I press my fingers into the soil, testing the moisture, adjusting the angle of a stem that’s leaning too far toward the light.
“I don’t need to know,” I say.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my shoulders tighten.
I move to the next row.
The air smells different today. Not just dirt and water and the faint metallic tang that always lingers near the estate walls—but something sharper. Polished stone. Oils. Perfume carried faintly from the manor.
Preparation. Not for us. Forthem. The dark elf nobles and their wicked senses of humor.
“Make sure the pool’s clear,” Fenrix calls out, louder now, addressing the others. “No debris shall be left behind. If I see a single leaf out of place I’ll root out your fingernails and replace them with tacks.”
I shift toward the reflecting pool, my steps automatic. The surface is still, a long stretch of dark glass cutting through the garden. It mirrors everything—the hedges, the sky, the looming structure of the manor behind it.
And anything out of place. I kneel at the edge, skimming my fingers just above the surface, catching a stray petal before it drifts too far. Twisted by sorcery, the petal is anything but soft. It’s Cold. Sharp. It bites into my skin, grounding me in the present.
“Don’t fall in,” someone mutters behind me.
A few quiet laughs follow.
I don’t turn.
“If I do,” I say, “I’ll take you with me.”
That earns a sharper laugh.
“Careful, Cutter,” Fenrix calls. “You’re getting bold.”
No. I’m getting tired. There’s a difference.
I straighten, wiping my damp hands against my skirt, and step back from the water. My reflection wavers, breaks apart asthe surface ripples, then settles again into something still and controlled.
Like everything else here.
By midday, the pressure has settled into my bones. Every movement is watched more closely. Every mistake—real or imagined—feels heavier. The overseers pass through more frequently, their eyes sharper, their patience thinner.
“Faster,” one of them snaps as I move between rows. “We don’t have all day.”
I bite back the response that rises too quickly and nod instead.
“Yes, sir.”
Always yes. No matter how it twists my guts.
The sun shifts higher, then begins its slow descent, the light changing from that dull, flat silver into something colder, sharper. Shadows stretch longer across the paths, cutting through the neat symmetry of the garden.
And then I hear them. Voices. Not the usual ones I’ve grown accustomed to in the household. Smoother. More…measured.
I still my movement. Just for a second. Then I move again, slower now, quieter, letting the rhythm of my work mask the way I angle myself closer to the outer edge of the garden, where the hedges grow higher and the path curves toward one of the lesser entrances.
The voices drift through the leaves.
“…unstable.”
