Twisted Fangs

Chapter 1

Rhea

The marble beneath my hands gleams with each circular motion of the cloth, reflecting the ornate crystal chandeliers above. My knees ache against the hard floor, but I don't dare shift position. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple, and I resist the urge to wipe it away.

Two dark elf nobles glide past me. Their silk robes whisper against the floor I just cleaned, and their boots leave fresh marks on the wet marble.

"The human stock has been particularly disappointing this season," one says, as if I'm not even here. His silver hair catches the light as he turns to his companion.

"Indeed. Though they make adequate servants, if properly trained," the other says. They both start laughing at the remark. Their laughs echo off the vaulted ceiling as they continue walking down the hall.

I press the cloth harder against the floor. My raw knuckles scream in protest. The familiar sting of soap seeps into my blisters, but I keep scrubbing. Show weakness, and they notice. Get noticed, and—my hand instinctively touches the scar on my wrist.

"You there." A sharp voice suddenly cuts through my thoughts. "You missed a spot."

I look up to see Lady Morana standing over me, her piercing red eyes fixed on me. She points one long, pale finger at a perfectly clean section of floor.

"Yes, my lady." The words taste like ash in my mouth. I shuffle over on my knees, head bowed, and begin scrubbing the already spotless marble.

"Harder," she commands. "I can still see a smudge."

My arms burn as I put more pressure into each stroke. The rough cloth tears at my palms, but I don't stop. Can't stop. The lady's boots remain in my peripheral vision, a silent threat.

"These humans," she sighs. "So slow, so inefficient. Sometimes I wonder why we keep them at all."

I bite my tongue until I taste copper, focusing on the mindless circles of my hands. Back and forth. Round and round. Like the endless cycle of days in this gilded prison. One day, I promise myself, as I have every day before. One day, they'll see me. Really see me. And they'll regret it.

The marble beneath my hands is as cold and unyielding as the hearts of those who walk upon it. I pause for a moment. My gaze is drawn to the small window high above. The sky beyond is a tapestry of vibrant blue. It's a reminder of all that I've never known, a world beyond servitude and suffering.

I can hear them down the hall, the other slaves. Their whispers are laced with the yearning for a life untethered. They huddle in the corner, their voices barely above a breath.

"Did you see it, the caravan?" one asks, his voice tinged with awe. "I heard it came from the Borderlands, where humans dwell free beneath the sky."

The other, a woman with lines of fatigue etched into her face, nods. "Yes, and they said the fields stretch on forever, like an ocean of green, and the cities... oh, the cities reach for the heavens, crafted by our own hands," she exclaims.

My heart quickens at the thought. Fields of green, cities of wonder—they speak of these places as if they are worlds away, yet they exist somewhere out there, beyond the oppressive confines of this estate. I cling to their words, a lifeline in a sea of despair.

I steal a glance over my shoulder at the dark elves, their attention diverted by matters of no concern to us. I inch closer to the slaves, my hands stilled, my curiosity aflame.

"And the people?" I whisper, my voice a mere echo of my burning question. "What are they like, those who live in such places?"

The man turns to me, his eyes reflecting the same longing that gnaws at my soul. "They are free," he says, the word hanging in the air like a promise. "They live as they choose, unshackled by the will of others."

I let the idea wash over me, the image of a life lived on one's own terms. It's a foreign concept, as alien to me as the dark elves are to the sun. Yet it kindles a fire within me, a desire so fierce it threatens to consume me.

I return to my task, the cloth moving in rhythmic circles, but my mind is no longer here. It soars above the fields, dances through the streets of those towering cities. I imagine myself among those free people, my hair unbound, my steps unhindered.

The daydream is a dangerous indulgence, yet I cannot help but succumb to its sweet embrace. It fuels the embers of defiance that simmer in my heart.

I am snapped back to reality by the harsh clang of a bell. The other slaves scatter, their dreams dissolving like mist under the scorching gaze of our masters. I rise, my knees aching from the cold, unforgiving floor, and move on to the next hallway.

I pass by another window and briefly peer out. The sky is still blue, a canvas of endless possibility. It's a fleeting glimpse of what could be, a silent affirmation that there is a world out there worth fighting for. And as I knot my fist around the soiled cleaning cloth, I make a silent vow to myself.

Someday, I will stand in those endless fields and gaze upon those towering cities with my own eyes. Someday, I will be free. But first, I must survive the darkness that looms within these walls.

My fingers curl tighter around the damp rag, knuckles white with tension. Through the window, a shaft of late afternoon sunlight streams in, painting the marble floor in hues I'll never truly know. The sunset must be starting, but I've never seen one. Not really. Not beyond these suffocating walls.

"They say the sky turns to fire," Mari whispers as she comes and kneels beside me. She's one of the few slaves who remembers the outside world. "Orange and pink and purple all at once, like nature's trying to outshine itself."

I dip my rag in the bucket, wringing it out with more force than necessary. "What's orange look like?" I ask, my voice tinged with curiosity.

Mari pauses her scrubbing. "Like... like the warmth of a candle, but brighter. More alive," she says with a dim sparkle in her eyes.

"Must be nice." The words come out bitter, and I immediately regret them when I see Mari's face fall.

"One day, little bird," she says, using the nickname she gave me years ago. "One day you'll see it all."

I shake my head, focusing on a particularly stubborn scuff mark. "Born in chains, die in chains. That's what they say, isn't it?" I mutter.

"Only if you believe it," she replies softly.

The sound of approaching footsteps sends us both back to our tasks, heads bowed, shoulders hunched. But Mari's words echo in my mind. Only if you believe it. As if belief alone could break iron shackles and stone walls.

Through the window, the light shifts, growing dimmer. Another sunset I'll never see. Another day of freedom I'll never know. The ache in my chest intensifies, spreading like poison through my veins.

"Stop! All of you, up!" The sharp command shatters my thoughts. A dark elf overseer claps her hands, the sound echoing off the marble. "To the baths, now!"

My knees protest as I stand. Mari grabs my arm, steadying me. The other slaves huddle together as we're herded down the corridor like cattle.

The communal bath chamber opens before us, steam rising from pools I've only glimpsed through doorways. The water shimmers with an iridescent sheen I've never seen before.

"Strip," commands the overseer. "Everything off."

Rough hands shove us into the water. It's hot—too hot—and smells of unfamiliar flowers. Dark elf attendants descend on us with brushes and soaps, scrubbing until our skin turns pink and raw.

"What's happening?" I whisper to Mari as an attendant yanks through my tangled hair.

"Quiet!" the attendant hisses. The brush pulls harder, making my eyes water.

They drag us out and dry us with soft cloths—softer than anything I've touched before. White dresses appear, flowing things that make my usual rags look like burlap. The material brushes against my skin as they force it over my head.

"Hold still," another attendant snaps, weaving white flowers into my damp hair. The petals tickle my forehead. Next to me, Mari trembles as they do the same to her.

"This isn't good," she breathes, so quietly I barely hear her. "White dresses and flowers... they're preparing us for something."

My stomach knots. In all my years of slavery, I've never seen anything like this. The dark elves never waste such finery on slaves unless—

Another bell tolls somewhere in the mansion, deep and ominous. The overseers straighten, their red eyes gleaming with something that makes my blood run cold.

"Line up," they command. "It's time."