Page 8

KELLI

T he kitchen heat slams into me like a punch every morning.

Hot, greasy, foul. Sweat clings to every inch of me before I even reach the first station. The steam from the vats rises in wet waves, curling against my skin, soaking into the ratty gray uniform clinging to my back.

The work isn’t complicated.

Scrub the vats. Chop the vegetables. Stir the slop. Haul the crates.

Repeat.

All day. No breaks unless you want a baton across the ribs.

At first, I keep up. Barely. Pride pushes me through. Rage too. I make myself scrub harder, lift faster, move quicker. I don’t look at the guards. Don’t look at the other slaves. Don’t let them see the cracks.

But the days blur, one bleeding into the next, and the cracks start splitting wide.

The blisters on my hands pop. Raw skin screams every time I grip a scrub brush. My knees are a mess of bruises. My back’s a knot of pain that no stretch or breath can fix.

And now?

Now there’s something worse.

A cold that started in my bones and hasn’t left.

It creeps deeper every day, stealing my strength little by little. My arms shake lifting even the smallest crates. My legs go rubbery after an hour on my feet. My head pounds so bad sometimes I can’t see straight.

I’m getting sick.

Really sick.

And there’s no one here who’ll care enough to notice until I’m a body to drag off.

It hits hardest three days after the summons.

I’m hauling a bucket of greasy water across the kitchen floor when my knees buckle without warning.

I drop hard, slamming into the tiles. The bucket tips, filthy water sloshing everywhere.

The room spins.

Someone laughs. I hear it, distant and cruel.

“Pathetic,” a guard mutters.

I grit my teeth and push myself up. My arms scream. My head pulses with white-hot pain.

But I get to my feet.

I will not stay down.

Not here.

Not in front of them.

“Pick it up,” the guard barks.

I do. Bite down the groan that wants to rip free. Force my legs to move, one stubborn step at a time.

They want me broken.

Petru wants me erased.

Silpha wants me forgotten.

But I’m still here.

Even if my body’s trying its damnedest to betray me.

Later, in the sleeping cells, I curl up on my bunk and shiver under the threadbare blanket.

The fever’s burning me up from the inside now. Sweat slicks my skin. Every muscle in my body aches like I’ve been beaten with rods.

I press my forehead against the cool metal of the wall, breathing slow through the nausea.

I can hear the other laborers whispering.

Not about me. No one dares waste breath on me anymore.

But they know.

They know the signs.

Sick slaves don’t last long in the Spine.

Too weak to work? You're dead weight. Dead weight gets cut.

I ball my hands into fists under the blanket.

I’m not dying here.

I refuse.

I don’t care if my lungs collapse and my bones snap.

I’m not giving Petru that satisfaction.

I close my eyes, gritting my teeth against the tremors ripping through my body.

I just have to survive. One more night. One more shift. One more breath.

One more.

And another.

And another.

The next morning, Silpha herself comes to the cells.

She never comes down here.

Her heels click like gunshots on the floor. The doors creak open and every head snaps down in a practiced move.

She stops by my bunk.

I don’t lift my head. I don’t speak.

Not because I’m scared.

Because I know how this game works.

She stands there for a long minute, probably cataloging how far I've fallen.

Then her voice cuts through the silence.

“Get up.”

It’s a test.

She wants to see if I can.

I peel myself off the mattress, slow, deliberate.

The fever makes my vision swim. My knees wobble. But I lock them tight and plant my bare feet on the cold floor.

I stand.

Barely.

Silpha’s lips twitch—almost a smile. Cold. Mocking.

“Follow me.”

She doesn’t look back to see if I obey.

I do.

Because I have no choice.

Because whatever comes next—I’ll face it on my feet.

Even if it kills me.

The halls blur as I follow Silpha.

I keep my head down. My hands tremble with every step, but I grind my teeth and make my legs move.

We’re not heading toward the kitchens.

We’re going deeper.

Lower levels. Medical bay.

The smell changes down here. Sterile. Burned-clean. Fear woven into the walls.

My gut twists.

Silpha pushes open a side door without bothering to knock.

Inside, a sour-faced medic looks up from his desk. His skin’s the gray-green shade of someone who’s been locked underground too long.

“Scan her,” Silpha orders, flat.

The medic grunts, waves me over.

I move stiffly, every joint screaming.

The scanner hums to life. Cold light sweeps over my body, pausing at my abdomen longer than the rest.

I catch the way his brows pinch.

Catch the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.

The scanner beeps once, final.

He glances at Silpha. Hesitates.

“What?” she snaps.

The medic clears his throat. “She’s... not just sick.”

Silpha stiffens. “Explain.”

He taps a few keys, brings up the readout on a grimy screen.

“She’s pregnant.”

Silence detonates in the room.

I feel the words hit me before they make any sense.

Pregnant.

It echoes like gunshots in my skull.

“No,” Silpha says, voice cold and sharp. “That’s impossible.”

The medic shrugs helplessly. “Scan doesn’t lie.”

Silpha wheels on me so fast I flinch.

Her face is twisted into something savage.

“You little whore,” she hisses. “You planned this.”

I stagger back a step, the walls tilting around me.

“No,” I croak, voice rough and broken.

“This is a trick," she spits. "A way to get favor. To stay out of labor duty. You think we’ll coddle you now?”

“No,” I say louder, choking on the word.

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back hard.

"It’s not a trick," I gasp out. "It's real. It’s—" My voice breaks. "It’s Traz’s."

Silpha’s eyes narrow to slits.

For a second, there’s real rage there. Real fear, too.

Because a child tied to Traz? That’s dangerous. That’s political dynamite.

She grabs the front of my filthy uniform, yanking me close.

"You think anyone will believe you?" she snarls into my face. "You think anyone will care?"

I stare back at her, breathing hard, every part of me trembling.

"I don’t care if they believe me," I whisper. "It’s his."

And it’s mine.

And no matter what they do to me now... they can’t take that away.