Will he choose the mother and her child who whimper in each other's arms? The young man who cries out for his brother in his sleep? The elderly gentleman who refuses to speak?
The woman notices my terror, leans closer, almost seductively, and whispers, “Time to scrub the Dravari off you, Gutter Rat. Death would be too kind.” She chuckles, low and arrogant, and yanks me forward.
I limp through the dark, heavy halls of the castle. No art, no statues, no furnishings. Nothing left that remembers beauty. Only empty, lifeless obsidian floors. The dim lighting frombraziers burning low along the hallways casts eerie shadows, as if the walls themselves are sentient.
But behind the emptiness, I can see its grandeur—the kingdom that once was. In the faint light, I can’t make out the details of the high, painted ceilings, but I can see enough to know all ten gods are depicted in their power—weapons drawn, divine magic poised at their fingertips. Likely created when the lands were ruled by fair and just rulers; when art and music were an essential way of life. When King Aurius reigned, perhaps. I stop myself before I can think of Kael—his face, his touch, his fucking lies.
My thoughts are interrupted by the woman pounding on a door with aggressive, entitled beats halfway down the hall.
“I have her!” she bellows, and the door creaks open.
Two armored guards stand rigid at the door, nodding acknowledgment to the woman. Across the room, three submissive maids drop into a low curtsy, averting their gazes.
“Rise,” the woman commands in a snarl.
“Yes, General Vessira,” they pander, quickly standing and smoothing their skirts in a fluster.
Vessira. I file that away in my mind for later.
“Scrub her raw. She needs to be presentable to His Majesty. I’ve heard she needs extra pressure around her ribs,” she sneers, unlocking the chains at my wrists. “Her dress is hanging.”
My dress?
“Don’t take the chain off her ankle—it’s her tag of ownership,” she winks at the guards, who don’t try to stifle their snickers. I know it’s lillath—the seared skin underneath it tells me so. So does the emptiness I feel inside—the absence ofhim.The hollowness I feel with the Starbound tether suppressed and my magic once again bound.
“I’m surprised you don’t wear one, Vessira,” I spit her name like a curse. “His most loyal dog, and not even a collar to show for it?”
Her lips purse, fists bunching at her sides. I’ve hit a nerve.Good. If I’m descending, I’ll drag her down with me.
I keep going, “Or is that what the Mark on your neck is for?”
She huffs an exhale and looks to the maids. “You’ll call her Gutter Rat—understand? No exceptions.” She turns towards the door, coiled tight. “And I want as much of the bitch’s skin on show as possible,” she throws over her shoulder, and slams the door on the way out.
A cruel smirk kicks up the side of my mouth. I landed the blow.
But the victory is short-lived. Reality crashes in,hard.
The maids usher me towards the ornate bath steaming in the corner. A deep, obsidian tub and obtrusive clawed feet embellished with gold stares back at me, contrasting with the dark walls and thick drapes blocking all light.
“Please remove your clothes, miss,” one maid whispers. A guard clears his throat expectantly, and the maid swallows and corrects herself, “Remove your clothes, please… Gutter Rat.”
If I weren’t about to be stripped and humiliated, I might’ve pitied the maid with a conscience.
Though my compassion is buried under decades of survival.
I slowly peel my tattered leathers from my body, the belt of Skaedor’s heir, my tunic, until I’m stripped down to my underthings. The ones Kael gave me. The ones he tenderly removed.Starsdamn him.He is everywhere. I feel the prickle of tears flooding my eyes, but I refuse them. Not here. Not now. I untie the laces of my corset and remove the straps and scant fabric, leaving myself exposed to the room.
One maid does her best to shield me from the indecent eyes of the guards, and I appreciate the gesture, even if it doesn’t spare my dignity.Do I even have any left?
I climb into the bath, dropping low into the water. I hiss as the soap and water climb into my cuts and wounds.
The final maid lifts my arm and begins to scrub with the hard, scratching bristles of a bathing brush, removing the dungeon’s grime from my skin.
And I do what I’ve always done when I hurt too much: I take myself away. To another place, another life. One where I’m not me, andthisisn’t real.
They comb. Pluck. Scrub. Until my skin glows red, raw and polished, like something to be displayed.
“You may get out now…,” the maid looks to the guards who are eyeing her with intensity. “Gutter Rat,” she adds with a whisper.
