3. Emilia

3

EMILIA

K eeping my head low and my hands busy, I sweep the great hall of the mansion, making sure I clean every spot. Aleryn has thrown fits in the past when our cleaning is not to his liking.

Near the windows, Jiana and Myra tidy up the furniture and wipe down the windows. They speak in hushed whispers for the most part, but now that I sweep closer to them, I hear more of their conversation.

Aleryn has an upcoming zyrphix match against an orc team, the Bloodcrushers. The rumors and speculation surrounding the match has sent us alight with excitement, though we keep this hidden from our dark elf master.

I don't know much about the orcs, but I do know that they have a tendency to fire up the dark elves with their brutality and strength.

I kind of hope to see an orc tackle Aleryn to the ground one of these days , I think to myself. It would make for some good amusement.

"Did you hear Master Aleryn's betting one of us in the big match next week?" Jiana whispers, her voice trembling slightly as she clutches a dusty rag closer to her chest.

"What? No, that can't be," Myra replies, her work pausing as she turns to face Jiana, her expression a mix of disbelief and fear. The light from the window catches in her wide eyes, making them glisten with the beginnings of tears. She looks genuinely shaken by Jiana's words.

I slow my sweeping, the bristles of the broom barely brushing the floor now. My heart starts to race, a cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. The idea of being gambled away like a coin is terrifying, yet somehow, it doesn't completely surprise me given Aleryn's ruthless streak.

Jiana nods solemnly, biting her lip. "I overheard him talking to one of his teammates. He seemed pretty confident about it, laughing as though our fates are just pieces in his game."

Myra leans against the window sill, her shoulders slumping. "This is bad, really bad. What if he loses? What will happen to the one he bets?" Her voice cracks, revealing the fear that seems to grip her.

"We can't let it break us," Jiana says, her voice stronger now, determined. She resumes her cleaning, moving vigorously as if the activity could ward off the looming threat. "We need to stick together, no matter what. Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe the orcs will be kinder than Aleryn."

I snort quietly at the thought. Kindness is a rare commodity in Tlouz, especially among the likes of orcs and dark elves known for their brutality in the zyrphix fields. Yet, a part of me, perhaps foolishly, holds onto a sliver of hope that Jiana might be right.

Turning back to my sweeping, I force myself to focus on the task at hand, though my thoughts are tumultuous, swirling with dread and uncertainty. The idea of being owned by an orc, potentially even more cruel than Aleryn, sends fear spiraling through me. But deep down, there's a rebellious spark within me that wishes to see Aleryn defeated, to witness him brought low, not just in the game but in his pride as well.

Myra is still stiff. "But the orcs are nasty creatures! And how do we know who will be offered up as a prize? It could be any one of us!"

"I don't know, but that's all I've heard," Jiana whispers, her voice a sharp hiss that cuts through the otherwise silent hall. "Makes the prize for winning more valuable, don't it? Gives his team extra motivation to crush those orcs."

Myra shudders visibly, her hands wringing the cloth so tightly that her knuckles turn white. "But we're not prizes. We're people," she murmurs, more to herself than to us, a desperate attempt to affirm her dwindling sense of self.

I freeze, the broom handle growing slick in my grip. The reality of our situation settles heavy on my shoulders—like the thick, oppressive drapes that hang from the high windows, blocking out the soft light of the afternoon. I've known the upcoming zyrphix match against the orc team is important, but Aleryn has failed to mention upping the prize pool with one of his slaves. The deceit stings, a silent betrayal that coils tight around my heart.

"Why would he do that without telling us?" I finally manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper, afraid that any louder might make it all too real.

Jiana glances over at me, her dark eyes solemn. "Maybe he thought we'd run or rebel. Or maybe he's just that confident he'll win."

The possibility sends a ripple of unease through me. Aleryn's confidence is legendary, but so is his cruelty. The thought of being handed over to another master, especially an orc with unknown intentions, is terrifying. Yet, there's nothing we can do but wait and see.

My gut twists with unease, a gnawing sensation that makes my hands tremble slightly as I clutch the broom. I feel a deep sorrow for whoever might end up as part of Aleryn's bet. Throughout Tlouz, orcs are spoken of in hushed, fearful tones—creatures of immense brutality and scant mercy. My mind is clouded with preconceived judgments about them, images painted by stories of their ferocity in battle and their ruthless leadership in the zyrphix leagues.

As I sweep, the soft swish of the broom on the stone floor does little to soothe my racing thoughts. The idea of falling into the hands of an orc, becoming a mere token in a game of blood and power, makes me nauseous. The stories I've heard—of humans treated little better than playthings or trophies—haunt me, each tale more harrowing than the last.

I glance over at Jiana and Myra, noticing how the shadow of fear has subtly altered their features, drawing lines of worry and whispers of doubt. We share a bond, not of blood but of circumstance, woven through shared fears and silent understandings. The thought of one of us being ripped away to serve an orc master is unbearable.

"Why are they like that?" I murmur, more to myself than to my fellow slaves. "Why do the orcs have to be so... so harsh?"

Suddenly, my mind is filled with images of them. Green skin, tusks protruding from their mouths, and a volatile nature that can upset even the most stoic of dark elves.

Jiana pauses, leaning on her mop with a sigh. "Maybe it's just the way they're raised, or maybe it's the life they're forced to lead. Being tough might be the only way they know how to survive."

Her attempt at explanation does little to comfort me. It's hard to imagine that brutality could be merely a survival tactic when it seems so deeply ingrained in their culture, so celebrated in their games.

Myra shakes her head sympathetically at Jiana and me, her eyes softening with resolve and fear. "We best be on our best behavior then," she murmurs, her voice a low blend of resignation and caution. "Don't want to risk angering Master Aleryn before the match and end up his bet."

I nod silently, feeling a heavy lump form in my throat. The broom in my hands feels heavier now, each stroke across the cold, hard floor echoing the weight of our predicament. I return to sweeping, pushing the broom back and forth mechanically, my movements automatic but my mind far from the task.

The great hall, with its high ceilings and grand windows, suddenly feels like a prison, the ornate decorations mocking us with their silent opulence. The light streaming in casts long, dark shadows that seem to stretch out like fingers, grasping at us, reminding us of our entrapment.

As I sweep, my thoughts whirl chaotically. The notion of being used as a wager in a game is dehumanizing, reducing us to mere objects of exchange. I understand the necessity of survival in Aleryn's world, but the coldness of it cuts deeply. I wonder about the others, about who among us might be chosen, and whether there might be any way to protect them—or if such thoughts are as futile as trying to sweep away the shadows themselves.

The whispers between Jiana and Myra grow quieter, laden with unspoken fears and shared anxieties. We work closer together than usual, our usual spaces of isolation breached by the need for quiet companionship, for the comfort that comes from shared dread. It's a small defiance, but in our world, even small acts carry weight.

"My mother used to tell me stories," I whisper back, not stopping my sweeping. "She said that not all orcs are cruel. That some are like us, just trying to get by in a world that's too harsh, too ready to judge."

Jiana looks at me, her expression a mixture of hope and skepticism. "Maybe," she says softly. "But stories won't change our fate."

"No," Myra interjects. "But maybe knowing there could be kindness out there might help us cope. We need to hold onto whatever hope we can find, even if it's just in stories."

Their words stir something in me—a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. Maybe hope is a dangerous thing in our position, but it's also a form of resistance, a way to keep the darkness at bay.