The servant claws at his wrist, eyes wide, desperate.
“You could die for much less,” Verr says quietly.
There’s no heat in it. No shouting. Just fact.
The air feels thinner.
My fingers curl into my palms.
Do something. Come on, Lyria, Do something?—
Verr’s gaze shifts slightly.
The servant makes a broken, gasping sound. Verr tilts his head to the side.
And then—He lets go.
Just like that.
The servant collapses to the ground, coughing, scrambling backward as fast as they can manage.
“Clean it,” Verr says. The words are almost bored.
The servant nods frantically, already moving. Verr turns away before they’re even fully upright. like it meant nothing.
Like itwasnothing.
I stand frozen where I am, heart pounding too hard, too fast.
He didn’t kill them.
That’s what they do.
That’s what they always do.
But he didn’t.
Was it mercy? A momentary lapse of cruelty? Or just sheer boredom with the idea of managing the help?
Whatever the reason, he didn’t kill the servant.
That’s dangerous…For Verginyon, youngest son of Lord Maltos.
I force myself to look away from Verr before he notices my interest. Interest can be more deadly than incompetence in this household. But the memory of him lingers. Clean, dexterous hands, fingernails manicured impeccably to a sheen.
There’s still dirt under my nails. Still work waiting in the rows behind me. We couldn't be more different, Verr and I.
And yet…why do I feel worried for his sake? He’s certainly never shown me kindness. Or anything at all. I think he sometimes has trouble telling us humans apart, especially when we all wear the same garb while working in the garden.
If only things were different…
I banish those thoughts.
I press my hands into the soil again, grounding myself in something real, something simple. The dirt doesn’t care about power. The plants don’t choose who lives and who dies.
They just grow. Or they don’t.
I wish my life were that simple.
