The slave is nothing special. He is not the only Turned among the king’s collection. He is not even a particular favorite. Time and boredom had driven the king to accumulate a well-curated menagerie of entertainment, men and women of every build, appearance, origin.
The slave does try—truly try—to hold onto his humanity.
But it slips away from him, day by day, anyway. Soon he cannot remember how long it has been since he was Turned. When he thinks of his life from before, it feels as if he is thinking about an old friend—distant, fond memories.
He watches the sunrise every day until the rays of light bite into his skin.
Days became weeks became years became decades.
Later, he will try and fail to describe in words the extent of his degradation during that time. To those who surrounded him, he was a collection of skin and muscle, an object, a pet, not a person. When this is what you are told for years, it becomes easy to believe it. It becomes easier to survive if you believe it.
Only one person treats him differently.
The king’s wife is a quiet woman with big, dark eyes. She rarely speaks, and she rarely leaves her husband’s side. In the beginning, the slave assumes she is just the same as all the others. But later, he begins to see her as a fellow victim of her husband’s cruelty—silent camaraderie in his blows, his ownership, his commands.
It stays that way for a long time.
Then, one day, he finds himself alone with her. He had been beaten badly that day, punishment for some imagined disobedience. When the others leave the room, he remains behind, bandaging his wounds with the rote routine of something he has done a thousand times before and will do a thousand more.
She remains, too.
She does not say a word. She just takes the bandages from him and winds them around the injuries he cannot reach.
He pulls away at first, but she is gently persistent. Eventually, he relents. When she is done, she rises and leaves without a word.
He has forgotten what it feels like. A kind touch. It hurts more than one might think. He can feel her hands on him for the rest of the night. It terrifies him, because he knows now he cannot forget it.
It starts like that.
They inch closer, over months, years, comforting each other in the wake of the king’s cruelty. It takes months before they speak to each other. But the words matter less than the kindness. The line was crossed that first night, that first gentle touch.
Everything after that feels inevitable.
In a dark world, eyes naturally find the light. She becomes the brightest thing in his.
By the time their silent meetings become meandering conversations, they had already long since jumped from the cliff.
By the first time he kisses her, mouth still stained with blood by her husband’s hand, they are already rushing towards the ground.
By the time they make love, they are so desperate for companionship, they don’t even care about the inevitable crash.
29
ORAYA
Time went on in mundane placidity.
It seemed silly that this house should feel so empty without Raihn. Mische talked constantly, and was extra talkative now that I was her only companion—at least, the only one that actually engaged with her, Ketura’s guards forever stoic. Still, I couldn’t shake this feeling of a missing puzzle piece, a silence between breaths that I wished would be filled.
We fell into an easy routine—healing, training, resting, repeat.
Mische was a good teacher, though training with her reminded me too much of the time we had spent working on our magic together during the Kejari. Then, Mische had only been one half of my instruction. The other had come from Vincent, whose teaching style had been the opposite of hers in every way—rigid commands and control to counter every instance of Mische harping on about opening one’s heart and soul. To return to one without the other highlighted the shape of his absence… a wound that, unlike the ones on my wings, felt like it would never heal.
In our rest time, we examined the pendant. Mische was not only a talented magic user, but well-read in sorcery and magical history. Still, even between the two of us, we couldn’t make much sense of what the thing was or what it did. I was the only one who could touch it, though it wasn’t especially pleasant—making Vincent’s presence feel far too close, even more than his sword did. The best Mische could figure was that it was just a piece of something larger—perhaps a key, or a compass, or a device intended to enhance the power of something else. Not a power in itself, she theorized, but something designed to unleash another. But even these thoughts were just guesses, frustratingly rooted as much in luck as in fact.