Page 4 of Immortal Origins (Chronicles of the Immortal Trials #1)

“Don’t be sorry, be faster!” Ms. Asquith barked at the boy.

Standing just over a meter tall, the fae blood in her made her facial features appear slightly too small and tight on her otherwise round face.

Though she could come across as blunt and harsh, Ms. Asquith deeply cared for the servants charged under her care, but she valued an ordered system as well.

She may cook one a home-cooked meal on a day when they’re feeling unwell, or offer some of the best advice Ambrose and many others had ever received, she also demanded structure in her kitchens and couldn’t stand chaos.

The boy managed to fill his cart and practically ran from the kitchens as fast as he could, not bothering to wait around for her to yell at him another moment.

“Why do you insist on scaring them, you know they’re absolutely terrified of you?” Ambrose threw in as the small fae vanished from sight.

“Why do you insist on being late to your duties almost every day ?” Ms. Asquith tossed back. Ernaline, who had been using her best friend as a human shield froze like a mouse caught in the open, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed by a hungry predator.

“I’m sorry. I overslept again.” Ambrose shrugged in apology.

“And what’s your excuse?” She whirled around to face Ernaline who had gone silent.

“I would’ve been here on time! But… someone had to make sure she got up…” Ernaline glanced towards Ambrose with a look of terror on her face.

“It was my fault,” Ambrose declared. “Ernaline was just trying to help, but I’m the one who held us up.”

Ms. Asquith eyed her up and down, made a ‘tsk tsk’ sound and waved them away. She shot a disapproving look at Ambrose and said, “One day, you’re going to get yourself into trouble you won’t be able to get yourself out of.”

Taking that as a dismissal the girls each grabbed a cart, apologized again for their tardiness and rushed out of the kitchens. As they ran, Ambrose could empathize with the small fae who fled the kitchens a little bit more.

The aroma wafting from her cart reminded Ambrose once again that she hadn’t eaten anything yet that morning.

There was food in the kitchens waiting for them once they finished their morning duties but wouldn’t be eaten until then.

Servants ate last and only once the royals and nobility had their fill.

Hundreds of beings to go hungry until they were satisfied.

Some days she didn’t get to eat for the first time until late at night, the royals refusing to release them long enough to eat.

The two of them walked in silence towards the dining hall as she tried not to think about the knots her stomach was twisting in.

She didn’t get extra food for sneaking out to train with Adym every night, so every calorie had become as precious as every swing of her sword.

Her sword that had to stay with Adym, lest she be executed if caught with it.

It made the purpose of training with it feel mute entirely.

Charged with serving the gods and the realm, any free citizen of any kingdom could make a demand and have authority over her and she would be powerless to refuse it.

Which meant, she could never be free of it.

But it made them both feel better knowing she could use a blade, even if it was a skill she’d never use.

Even if it was one she had grown rather adept at.

Training with Adym had been training among one of the best, whether the empire recognized him or not.

Rage tickled beneath her skin but she pushed it down and summed it up to how hungry she was before it consumed her.

Since her training sessions started, she managed to eat when, and as much, as she could.

Her body that had once been malnourished and under-used had become a solid foundation and a womanly frame.

Muscles filling in where they hadn’t been before and curves forming where there used to be little.

Though, she was more often hungry than not, she was aware of how her skills were evolving.

Over the years she had become stronger. Faster.

It still felt like she would never be strong enough to ever feel safe.

Not really. Not while she lived in the empire and there was nowhere else to go.

It might have been a false sense of safety, but it was something.

Carts clinking, they approached the carved oak doors that loomed above them and opened into the dining hall.

The doors were held open by two members of the Imperial Guard standing at royal attention, as was custom at every official entrance.

The only movement between them being their eyes as they scanned each being going in and out of the dining hall.

Ambrose pushed her cart through the entryway and found her place among the other servants.

Silverware clattered and wine flowed freely as the royal family and the highest ranking nobility in the palace dined.

Each noble was adorned with gold and jewels on their fingers and around their necks.

Dressed in the finest silks and clothing in Eltoria’s mid-autumn fashion the kingdom could produce.

The colors a stark contrast to the white the servants wore, but a reminder as well.

As if every rich color was telling the dull white ones, “ Remember your place .”

At the head of the table, King Tallis was eating what looked to be every item on the menu while servants swept around him, carrying away empty plates and bringing full ones to replace them.

His silver beard caught bits of food as he treated each plate like a vanishing act.

Though he ate for an entire feast, his belly never grew and his body stayed strong, the perfect specimen of a warrior king.

No one knew if the royals actually needed food or if they simply ate out of gluttony.

Watching the king, Ambrose was more inclined to believe the latter.

The seat next to the king sat empty, though it had a full table setting.

King Tallis could be ferocious in his anger and the queen had been known to be the only one who could satiate that temper.

When she died, all of Eltoria was cast into a tempest that lasted seven days and seven nights.

Lightning rained from the sky while the Grand Mages begged him to let them bury her so they could return to their kingdoms. Half the kingdom attended her burial ceremony.

This was long before Ambrose was born, but the story had become legendary.

It wasn’t often a royal died. In fact, it was very rare.

Ambrose turned her attention to the seat next to the empty queen’s, where the spitting image of the late queen sat.

Princess Inanna had the same soft, gentle features that her mother once had that the kingdoms had loved her for.

With dark, raven-like hair and violet eyes that could pierce the toughest of souls.

While her mother had been a warrior and one of the greatest to ever live, Inanna owned a much softer air to her given to her by her oracle gift—one of the rarest powers to form and highly coveted by the royals.

Because of this, Inanna had never left the palace and lived her entire life within its walls for her protection as well as her use.

But to Ambrose, she was a friend.

Or as much of a friend as their stations would allow.

When Ambrose was still young and a juvenile, Inanna had taken her under her wing and showed her how to navigate life at court better.

Which nobles to avoid if possible, where she could find moments to herself where no one went, how to stay hidden in plain sight.

Those years had meant everything to Ambrose and she could consider the princess nothing less than a friend.

Inanna had never been anything but kind and warm.

A drastic contrast to the rest of the nobility.

“Would you like some cake, princess?” Ambrose asked just loudly enough for the Oracle to hear as she reached for a plate off her cart.

Technically, servants weren’t permitted to speak unless spoken to first. They were background.

To be seen and never heard. A slight smile tugged at the princess’s lips from under her veil, the dark lace curtained over her face from the black hooded cloak she and all oracles wore.

As the king’s Oracle, the inside of her cloak was lined with crimson, silver, and gold for the Eltorian flag.

That crimson color had consumed Ambrose’s life.

From the capes on the shoulders of the guards, to the robes that the mages wore and the flags that waved around the kingdom.

The only absence of that color on the servants.

Not claimed by any king or color. Purely property of the empire, ready to be dispersed and distributed as needed to whatever kingdom or king needed it.

Devoid of the pride of claiming a kingdom, their only identifier was the brooch they wore with their appointed kingdom’s crest.

“Be careful,” Inanna whispered as Ambrose slid the dessert in front of her.

She lowered herself into a bow of acknowledgment, but once she lifted her gaze a pair of eyes the shade and feel of ice stared back at her.

She really needed to be more careful.

The eyes that met hers belonged to the prince, and the king’s brother, who was somehow more terrifying than the king himself.

While the king preferred Lightning for his Fire Magick, the prince had an affinity for flames.

The hottest flames in the kingdom to be correct.

His hair was as dark as night itself and swept in the way of his eyes—eyes that pierced through her like daggers.

His dangerously beautiful facial features, that usually caught the attention of every woman at court, were contorted into one look: displeasure.

“I don’t think you were spoken to, servant. His voice dripped with distaste.

Each word was like ice and fire in her veins as they left his mouth.

As though each one had a magick all their own.

Ambrose was sharply aware of the power radiating off the being across from her and all the attention in the room turned to them.

The servants all too ready for what was to come.

The nobles turned in giddy anticipation.

The king couldn’t be bothered away from his plate and seemed as though he hadn’t noticed anything at all happening at his breakfast table.

Inanna went stiff next to her as any life in the room was sucked out of it.

Leaving only an empty, dangerous feeling in the air.

“My sincerest apologies, Your Highness. I spoke out of turn.” Ambrose lowered herself into a bow once again, this time out of contempt instead of respect. Her heart pounded in her chest, racking against her rib cage. “It won’t happen again.”

His eyes watched her the way a predator might evaluate prey before it pounced. She kept her body bent into a low bow and held his eyes in hers. Something cold and distant sat behind his and she set her shoulders strong.

“No, it won’t.” The prince waved his hand.

A dull, blinding pain cracked across her back, almost sending Ambrose sprawling to her knees. Everything in her vision vanished and her world went black before it came back in spotted bursts. She strained, struggling to focus on the room around her.

Light exploded as another blow landed directly on her left side. Pain shocked its way down her spine, into her rib cage and down to her toes. This time the blow knocked her to her knees. To keep from crying out Ambrose bunched her skirt into her fist and squeezed as tightly as she could.

Another blow.

The taste of blood merged with saliva as she bit down on her cheek.

Another blow.

Bile touched the back of her throat but she swallowed it down.

Another.

Finally, something cracked and the nausea that followed she could barely fight. Her lungs screamed in protest with every breath she attempted to take. She took short sharp breaths and forced herself to calm.

Breathe. In. Out.

Fuck, that really hurts, she winced.

The Draconian Guard who’d stepped forward to deliver her punishment replaced his club in his belt and stepped back into the shadows with the rest of them by the time Ambrose was able to even out her breathing.

She took it in ragged gasps and cradled her broken rib.

Sweat pooling on her upper lip, she raised herself to her feet and lowered her body as best as she could into a final bow.

One out of respect. One out of contempt. And one out of survival.

Holding back her tears, she excused herself from the hall quietly and without any more disturbance.

Once she was outside the dining hall doors fighting the pain any longer seemed impossible and she collapsed into the hands of the nearest servants who caught her.

She was pretty sure she vomited and a twinge of guilt for the one who would have to clean it up tugged at her but she couldn’t think of that now.

The only thing she could think about was the pain.

Then, nothing.

No one noticed the scorched hand mark on her dress as they carried her away.