Chapter 1

Judith

The heat in the kitchens is a living thing. It has a weight that settles on my shoulders, a damp breath that clings to my skin, and a stench—old grease, soured wine, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the murky water in the washing basin. My reflection is a distorted ghost, all sharp angles and wide, dark eyes. Survival in the estate of Lord Tarsus is a simple art: become a ghost. Ghosts are not seen, not heard, and most importantly, not chosen.

Today, the heat has teeth. The mistress is hosting a luncheon for the city’s elite, and the head cook, a thick-necked dark elf named Kantor with hands like slabs of meat, is in a state of simmering rage. His temper radiates from him like the waves from the massive, ever-burning hearth. Every slave in the kitchen moves with a practiced, twitchy silence, trying to orbit his fury without being pulled into its devastating center.

I scrub at a pot, the coarse bristles scraping against the blackened bottom. My arms ache with a deep, familiar burn, a fire that has lived in my muscles for as long as I can remember. I am nineteen years old, or so I believe. There are no celebrations to mark the years, only the slow accumulation of scars on my back and the hardening of my heart.

“You, girl.” Kantor’s voice is a low growl that cuts through the clatter of pots and the sizzle of meat.

My head snaps up. A mistake. Never meet their eyes unless commanded. I drop my gaze back to the pot, my heart a frantic bird beating against the cage of my ribs. His shadow falls over me, blocking the dim, greasy light from the high windows. I can smell the sour sweat on him, the wine on his breath.

“The fialon berries for the glaze. Where are they?”

I don’t hesitate. Hesitation is a sin punished with the back of a hand. “In the cold cellar, master. On the third shelf, as always.”

“Then why are they not here?” he hisses, his voice dangerously soft.

I risk a glance up. His violet eyes, so common among his kind, are narrowed to slits. His dark grey skin is flushed with heat and rage. He is a mountain of muscle and cruelty, and I am a weed at his feet.

“I will fetch them, master.” I move to rise, my wet hands slipping on the stone basin.

His hand clamps down on my shoulder, his grip like iron. The strength of his kind is a casual, terrifying thing. He could snap my bones without a second thought. “You will stay where you are. You have a smudge on your cheek.”

I freeze. A smudge. Such a small thing. But in this world, the smallest imperfections are chasms into which you can be thrown. He leans in closer, his thumb coming up to my face. I flinch, a reflexive jerk of muscle and memory. His thumb, rough as stone, scrapes against my cheekbone, hard. It’s not a caress. It’s a scouring. An assertion of ownership.

“Still,” he murmurs, his eyes holding mine. And then he smiles, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. “You will serve the wine today.”

A cold dread, far more chilling than the cellar’s damp, seeps into my bones. Serving. Not in the kitchens, but upstairs. In the grand dining hall, under the gaze of the mistress and her guests. It is not an honor. It is a punishment. It is a stage. For a slave, the stage is the most dangerous place of all. There are a hundred ways to fail, a thousand ways to displease. A spilled drop of wine, a moment of hesitation, a glance held too long.

“Yes, master,” I whisper, my throat tight.

He releases me with a shove. “Get cleaned up. And if you spill so much as a single drop, I will peel the skin from your back myself. Slowly.”

He turns and bellows at another slave, his attention gone as quickly as it came. But the threat lingers, coiling in the hot air. I finish the pot, my hands trembling. The other slaves refuse to meet my eyes. They know what this is. I have been chosen.

An hour later, I am scrubbed raw and dressed in the plain, scratchy linen of a house slave. The fabric chafes the scars on my back. I stand behind a tapestry in a side alcove of the dining hall, a heavy silver pitcher of rirzed wine in my hands. The pitcher is cold, sweating condensation onto my palms. Through the gap in the tapestry, I watch them.

The dark elf nobles of Vhoig. They are beautiful and terrible, draped in silks and jewels that glitter in the magical light drifting from the enchanted chandeliers. Their laughter is sharp and musical, their movements elegant and predatory. They speak of politics, of trade, of the gladiatorial games in the city’s arena. They speak of humans as they would speak of livestock—discussing the price of a strong male for the mines, or the beauty of a new female acquisition for a pleasure house.

My mistress, Lady Halayah, sits at the head of the table. She is a vision of cruel perfection, her platinum hair intricately braided with black pearls, her violet eyes scanning her guests with an air of bored amusement. Her husband, Lord Tarsus, sits to her right. He is a warrior of the Miou caste, his powerful frame barely contained by his fine clothes. His obsession is not with politics, but with history. I know this because I am the one who dusts the artifacts in his study, the fragments of lore he collects from across the continents. I have seen the symbols on his scrolls, heard him drunkenly rant about forgotten goddesses and mythical islands of fire.

It is he who notices me first. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, flick to the tapestry. He gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It is time.

My heart thrums against my ribs. I take a steadying breath and step out from behind the tapestry. I keep my eyes on the floor, my movements small and precise. I move to the first guest, a portly noble with rings on every finger. I pour the blue wine into his goblet, my hand steady despite the tremor in my soul. I move to the next, and the next. Each pour is a prayer. Don’t spill. Don’t falter. Don’t exist.

I am almost finished. I am at the end of the table, pouring for a young, sneering noble who is trying to impress Lady Halayah. As I tilt the pitcher, he shifts in his chair, his arm knocking against mine.

It happens in an instant. A single, perfect drop of blue wine leaps from the spout and lands on the pristine white sleeve of his silk tunic.

The world stops.

The laughter dies. Every eye in the room turns to me. The young noble stares at the blue stain as if a serpent has just bitten him.

“You clumsy animal,” he spits, his face contorting in disgust.

I stand frozen, the heavy pitcher still in my hands. There is nothing to say. No apology will suffice. I have failed. I have marred their perfection.

Lady Halayah sighs, a sound of pure, theatrical boredom. “Take her back to the kitchens, Kantor. And do be creative. I am so tired of the usual screams.”

Kantor materializes at my side, his hand gripping my arm in a vise. He yanks me from the room, my feet stumbling to keep up. The laughter resumes behind us, louder this time, fueled by my disgrace.

He doesn’t take me to the kitchens. He drags me down the narrow stone steps to the sub-cellar, a place of damp stone and absolute darkness, where the only sounds are the drip of water and the scuttling of rodans. He shoves me inside and bars the door.

“The master will deal with you after his guests have departed,” he growls through the thick wood. “He has a new whip he is eager to try.”

The darkness swallows me. I slide down the rough wall to the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably. A new whip. I have felt the old ones. They peel skin like fruit. I curl into a ball, the cold of the stone seeping into my bones. This is it. This is the end. I have survived nineteen years in this hell, and my life will end over a single drop of wine.

And in that absolute, crushing darkness, something inside me breaks. Not my spirit. That was broken long ago. No, this is something else. The hard, calloused shell I have built around my soul cracks open. And from that crack, a tiny, hot spark of rage ignites.

I will not die here.

I will not die in this house, for their amusement.

My breath hitches. The thought is so foreign, so dangerous, it feels like a punch to the gut. But once it is there, it will not be extinguished. It grows, feeding on years of pain and humiliation, until it is a roaring fire in my chest.

I push myself up, hands fumbling along the damp walls. I know this estate. I have cleaned every corner of it. I know its secrets. The wine cellar has a small, barred grate that opens into the waste run-off channel. It is meant for ventilation, not escape. But I am small. And I am desperate.

My fingers find the rough iron of the grate. It is set deep in the stone. I pull, my muscles screaming in protest. It doesn’t budge. I pull again, a sob of frustration tearing from my throat. My nails splinter against the stone.

Then I remember. The blade.

In the haste of being cleaned for serving, they took my kitchen tool, but they missed the one I keep for myself. A small, sharp shard of metal I found in the refuse pile, honed on the kitchen stones until it had a razor’s edge. It is tucked into the hem of my tunic, a secret I have kept for years.

My trembling fingers find it. I work the tip of the shard into the crumbling mortar around the grate. I scrape and dig, the sound loud in the suffocating silence. I work until my fingers are raw and bleeding, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Mortar crumbles, falling like sand onto the floor.

Hours pass. I hear the faint sounds of the party ending, the scrape of chairs, the distant laughter. Lord Tarsus will be coming soon. The thought sends a fresh wave of terror and adrenaline through me. I work faster, my movements frantic.

With a groan of protesting metal, the grate shifts. I pull with all my might, and it comes free, scraping my arms. The opening is impossibly small. The stench of sewage and refuse wafts up, a smell that promises a freedom more foul than any prison.

I don’t hesitate. I force my shoulders through the opening, the rough stone tearing at my linen tunic and the skin beneath. I wriggle and push, my hips catching for a heart-stopping moment before I am through, tumbling into the shallow, filth-strewn channel below.

I land in a crouch in the ankle-deep sludge, my body screaming in protest. Above, I hear the heavy bar of the cellar door being lifted.

I run.

I scramble through the dark, narrow channel, the foul water splashing at my legs. The tunnel opens into the main sewer line beneath the estate, a river of filth that flows toward the Vhoig docks. I follow it, my only guide the faint, distant sound of the sea.

The city above is a distant rumble. Down here, it is a world of darkness and stench. I move on pure instinct, my mind blessedly blank, focused only on the next step, the next breath.

After what feels like an eternity, I see it. A faint, grey light ahead. A sewer grate that opens onto the docks. I pull myself up, my muscles screaming, and push. The grate is heavy, but it lifts. I peer out.

The docks are a chaotic mess of noise and movement, even in the dead of night. Ships are being loaded and unloaded under the magical glow of enchanted lanterns. Dark elf overseers shout commands, their voices cracking like whips. Human and Zagfer laborers haul crates and barrels, their faces grim and weary.

I know I cannot be seen. A lone, filthy human slave will be caught in an instant. I watch, my eyes scanning the chaos, learning the rhythms. I see the guards patrolling in pairs, their paths predictable. I see the moments of distraction, when a new ship arrives or a fight breaks out among the laborers.

My target is a large, ugly trade ship, its hull scarred and patched. It’s a merchant vessel, not a military ship, less likely to be thoroughly searched. Its cargo is barrels of cheap ale and crates of dried fish, destined for some far-off port. Anywhere but here.

I wait for my moment. A brawl breaks out near the gangplank, drawing the attention of the nearest guards. It’s now or never.

I slip out of the sewer, a shadow detaching from the darkness. I move low and fast, my bare feet silent on the grimy cobblestones. I dart between stacks of crates, the stench of fish and tar filling my lungs. I am almost there. The gangplank is just ahead.

“Halt!”

The voice is a whip crack behind me. I freeze, my blood turning to ice. A guard. He must have seen me. My heart seizes in my chest. This is it. I failed.

I force myself to stay still, pressed into the shadows between two towering stacks of barrels. I hold my breath, my knuckles white where I grip my small blade. I can hear his heavy footsteps approaching, the clink of his armor. He is searching. He is close. So close I can smell the leather of his uniform.

He stops just feet from my hiding place. I can see the edge of his boot. I brace myself, ready to fight, to die, but not to be taken back.

Another voice calls out from the ship. “Korlag! Get up here! This cask is leaking all over the deck!”

The guard, Korlag, grunts in annoyance. “One moment.” He takes one last, sweeping glance around my hiding spot. His eyes pass right over me, my small, dark form lost in the deeper shadows. He turns and stomps up the gangplank, his attention diverted.

I do not move. I do not breathe. I wait until the sounds of his footsteps fade, until the shouting on the deck resumes. Then, and only then, do I move.

I scurry up the gangplank, a rat slipping into the belly of the ship. The hold is dark and cavernous, filled with the stench of bilge water, fish, and damp wood. I find a space behind a stack of ale barrels, a small, cramped hollow where I can curl up and be invisible.

I sink down into the darkness, my body trembling with the aftermath of terror and exertion. The ship lurches as the final ropes are cast off. I hear the shouts of the crew, the groan of the massive hull as it pulls away from the dock.

We are moving.

I am away.

I press my face against the rough wood of a barrel, and at last, I allow myself to cry. They are not tears of sadness or pain, but of a terrifying, fragile hope. I have no food, no water, and no idea where this ship is going. But I am free. And for now, that is enough.