of the mountains, the guards broke the chains from the axles and forged them to their wrists instead. From there, they were made to walk.
“Move. Keep moving!”
The words had been beaten into their ears until they no longer sounded like language. Chains clinked in rhythm with every step. Torches hissed in the night wind.
A dozen guards rode alongside, spears upright, armor glinting. Every tenth step, one barked, “Move. Keep moving!” A whip cracked, a reminder of what happened to anyone who slowed or tried anything stupid.
They didn’t even need the armor to keep us moving, Girl thought. She had seen one of them change—teeth lengthening, eyes blackening, a blood-drinking monster wearing a man’s face. She wondered if all of them were like that… The thought alone was enough to keep anyone in line.
They walked for hours. The last star faded. The road widened. Music rolled toward them: drums, flutes, the roar of a crowd.
They had arrived.
At the edge of the plain, an amphitheater rose from the mountain itself. Terraces carved from stone stretched toward the sky. The scent of roasted grain and incense tangled with sweat and dust.
Crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder—men, women, children perched on crates for a view. Vendors shouted, selling wine and roasted nuts. People jostled for space as if this were a celebration, not a marketplace of bodies.
At one end, maidens in glittering silks danced to the rhythm of drums. Hips swayed, feet tapped, arms lifted in hope. Each movement a silent plea to catch the eyes of the kings and be one of the Chosen.
Opposite them stood the Owned, brands scorched into skin, arranged in lines that spoke of purpose: children from Lucid and Racid, offered by parents for protection, steady food, and safety; Others, like Girl, came from distant lands, sold by their parents for a few pennies and brought as gifts and tributes to the kings—tokens of allegiance or submission. To serve a king was survival; to be owned was both honor and chain.
Guards barked orders, driving the line forward toward the high platform where the twin thrones waited.
Two men sat above on seats of carved obsidian—one smiling faintly, and surrounded by women who seems to be his wives. The other carved from stillness, and alone.
King Lorenzo, the Demon Twin, lounged back with a cup of wine, gold flashing on every finger. He laughed too loudly, spilling wine down his sleeve as a free hand wandered across the thigh of a jeweled wife.
Beside him, King Luciano remained unmoving. No drink. No expression. Only grey eyes that glimmered faintly. When he turned his head, even the guards shifted uneasily
Girl felt the pull of both kings: one hot as fire, almost reckless, a scar across his face which she thought was almost cute; the other was cold as stone—perfect, flawless. Beautiful. Only that they weren’t. Watching humans treated like animals, sold and paraded, there was nothing beautiful about it. Nothing at all.
She kept her head low, heart hammering.
A voice thundered across the square:
“Show your brands! Let the people see your identity—no ghost walks unclaimed before the kings. Strip!”
The word cracked through the air.
One by one, the slaves began removing robes and rags, revealing dark marks scorched into their skin. The crowd cheered each unveiling, some tossing flowers, others coins.
Girl didn’t move. Her hands clutched her lace, shaking. Shame and fury tangled inside her until neither could win. The fire of the amphitheater flared around her, drums slowing to match her pulse.
“I thought you said you trained them,” one guard muttered—the tall one the slaves called Master Naduka, the one who had stopped her from being used as a meal.
“Thinking about it now, maybe there’s been a mistake,” whispered his brother, who had killed a slave for speaking to her. “She seems new.”
He stepped close behind her, breath hot on her ear.
“Do you want to die?” he hissed.
She stood rigid, eyes fixed on the mountain fire ahead. The command still hung in the air, unanswered.
From the dais, the unscarred king leaned forward—watching.
King Lorenzo lifted his goblet, a lazy hand waving.
“Stop the drums.”
The rhythm broke mid-beat. Silence fell like a heavy curtain. Even the wind hesitated.
“Who are you?” Lorenzo asked, amusement curling his lips.
Girl raised her head. Her gold unsettling eyes landed on Luciano who stared at her like his favorite novel was written on her skin, before darting to Lorenzo.
“Girl,” she said softly.
Lorenzo laughed. “I know you’re a girl, but who are you really?”
Again, she said, “Girl.”
From the throne beside him, Luciano stirred slightly. The shift was almost imperceptible, but the air tightened. Guards stiffened.
King Lorenzo's eyes flicked to the guards,“Strip her.”
Two guards seized her from behind, jerking at her lace. The whip cracked across her back; pain shot through her spine. She gasped, hands flying open. One guard tore at her sleeve, fabric ripping until only her chest was still covered.
“Why are you unbranded?” Lorenzo barked.
Master Osaro dropped to his knees. “My king, forgive us. I believe it was a mistake.”
“I hate mistakes,” Lorenzo murmured, drinking from his cup.
Girl swallowed, wondering if the Kings were blood suckers too. She looked around the crowd, "What if they were all brought here to be used as meal?"
Luciano rose quietly, fluid in his motion. The crowd instinctively stepped back.
“Let me handle her brother.”
The words were quiet, but the fear they carried silenced murmurs. Even Lorenzo paused mid-drink.
To Girl, though, being locked away by a king sounded far kinder than being branded or stripped before thousands.
She was dragged through halls of black marble and gold. Columns rose toward ceilings painted with constellations. Silk curtains shifted with the mountain wind. Jasmine and smoke mingled in the air.
They shoved her into a small chamber—larger and cleaner than her previous cell, a narrow bed and basin of water provided.
Pain flared in her foot; the wound had reopened. Limping to the bed, she tore another strip from her lace, pressing it against the bleeding skin,
The sight broke her composure. The sting brought back another pain—the way her parents hadn’t looked at her when they sold her off. Maybe this had always been the plan. She cried, voice cracking, questioning what sin had brought her here. Were those people even my parents?
Drums thundered faintly from the mountains, echoing behind her eyes.
Now that they know I’m unbranded… will they press hot iron to my skin?
“Oh God,” she whispered.
A guard passing by laughed. “Even God can’t save you from King Luciano.”
She folded against the wall, chin on knees, staring into nothing.
Hours passed. The drums faded. The festival ended.
No one came. She thought they had forgotten her. Sleep crept in… until metal scraped—the cell door opened.
“Up,” a voice ordered. “The King requests your presence.”
They led her into a hall lit by ancient chandeliers. The unscarred king waited.
Luciano’s gaze fixed on her, unreadable. The faint scent of cedar and authority followed him.
“You seem stubborn, huh?” he said calmly.
“If refusing to strip in front of a crowd is stubborn, then your brain is no bigger than a chicken's, Master,” she said, head bowed.
King Luciano stared for a long minute. “Apologize.”
She remained still, voice silent.
King Luciano stood and moved closer—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the space like a shadow. He stopped so close she could almost hear his heartbeat. “I said apologize.
She shut her eyes, slightly inclining her head.
“You're scared,” he said, like a man testing the temperature of water he already knew was boiling.
“You're gonna drink my blood, aren't you?" Her voice was small but steady.
He nodded. “I won’t. I’m not like my brother.”
"You're both thesame," she muttered. "You're probably just the product of what happens when someone sees the speck in everyone's eyes but theirs."
She looked up at him. Nothing. His expression remained stone-cold, unchanged.
"At the first rise of the sun, you’ll begin your service,” he said, voice almost quiet enough to be mistaken for mercy. “You have until Thursday to be branded. After that…”
He left the sentence unfinished, leaving the room colder than before.
She knew she'd gone too far but regret wasn't high on her priority list right now
She exhaled, counting the hours in her head. Five days—enough time to find a way to get the hell out of here.
- Writer
