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I wake before first light, curled on a straw pallet in the narrow dormitory that houses the Vaerathis slaves. My back aches from yesterday’s labor, and my forearms are stiff with bruises that have not yet had time to fade. Still, I push myself upright without a sound. If anyone catches me lazing in bed when the overseer comes by, the punishment will be swift. And loud.

I try not to make noise as I rise, for the other slaves are still sleeping, each locked in their own silent world of fear and exhaustion. The dormitory’s stale air, laced with the acrid scent of unwashed bodies and old sweat, invades my lungs. I yearn for even a moment of fresh, untainted air. Sometimes I dream of open fields or a wide blue sky I can call my own, but then I remember: I don’t really have a “own” anything. Not in Protheka, and certainly not in House Vaerathis.

I step carefully around Silas, my only friend in this damned place. He’s younger than I am—eighteen, with a lean body barely strong enough for the grueling demands the dark elves place upon us. Yet his spirit refuses to bow, and that spirit has kept me afloat more times than I can count. He stirs when I pass, his eyelids fluttering. In the gloom, I see his eyes crack open, just enough to register my shape. “Calla,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “you’re already up?”

“Shh,” I whisper back. “Go back to sleep, if you can. I’ll see if I can bring you water.”

He gives a mute nod, turning onto his side. I suspect he won’t drift off again—Silas is never truly at peace here—but there’s no harm in trying.

Outside the dormitory, a single torch hisses in its bracket, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The corridor is cramped, the ceiling just high enough that a tall dark elf would have to stoop. By design, they rarely wander into this part of the estate unless they’re searching for a slave or planning a punishment.

At this quiet hour, the overseer has not yet begun prowling the corridors, so I keep my footsteps light, moving silently through the space that is both my prison and my entire world. House Vaerathis is a fortress as much as it is a mansion—composed of sprawling halls, austere courtyards, and countless locked doors. The marble floors in the elves’ private quarters are polished to a perfect sheen, but here, in the slave quarters, the stones under my feet are rough, chipped with age and neglect.

A distant clang of metal on metal startles me, and I almost drop the small bucket I carry. My heart lurches. Sometimes it’s just a guard adjusting armor or an accidental noise of service doors clapping shut. Other times it’s a warning that a punishment is about to be doled out in the courtyard. The dark elves do not believe in subtlety or second chances. The swirling chaos that is my existence can shift on a single misstep.

I find the washroom at the end of the corridor. It’s more a disused closet with a single leaky faucet that drips brackish water into a stone basin. I fill the bucket, the splashes echoing in the cramped space. My breath catches the faint stench of sulfur that comes from some subterranean aquifer beneath the estate.

The memory of the rumor surfaces: beneath House Vaerathis lie catacombs older than the city itself, catacombs that reek of unnatural energies. I’ve heard dark whispers among the slaves, half-remembered legends that those tunnels hold arcane artifacts from a time when the Vaerathis line practiced rites to prolong life or conjure nightmares.

I don’t believe half the rumors that pass from slave to slave—most are born of desperation. But the fear in their eyes is real. I’ve seen it. And in this world, fear often speaks truths.

I dip a rag into the bucket and clean my face, though I’m aware this is the best I’ll feel all day. The clang of metal has subsided, replaced by a hush so thick I can hear my own heart drumming. I drag a coarse cloth across my cheeks and consider the reflection in the water’s rippling surface. A slim, tired face stares back: dark brown hair that’s seen neither comb nor kindness in days, hazel eyes that flicker with the faint gold color I used to find pretty. These days, I’m never sure who I am beyond “Calla, the slave.”

I recall a single memory from my childhood—before I was sold to House Vaerathis—my mother braiding my hair, murmuring stories about humans who once roamed the continents freely. Now, our kind is property. We have no voice in this world. Any illusions otherwise are shattered by the scars on my back.

I push the memory away, stepping back out into the corridor. Several other slaves are stirring, their expressions vacant as they emerge from the dormitory. Some share the same dead-eyed look that I fear one day might consume me. At least Silas still has that spark. And maybe, buried deep, I have one too.

My morning’s assignment is to scrub the east wing floors, the ones the highborn dark elves walk upon. A dreaded chore, but it’s better than being the personal plaything for someone like Lord Kaelith. I lower my eyes, reminding myself to display the deference the elves demand, as I pass a pair of female dark elves in the hall. They’re swathed in black-and-crimson robes, runic patterns embroidered along the hems. I hear snatches of their conversation:

“—the catacombs cause a chill in the wards?—”

“—probably nothing. The matron will handle it?—”

At the mention of “catacombs,” my blood stills. It’s nothing I can act on, no real information to glean. But it’s enough to affirm the rumors that something stirs beneath the estate.

When I reach the east wing, I dip a stiff-bristled brush into soapy water and begin scrubbing the marble floors. My muscles scream with every motion, the repetitive drudgery wearing me down. The hall is lined with tall windows of stained glass, each depicting vainglorious scenes of dark elf history—wars, victories, ceremonies. I have no illusions that humans appear anywhere in those mosaics, unless it’s in the background as corpses or kneeling figures.

Halfway through my chore, a door at the far end of the corridor swings open. I freeze, brush clutched in my hand. The figure stepping out is Lord Kaelith Vaerathis himself, clad in a polished black cuirass and matching gauntlets. He stands tall, broad-shouldered for a dark elf, with slanted violet eyes that never fail to send a cold wave of fear through me. His hair, bone-white, is braided in a style that underscores his status.

He notices me immediately, his lips curving into a cruel approximation of a smile. “You there. Slave,” he snaps.

I scramble to my feet, dropping the brush and staring at the floor to avoid meeting his gaze. “My lord.”

He approaches, boots clicking ominously on the damp marble, until he’s near enough that I can sense his breath. “The floors are not nearly as pristine as they should be.”

I know better than to defend myself; the water bucket is half empty, the brush worn to its bristles. No matter how thoroughly I scrub, it’ll never be enough to satisfy him. His cruelty finds fault in every corner.

He lifts the toe of his boot, flicking it at my pail so it sloshes water across my ankles. “See to it that this corridor gleams by midday or you’ll be whipped again,” he says, voice as cold as the marble beneath us.

“Yes, my lord,” I manage, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

“Good.” He eyes me another moment, as though savoring my subservience, then strides away.

My breath stutters in my chest. I gather my brush and kneel once more, ignoring the trembling in my limbs. If I let rage surface, I’ll only hurt myself. Still, a tiny flame flickers behind my ribs. A single, dangerous thought: Someday, I want to walk away from him without fear.

I push the brush over the tiles until my nails splinter, determined to finish the task before midday.

Hours crawl by. My arms are shaking, my hair plastered to my forehead. I don’t stop even as my stomach growls from missing breakfast. I can’t risk tardiness. Lord Kaelith could return at any moment to check on me.

When I’m nearly done, another figure looms over me—not Kaelith but a short, wiry dark elf guard named Arhen. His lip curls as he scans my sweat-slick face. “You’re to report to Overseer Tovel,” he says.

I pick myself up, forcing my knees to straighten. “Did I?—”

“Don’t ask questions,” he snaps, turning on his heel to lead me away.

I stifle a sigh and follow him. My immediate dread is that Tovel will order me to do some humiliating or painful chore. Overseer Tovel is the iron fist that enforces Vaerathis rules on us humans. She’s a slight dark elf with an angular face and perpetually narrowed eyes, but her capacity for cruelty dwarfs that of many of the male soldiers.

Arhen directs me down a twisting corridor to a small antechamber. There, Tovel stands by a wide desk scattered with scrolls. Her posture is rigid, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.

The door shuts behind me. I keep my eyes averted, shoulders tense.

“You took your time with those floors,” Tovel remarks, voice as soft as a cat’s paw.

“Lord Kaelith—he—” I hesitate, unsure if blaming him for my pace is wise.

She waves a hand, cutting off my explanation. “I don’t care about your excuses. You have a new assignment.”

My heart flutters, uncertain if this is better or worse. “Yes, Overseer.”

She paces around the desk and picks up a short baton, tapping it against her palm. It’s a gesture I’ve come to associate with incoming punishment. “We’ve had an…incident of sorts in the lower levels.”

“Lower levels?” My voice catches.

Tovel’s eyes bore into me. “The catacombs,” she says, letting the word hang in the air with ominous weight. I stiffen. Very few slaves are sent there, and those who return often come back pale, jittery—refusing to speak of what they saw.

“You will clean them,” she continues. “The older storerooms on the first sub-level. House Vaerathis is hosting certain…important figures next week, and the catacombs must be in acceptable condition.” Her lips twist as though even she finds the notion absurd.

I want to scream that this is a suicide mission, that she might as well fling me to the Gilak demons. Instead, I swallow. “Yes, Overseer,” I say, forcing my voice not to shake.

She smiles, a slow, humorless curve of her thin lips. “Good. You’ll start at dawn tomorrow. A guard will escort you. Dismissed.”

I wait for a moment, uncertain if I’m meant to bow or speak further. Tovel’s baton taps her palm in a measured rhythm, and I realize she’s finished with me. Turning stiffly, I exit the chamber, breathing with shallow caution until I’m out of earshot.

The catacombs. The chill that creeps up my spine is impossible to ignore. Despite the swirl of rumors, no slave is foolish enough to speak openly about them for long. I know of two who ventured there months ago. They came back silent, eyes haunted, and within a week, they were sold off to a traveling dark elf merchant.

My only solace is that Tovel said storerooms on the first sub-level. Perhaps that area isn’t as cursed or dangerous as the deeper catacombs. Then again, House Vaerathis has plenty of secrets, and none of them bode well for humans.

I make my way back to the slave dormitory after finishing the floor-scrubbing. My arms feel like lead, my legs shaky from hours of kneeling. Silas is there, perched on an upturned crate along the wall, nibbling on a stale crust of bread.

“You look awful,” he says by way of greeting. Though his voice is teasing, there’s concern in his eyes.

I slump beside him. “Thanks. I feel worse than I look.”

He offers me a piece of bread. It’s dry and crumbly, but my stomach rumbles too loudly for me to refuse. “What happened?”

I chew slowly, letting the coarse lumps dissolve on my tongue. “They’re sending me…downstairs tomorrow,” I say at last.

His eyes widen. “The catacombs?”

“Yes.”

He lowers his voice, glancing around to ensure no guards are near. “Gods, Calla. I’ve heard the stories. They say the walls move down there, that there’s black mold that seeps into your lungs and makes you hallucinate. And something worse…”

I understand the unspoken words: Magic, perhaps something demonic or monstrous. “I don’t have a choice,” I murmur. “Tovel’s orders. I either go, or I face punishment.”

We sit in tense silence for a moment before Silas shakes his head. “I’ll come with you. I’ll beg Overseer Tovel.”

My heart clenches. As comforting as the offer is, I know Tovel. She won’t allow it. “No. You’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

He sets his jaw. “I don’t want to see you vanish like the others.”

“I know. But I can do this.” My voice tries to sound certain, though a tremor betrays my fear.

He opens his mouth to argue but stops at the sound of approaching footsteps. A pair of elves in black armor appear, scanning us with the bored disdain they reserve for humans. Silas and I both drop our gazes. The guards pass by without comment, continuing down the corridor.

When they’re gone, I place a hand on Silas’s forearm. “Stay safe,” I whisper. “I’ll need someone to tell me jokes when I get back.”

He forces a grin. “Deal. But you owe me if you pull through this.”

“I’ll owe you everything,” I say softly. Because, truly, his friendship has been my anchor in this sea of cruelty.

That night, sleep is elusive. Every time I shut my eyes, I imagine creeping through dank corridors, hearing the drip of water echo in the darkness. I imagine ghostly shapes flickering in torchlight, walls that shift like living flesh. I think of the rumors that the Vaerathis family once performed rites of necromancy, summoning things that defy explanation.

My exhaustion eventually triumphs over my anxiety, and I have a restless dream—shadows swirl, taking on forms that lunge at me. A tall silhouette with white hair and violet eyes laughs, telling me I’m worthless. Chains coil around my wrists. The floor cracks open into a yawning pit, and I plummet.

I jerk awake, covered in cold sweat. The dormitory is silent, the other slaves’ breathing steady in the gloom. Through the narrow window near the ceiling, I see the faint glow of predawn sky. It’s time.

The guard assigned to me is a grim-faced elf named Sathrin. He’s lean, with a perpetual sneer. “Move,” he orders, jabbing me lightly in the back with the butt of his spear. I walk ahead of him down a descending spiral staircase, deeper and deeper into the bowels of House Vaerathis.

Stone passages give way to narrower tunnels. The temperature plummets. My breath mists before me, and goosebumps crawl over my arms despite my coarse tunic. Sathrin holds a torch that flickers, casting elongated shadows on the walls. Occasionally, a torch in a bracket lights the corridor, but many are unlit, leaving pockets of inky blackness.

We pass doors of varying shapes and sizes—some sealed with iron bars, others boarded shut. The scent of decay hangs in the stale air, intensifying as we descend. Eventually, Sathrin halts in front of an archway carved with runic symbols. My stomach twists at the sight.

He hands me a rag and a bucket of pungent cleaning solution. “You’ll scrub this hallway. The storerooms beyond, too. You have until midday. If you’re not at the top of the staircase by then, I’ll assume you’ve died.”

My voice cracks. “Alone?”