CHAPTER 4: Part 03

The conversation resumed around me, but now every word felt like it was about me, even when it wasn't. Every laugh seemed to echo with knowledge of my degradation. Every glance felt like a hand on my skin.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to scream.

But I sat still. Silent. Exactly the way he'd trained me to.

Broken pieces of myself scattered across the floor like crumbs from my untouched bread.

Time moved like thick honey, each second stretching unbearably long. I lost track of the conversation, of the laughter, of everything except the sound of my own heartbeat and the weight of silver around my throat.

Eventually, the meal ended. Men pushed back from the table, satisfied and lazy with wine. They filed out slowly, some casting final glances in my direction — looks that promised they would remember what they'd learned about me today.

When the hall was empty except for servants clearing the remnants of the feast, Kael finally stood.

He walked toward me with that same unhurried confidence, and I braced myself for whatever new humiliation he had planned.

But he simply stopped in front of my small table and looked down at my untouched bread.

"Not hungry?" he asked, voice soft as silk.

I couldn't trust myself to speak.

He reached down and picked up a piece of the stale bread, examining it as if it held great interest.

"You need to keep your strength up," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his tone that made it worse than any cruelty. "I have plans for you."

Then he dropped the bread back onto the plate and walked away, leaving me alone with the servants and the lingering scent of his presence — leather and smoke and something darker that I couldn't name.

I didn't remember standing.

I didn't remember walking back through the halls.

I just remembered the sound of Kael's voice in that room, and how he said it like it was nothing—like it was the truth carved in stone:

She's here to be used.

The words followed me through corridors that seemed longer now, more twisted. The guards walked behind me this time, no longer flanking me like an honor escort, but herding me like livestock back to whatever pen they'd chosen for me.

The whispers started again as soon as we left the dining hall.

"Did you see her face?"

"Poor little thing."

"Not so poor. She likes it."

"They always do, eventually."

Each word was a needle in my skin, but I kept walking. One foot in front of the other. One breath, then another. The basic mechanics of survival.

The guards brought me to a small antechamber near the east wing. No windows. No fire. Just a basin of cold water and a cracked mirror on the wall.

The room was barely larger than a closet, with stone walls that wept moisture and a floor that hadn't seen proper cleaning in weeks. It smelled of mildew and despair.

"Wait," one of them said.

And then they left.

I sat on a bench that was more of a slab of stone with a thin cushion, and tried not to think. Tried not to feel the sweat dried to my skin. The way the collar still pressed against my throat, silver threading warming to my pulse.

In the cracked mirror, I caught glimpses of myself — fractured images that made me look as broken as I felt. Pale skin marked with finger-shaped bruises. Hair matted and tangled. Eyes that held too much knowledge of things I wished I could forget.

I didn't cry.

I wanted to.

But I didn't.

There were no tears left, anyway. Just a hollow ache where my heart used to be and the constant burn of shame that had become my new companion.

The door creaked open.

Not Kael.

A girl entered — younger than me, maybe. Thin but not frail. Pale brown hair pulled into a tight braid. She wore the standard maid uniform, but without the stiffness the others wore like armor.

There was something different about her immediately. She didn't flinch when she saw me. Didn't freeze or stare or pretend I wasn't there. She simply entered the room like this was normal, like broken girls in silver collars were just another part of her daily routine.

She carried a folded robe in her arms and a cloth draped over one shoulder.

When she saw me, she didn't stop.

She didn't freeze.

She walked straight to the basin and dipped the cloth in water like this was just another room.

Just another girl.

Just another wound to wipe.

"I'm Mira," she said quietly.

Her voice was soft, but not afraid. There was strength in it — not the brutal kind that dominated this place, but something quieter and more dangerous. The kind of strength that survived by bending instead of breaking.

I watched her wring out the cloth, efficient movements that spoke of practice.

"You don't have to—"

"You have blood on your thigh."

I looked down, following her gaze to a dark stain I hadn't noticed before. The sight of it made my stomach clench with memory and shame.

She was right.

The dried stain made my stomach twist with the reminder of what I'd become, what I'd allowed to be done to me.

She knelt in front of me, gently took my knee, and began to clean it.

Her touch was careful, professional. Not gentle — gentleness was a luxury neither of us could afford — but respectful. She cleaned the blood with the same attention she might give to polishing silver or scrubbing floors.

The water was cold. The cloth was softer than anything I'd felt since arriving.

"I don't need pity," I whispered.

"This isn't pity," she said, still focused on the cloth. "It's hygiene."

I almost laughed. It caught in my throat like a bone.

The simple practicality of it — the refusal to make this about emotion or drama — was somehow more comforting than any gentle words could have been.