For all that haven't read the old version of this story (this is revised and titleless), this is centered around three revolving viewpoints: The shy elven slave Mira, the stuck-up noble Ayelle, and the cruel warrior Shareth. So, just start reading and see what you think!

Chapter 1: The Slave

(Mira)

“Mira, you’re looking exceptionally grungy today. Is that a new outfit? It makes your eyes look even more gray than usual.” Marin smirks, teasing me as usual.

I stare down at my regular cotton shift. It looks just as it always did. Ripped, torn, bearing burn marks, a stain, and a weird discolored spot that I think might be a grease stain.

“Marin, stop it. It’s not like I can help being grungy.”

Marin gives me a sarcastic look. “What’s the matter with you, Ice Princess?”

“Saran won’t stop bothering me. I’m worn out.”

“Full of vinegar, that one is,” she says calmly, “Well, do what you have to do. Go in there, now.”

I know where “there” was. It’s an ugly little room, right next to her little “office”. Marin has the biggest living quarter among us 200 hundred or so slaves just because of the position she holds. She even gets her own bathroom, and that was where this grimy little room gets its name. It’s horribly dark, and smells of mildew. But it’s either changing in there or in front of her.

I go into the bathroom, holding my nose, while Marin laughs.

There’s the robe, just waiting for me on the table. I replace my old shift with the new one, and pull it on. My god, Marin is a good washer. She can sew and wash and curd and whatever else like a goddess, and she still denounces her talent.

“Hurry up in there!” She yelled. “I still got about 50 more of you little guys! Are you almost changed?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I know that she’s never serious. She lets you take as much time as you want without much fuss. Most of the leaders wouldn’t be so nice, but luckily for me, Marin is my godmother. She lives to be nice to me. You don’t get to be godmother if you’re a jerk.

I go out into fresh air. “Well, it’s the earthworm out of the dirt! Here, give me that,” she takes my old tunic away roughly, “And get yourself out of here! This is a really tiny room!”

“…Meh.” I grunt, but obey her and leave. I need to get right back to the kitchens. I suppose Saran is going to throw a fit if I’m not back in the next couple of minutes. She’s God in the kitchens, and sadly has a personality about as charming as a rattlesnake. I admit, I don’t hate her as much as the masters. They really like to make sure we know the balance well—master over slave, human over elf. That’s the way it always is, in this “pure and free” land we call Shardash.

I fling open several doors, sending a horrible rattling through the castle. It doesn’t take me 30 seconds to get through to the final one to the massive kitchens. When I am inside, I’m hit with the normal aroma of food and spices. Actually, smelling the food is the worst part of this chore. Knowing that although you made it, some other rich noble pig, in my case, the Lord and Lady of Tigatoo, are going to devour it. No, the most we ever get is cornmeal, but if we’re really lucky or on holiday, sometimes even a beef stew.

I mean, I am probably overreacting. I still have it way better than most other slaves. At least I get fed regularly, and the masters mostly leave us alone. I’m not starved or chained or raped or any of that other crap. I just hate the brainwashing ceremonies once a year where Lord Anson kills an elderly slave right in front of us to make sure we know who’s boss. It’s ridiculous. And there’s nothing any of us slaves can do about it.

I pass through the huge kitchen doors, and on my way to my particular cooking station, I meet Saran herself, obviously beside herself. Her olive skin has turned a nasty shade of purple, and her black eyes match the color of her red hair. Saran is so uptight about keeping her position that she yells at everyone who makes her look bad, which is usually me. I don’t even need to listen to her fits. I know where to nod in all the right places to make it seem like I was listening. Like I said, I have been lectured a bazillion times with the same old drone.

My ears ringing, and slightly dazed, (all in a day’s work) I go to my area. My post has a little stove, and various cooking utensils and ingredients are put there, as well as The Cookbook. Great name, I know. Yet, if Saran is God, The Cookbook is the Bible. She even wrote it. It’s horrible.

My eyes fall on the frying pan. Crap. It’s my turn to fry the eggs. Did I mention I hate frying eggs? I always burn them so that you need a chisel to get them off of the pan, and even then there’s no guarantee, or I’ll totally undercook them and the Mistress will complain of salmonella and Saran will kill my ear. I grumble to myself, and pick up the 3 eggs lying next to the pan. I will get it right. I’ll show up Saran and Mistress and whoever else who thinks I can’t cook.

I can cook great.

I raise the eggs to crack them onto the pan, but then stop. No. There’s no way I can simply fry them. The Mistress won’t take fried eggs. It has to be something exotic…oh no. I don’t do exotic!

Damn it, what am I going to do?

I start to breathe normally. Look in the cookbook. Just look in the cookbook…

I flip through, and find one:

Kaichon Egg Monogada:

Step one: Check your eggs for blood. Do not use any eggs with blood inside them.

Thank you, Captain Obvious! ‘There can’t be blood in a recipe.’ No kidding? And why is this cookbook completely filled with Kaichon dishes?

I hold one egg up to the light on the ceiling, and rotate it slowly. Nothing. I get the same results with the second. But the third…I see a tiny dark spot in the center of the egg on the third rotation. I squint at it. Hm? Well…since none of the other eggs had a spot, I’m guessing that’s it.

Whatever. I’m not exactly going to dump this in the big trashcan over there. If there’s anything Saran hates more than lateness, it’s ‘not working’, and I really hope Saran keeps yelling at that girl over there and not at me. Very discreetly, I slip this egg into the pocket of my tunic…I can always throw it away later. I eye the pocket carefully. Well, you wouldn’t notice the slight bulge unless you were really looking for it, so if I’m careful…

I turn back to the recipe for the two remaining eggs.

Step two: Get some curry and

“Mira??”

I jump a foot in the air, and turn around to stare at Saran. “Yes, ma’am?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ma’am…I…” Damn it! Does she think I’m stealing the egg? Did she see me put the egg in my pocket and think something totally different?

“What? Why aren’t you cooking? Why are you just standing here? All three of those eggs are still there, perfectly untouched, although…” She trails off, and eyes the two eggs.

“The last egg had blood in it…I threw it away…ma’am…”

She glares at me. “A waste of a perfectly good chicken!” She gets all red in the face. “Why the hell would you do something like that?” She begins to shake me. “STUPID GIRL!”

“What is going on here, Saran? What has my daughter done this time?”

Mom is on the scene. I admire her, I really do. Mom’s the only one that can control Saran, being the captain of the kitchens and all. And I love her because she always sticks up for me no matter what.

She gives a haughty sniff. “One of the eggs that I put here for her is gone. She said there was blood in it, but I—”

Mom gasps. “Mira! How dare you throw away chicken eggs that needed to be thrown out! Such insolence!” Her biting sarcasm is painfully obvious. “How shameful! I think you need to be taken off-duty for the whole day. How else will such a rough chit learn?” She stares at me sternly, but she winks discreetly. I try not to grin.

“Fine, go to your room and don’t come back!” Hahaha, Saran looks like a rumpled turkey, and I just got my wish. A whole afternoon by myself.

As I leave, I see her trying to cook the eggs that I was supposed to herself.

Heheheh.

55555555555555555555555

“Honey, wake up.”

I wake up instantly. I throw off the covers vaguely, sit up, and stretch, wincing as the stiff grasses that make for a kind of primitive stuffing poke through my mattress. I massage my butt to get rid of the slight pain. When did I fall asleep?

“Nrgh?”

My mom correctly interprets it as a question. I open my eyes for the first time. Dawn has literally just broken. I can see a faint pinkish glow fading in through the window.

I also see my mother, and I see an expression I had never seen before. It bodes no good news.

“Nrgh…what is it?”

She says nothing, only leans forward and hugs me hard.

Surprised, I hug her back awkwardly. “Um…is there something you have to say?”

She trembles slightly, and leans back to look me in the eyes. She looks ready to cry.

Now I’m really alarmed. It’s one thing to avoid a painful question, but still… “MOM! What’s…” I suddenly remember I’m supposed to be quiet. “What is the matter?”

Her lips twitch. “M-Mira…they burned my contract…”

“Your contract?” Oh, right. The one that gives our master complete ownership. I suddenly start to grin. “He…he destroyed it! THAT’S GREAT! IF YOU HAVE NO CONTRACT…Why aren’t you happy? You’ve just been freed! That’s all of our dreams!”

She actually bursts into tears. Horrified, I put my arm around her to comfort her in what little way I can. “MOM!”

“Mira…I have been freed. Listen to me, and please understand.” She takes my hand. “I’m going to have to leave.”

The reality sinks in. “Mom…no…you haven’t been sold?”

“I was so happy when my contract was burned in front of me. And then they said that I’d be leaving for the Palace of Duke Soshon and…and Duchess Kanisu.”

“But…it’s just a temporary thing, right? I mean, you’re his head cook, he wouldn’t just give you away, right?”

“Yes, he has. The Duchess recently did him a favor. I am his gift. And there’s another reason. Saran suggests that I have…that I have been partial to you all these times, and that you’re a brat and you need discipline. So to punish us both…I’m being sold.”

“He…he can’t…he wouldn’t…”

She brushes my blue hair out of my eyes. “I’ll find some way to reunite us, but for now, there isn’t anything we can do. I’m sorry…”

She buries her violet head in the mattress.

I can’t believe it. They’re taking away my mother because I’m her child. “Mom, no! No…” I flop down on top of her, trying not to cry. I won’t…

I suddenly hear the wooden door click open. Two impressively tall humans march in, part of the palace guard. Both wear traditional suits of armor. One is bald except for his blond bangs and the other is tall and thin. The bald one has a huge bushy brown mustache.

Mom whispers to me, “Mira, don’t fight them. You have to know that a slave, a mere elf like you, can never win. At least not yet. Mira…I don’t intend for you to be a slave forever.”

“Come.” The man says.

“Mira, don’t be a slave forever…”

“SHUT UP!” Goldilocks clenches his fist slowly, and I can feel the slave collar around my neck contract to the point where I can’t breathe. As I fight it, it only grows tighter. I need air…a strangled sound escapes me as I fight it. I feel cool hands upon me, and garbled words, when an odd buzzing develops in my ears. I nearly black out when the collar loosens, allowing my life. I drop to my knees panting hard.

“Up, woman.” A sharp voice says.

Mustache grabs my mother by the collar, but she won’t budge, for dread or fear or courage or weakness. They yank so hard that she gets a huge imprint around her neck on the collar.

I stare in stunned shock as he grabs her hair as well, dragging her out, watch as Mustache opens the door, and he roughly yanks her out. He rudely stands her up and pulls out leg irons from within his iron suit.

“MOM!” I yell, and crawl towards the door, but still incredibly dizzy, I make it only a few yards before Goldilocks kicks my head so hard with a steel toed boot that I can feel my teeth rattle against each other. I slide to the floor.

I can still stop them!

I stretch out my hand but have no choice other than to watch my mother be slapped into chains by the dark haired man. Goldilocks gives me a hard smirk and slams the door hard behind him. No…

I can hear the retreating footsteps down the hallway, slowly fading away. I hear a woman’s voice start to scream horrible things, and shrieks as though trying to fight, before it abruptly stops with a cry of pain, and there’s a thud on the ground and, soon to follow, the sounds of monotonous dragging.

She’s gone.

I sit on my mattress. No one has let me out yet. I hardly notice. Only my hunger and the pain in my head lets me know that I’m not dead.

I hate humans and their stupid superiority complexes. Why are elves the ones that are enslaved? I hate all damn humans.

The thought has circled around my head now for quite some time, but I never felt a more passionate loathing in my life. Sure, I hated them when they first switched me for an hour, but that was me. This is my mother.

I have to get her back from that awful duke and duchess.

I know this, heart and soul. Oh, if it weren’t for that horrible pair of animals…

I hate humans.

No. Think. How can I get her back? How can I get into one of the highest guarded areas there are? How can I rescue someone I can’t even reach? How can a little uneducated slave make a difference in this ridiculous world of hierarchies, which we have foolishly created?

I just don’t know.

She told me she didn’t intend for me to be a slave forever, and now I see what she meant. I’ll help her escape and we’ll live in freedom in a nice house, unbound by humans or laws.

I swear it.

Quote of the day: “I’m not prejudiced. I hate all people evenly.”