The stone floor is cold like ice, soaking through Faelyn's torn rags.
She huddles in the corner of the storage room, her tiny body shaking uncontrollably. Fresh whip marks crisscross her pale skin like angry red rivers, some still weeping blood that has dried into dark crusts. Her clothes are barely rags now, hanging off her skeletal frame in strips.
Her stomach has stopped growling after ten days without food - now it just burns like fire inside her. But what terrifies her more than the gnawing hunger is the sound of footsteps. They always come back. They always find new ways to hurt her.
The wooden door crashes open so hard it hits the wall. Faelyn scrambles backward like a frightened animal, pressing herself into the corner until the rough stones scrape her back raw. Her greenish eyes are huge in her gaunt face, filled with pure terror as tall shadows fall over her tiny form.
"Look what we have here," Duga's voice drips with sick pleasure. "Our little half-blood rat, still breathing." The head kitchen servant stalks forward, followed by six other servants, all grinning like wolves who've cornered a wounded deer.
Faelyn's whole body trembles. She can't stop shaking no matter how hard she tries. Her lips are cracked and bleeding from thirst, and when she tries to speak, only a whisper comes out.
Duga's eyes light up with cruel joy when she sees how broken Faelyn looks. She signals to the others, who spread out to block any escape.
"The little thief stole bread worth ten days of food. But that's not why we're here," Duga says, crouching down until her face is inches from Faelyn's. "We heard something interesting from the kitchen maids. Want to know what?"
Faelyn shakes her head frantically, tears already starting to fall.
"They say your human mother has been begging the other slaves for scraps. Crawling on her hands and knees like a dog." Duga's smile turns vicious. "How pathetic. Like mother, like daughter."
"Please," Faelyn's voice breaks into a sob. "Please don't hurt my mother. She's already so sick. I'll do anything, just please—"
"Anything?" Duga's laugh sounds like breaking glass. "You have nothing to offer, mongrel. You're not even worth the air you breathe."
One of the male servants steps forward, rolling up his sleeves. "Should we start with her face today? Make sure everyone can see what happens to thieves?"
"No," Duga stands up slowly, savoring the moment. "I have a better idea. Hold her down."
"No! NO!" Faelyn screams as rough hands grab her arms and legs. She fights with what little strength she has left, but she's so weak from hunger that her struggles are pathetic.
They force her flat on her stomach. Duga picks up a wooden rod from the corner, testing its weight.
"Ten stolen loaves means fifty lashes. But since you begged so prettily…" Duga's voice turns sickeningly sweet. "Let's make it a hundred."
The first strike lands across Faelyn's back with a wet crack. She screams so loud her voice breaks. The second hit crosses the first, tearing open old wounds. By the tenth strike, she's sobbing so hard she can barely breathe.
"Count them, mongrel!" Duga snarls. "If you lose count, we start over!"
"T-ten," Faelyn gasps through her tears.
The beating continues. Each strike sends fire through her body. Blood soaks through her torn rags and pools on the stone floor. Her voice gets weaker with each number she's forced to call out.
"Thirty-seven… thirty-eight…" Her voice is barely a whisper now.
"What was that? I can't hear you," Duga taunts. "Are you losing count? Should we start over?"
"No, please! Thirty-eight! It was thirty-eight!" Faelyn sobs desperately.
When they finally stop, Faelyn lies motionless in a pool of her own blood. Her back is a mess of torn flesh and welts. She can't stop shaking, can't stop the tears from falling.
"There," Duga drops the bloody rod. "Maybe now you'll remember your place. You're nothing but a half-blood mistake that should have died at birth."
The servants spit on her broken form before leaving. "Clean up this blood before it stains the stones, half-blood. And if we hear you stole even a crumb again, your mother gets the same treatment."
When silence finally returns, Faelyn can't move. Every breath sends agony through her torn back. She lies there sobbing like a broken child, her tears mixing with the blood on the floor.
Why won't they just let her die? Why must she keep suffering when everyone wishes she was gone?
She tries to sit up but collapses immediately, too weak and hurt to move. Her body has been broken so many times, but somehow it still feels every new pain. She's nothing but a walking wound, a breathing mistake that everyone hates.
Since the moment she drew breath in this cursed castle, she has known only pain and rejection. Even the mice in the walls live better than her. She sleeps on cold stones, eats moldy scraps if she's lucky, and drinks rainwater that leaks through the ceiling.
Her mother Rhoxa was once the most beautiful human slave in the castle. Her skin was like pearl, her eyes bright as starlight. When the Fae King saw her, he couldn't resist taking her to his bed. But when their child was born, she emerged as this—a weak, pathetic creature with barely enough fae blood to keep breathing.
The King took one look at his daughter's human features and turned away in disgust. "Get this thing out of my sight," were the only words he ever spoke about her.
After giving birth, Rhoxa fell to a wasting disease that left her hollow-eyed and frail. The King's passion died with her beauty. Now mother and daughter live like ghosts, forgotten by everyone except when they need someone to hurt.
Faelyn's half-brothers—Prince Mordered and Prince Orden—see her as the ultimate insult to their family honor. A mongrel born from their father's moment of weakness with a human slave. Sometimes they make her crawl on all fours like a dog just for their amusement.
Ceremonial drums suddenly boom across the courtyard. Even through her pain, Faelyn recognizes that sound—the princes are returning home.
"Faelyn!" Daela's voice breaks through her agony. Her friend rushes in, gasping when she sees the blood covering the floor. Behind her, Princess Amiral enters like a graceful spirit.
Faelyn tries to lift her head to bow properly, but she can barely move. Her voice comes out as a broken whisper. "Your… Your Highness…"
"Oh, ancestors preserve us," Amiral breathes, seeing Faelyn's condition. "What have they done to you?"
Daela kneels beside her friend, tears streaming down her face. "Faelyn, can you hear me? Stay awake, please."
Daela is her only friend in this world of thorns—another half-blood, another rejected soul. But even Daela has never been beaten this badly. The servants know Faelyn is the lowest of the low, so they save their worst cruelty for her.
"I tried to come sooner," Daela sobs. "I'm so sorry. I'm always too late to help you."
Amiral kneels gracefully, her fine silk robes touching the bloody stones without care. Of all her royal siblings, only Amiral has ever shown her kindness. But even the princess can't always stop what happens when her brothers get involved.
"Listen to me carefully," Amiral speaks with urgent gentleness. "My brothers return today drunk on victory. When they see you like this…" She doesn't finish, but Faelyn understands. They'll want to add their own marks to her broken body.
"The drums announce their homecoming," Daela whispers, wiping blood from Faelyn's face with her sleeve. "They conquered the Shadowscale Dragon Clan and captured their Dragon King in starlight chains."
Faelyn's already pale face turns ghostly white. When her brothers are in high spirits from conquest, they become even more creative with their torture. Last time, they made her eat dirt until she vomited, then forced her to clean it up with her tongue.
"You have to leave soon, once everything settles down," Amiral says firmly. "I've saved every coin I could for you. It's not much, but enough to start somewhere far from here. I'll give it to you later"
Faelyn stares through her tears, unable to believe what she's hearing. "Why… why would you save someone worthless like me?"
"Because you don't deserve this hell," Amiral's voice carries genuine pain. "You and your mother have suffered enough for the crime of existing. We share blood—that makes you my true sister, no matter what others say."Amiral's gaze turns even more sympathetic as she adds.
"How you're born is decided by heaven, not by choice. You and your mother deserve pity, not hate. We share the same father's blood—that makes us real sisters. I'll help your mother escape too. Just promise me: once you leave these walls, never come back. Let this cursed place become just a bad memory."
"How can we get past the guards and magic barriers?"Faelyn still has this one worry.
"Under the old plum trees runs a forgotten tunnel, built long ago when dragons still flew in our skies. I'll make sure the path is open when the moon is highest."
Hope blooms in Faelyn's chest like the first flower of spring. For nineteen years she has known only darkness—now a small light flickers in the endless night. Grateful tears fall down her face as she bows before her sister.
"I will never forget your kindness."
"Stop that! Get up, silly girl."
A new life waits beyond the mountains.
Maybe the ancestors haven't forgotten her after all.
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