Chapter 1

T he familiar clink of chains and the shuffle of bare feet on stone floor fills the air. Ragged breaths and coughs from chests full of infection is a sound familiar to those who live in the slave quarters. Although, calling it "quarters" makes it sound far grander than it is. The dingy, cramped space where we sleep for the few hours that are ours alone can hardly be called grand. Mold and mildew grow on the walls, and a cold draft fills the space no matter the time of the year, although the winter months claim many lives with its cruel, icy embrace.

The room itself is large, it would need to be to house the number of slaves the castle keeps. The ceilings are high, and the stone walls have arched pillars that could be considered beautiful if they had been appropriately cared for. I don't know what the original use for this building had been, but for the three years I've toiled here, it's only housed the slaves. I've been a slave since I was eight, though I was only moved to the castle when I was seventeen. It was a blessing...and a curse.

We're led out of the slave quarters, slowly making the long walk towards the castle proper. No one wants to see the slaves, so we are kept far away, guarded to ensure no one escapes. Not that anyone would dare try, unless they had a death wish. I only know of one who attempted to break free, and they didn't get far. Desperate to escape by any means necessary, they jumped off the castle wall, receiving a kinder death than what the guards would have given them.

Keeping my head down as I shuffle forward, I follow the line of my fellow slaves. Not that I need to follow them, I could walk this route in my sleep. Sleep... now that's something I do miss. My body and head ache from the lack of it and from the hard labour the previous day. You'd have thought I'd be used to it by now, seeing as I've been a slave for twelve years.

Today is the eve of my twentieth birthday, a day that is important within our society. It's a day when young women and men have the chance to be chosen by the Great Mother. Only a lucky few will ever be chosen, but it's something we all dream of, and I would be lying if I said I had never imagined myself in the robes of the magicians. Within our society there are three ways to be chosen—join the priesthood and serve the Great Mother, join the magicians' ranks, or be paired off with your predestined partner. For most, this will encompass attending a grand ball with a few being paired up with someone of their stature. Only a handful of people are chosen to join the priesthood each year, but most hope to be chosen by the magicians, although no one has joined their ranks in years.

A feeling of trepidation and excitement runs through me. The choosing ceremony... What will it be like? All little girls dream of attending theirs, having the chance to dress up in their finery and be paired with their prince charming. It's the law that all people, regardless of status, must attend the ceremony before they turn twenty, and with the next ceremony being held tomorrow, it will finally be my turn. I'm not sure how this will play out, I've never heard of a slave attending before, but everyone is required to be present at the ceremony. I'm sure I won't be blessed in front of all the lords and ladies, since they probably run a separate ceremony for the slaves. Right? Doubt starts to run through me. All my other rights were stripped from me, would they deny me the choosing too? That would be the signing of my death warrant.

A commotion ahead pulls me out of my musings as I come to a stop alongside the others who are gathering together. Keeping my head down, I glance out of the corner of my eye to see what the holdup is, and I'm barely able to suppress the wince that's threatening to appear on my face. A young slave girl is being pulled to the side—it's never good news when the guards single one of us out. As soon as she's been moved out of our path, we continue our trudge towards the castle. As always, guilt builds up in me as we walk past the young girl, who is now crying out for mercy. Her pleas fall on deaf ears as the three large guards start to beat her for her crime—stopping to help a fellow slave who had fallen.

The feeling of rage building up inside me is something I'm used to carrying. Rage at the guards, rage at the situation, and rage at myself for doing nothing to help her. With an inward sigh, I keep marching, but I don't avert my eyes like the other slaves, I keep my gaze on her for as long as possible. My one small rebellion.

I think I've gotten away with it until a shadow falls over me and a rough, dirty hand grabs my chin, dragging me to a stop. Instantly, I look down and try to fall to my knees, the position expected of me, but a hand on my arm stops me, roughly pulling me back up.

"Feeling sorry for your little friend?" He spits at me, his hot, acrid breath on my cheek almost making me gag. I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the ground and shake my head at his question, not daring to speak. It'll only make my punishment, and that of the young girl, even worse. I know this from experience and she won't thank me for it. A sharp pain flares across my cheek as he backhands me, a gasp escaping me at the sudden impact. Despite wanting to, I fight against the instinct to shy away and cradle my face. When he grabs my chin again and forces me to watch as the young girl is beaten, I don't fight him, I just watch, shame lining my gut that I can't do anything to help her. The only thing I can offer her is to bear witness, so she knows she's not alone. Something is screaming inside me, telling me to do something , threatening to overwhelm me as I push it away. I may not be able to fight or protect her, but I will acknowledge what has happened, and if she wants it, I'll be there to offer her help once we return to the slave quarters.

If we return. Many of us leave in the morning and never come back. Most of us die at the hands of our masters, their punishments harsh and cruel, or from simple infections that go untreated. For many who don't get assigned to the castle, who work in fields or mines, their hearts give up from exhaustion. Their young bodies can't cope with the manual labour, the physical work we are forced into taking its toll. The best any of us can hope for is a quick death.

Mercifully, the beating doesn't go on for much longer and the girl is dragged further out of the way and left in a slump on the ground as the cruel, cold wind whips around us. The line of slaves starts moving and the guard drops my chin, giving me a hard push. I obediently step in line once more, but a small, dark part of me seethes and burns at the way they treat us. I push it down and keep moving. After all, what could I do about it?

The rest of the morning runs as usual, and I'm assigned to clean the grand hall. The choosing ceremony will be held here tomorrow, so the castle is alive with maids and servants hurrying about getting everything ready. Other than the royal family, several lords and ladies live within the castle, the rest of them residing in the city below. A handful of priests live here as well, in addition to a few castle magicians. Then there are the paid servants and other castle staff, many of whom dwell in the city and climb up the many steps that are carved into the rock to reach the castle.

As a slave, I'm the lowest of the low and mostly ignored. This often comes in handy, so while scrubbing the floor, I get to listen to the castle gossip. It's inane, but it keeps me sane, imagining myself in the positions of others and the ridiculous situations that the noble lords and ladies of the houses get themselves into.

When I'm sure I'm not being watched, I take small, sneaking glances at the room around me. I've been here before, but I never get over its opulence. It's beautiful with large, arched ceilings and the whole back wall is taken over by three large, stained-glass windows. The scene it depicts is one that all in the kingdom know well—the story of King Titus, who led us to victory against the elves in the battle over the Black Cliffs of Morrowmer, the cliffs we now call home.

The room is currently decked out with vases upon vases of flowers. I'm lucky to have been assigned this room today, as all of this will be gone the day after tomorrow. It's quiet except for the sound of my scrubbing brush, and a brief sense of peace runs through me. It's easy to forget we're at war when I'm in this room.

The sound of footsteps and chattering voices startles me back into action. I jerk my head down and pick up my pace, scrubbing at a spot on the floor with a renewed vigour. I cannot afford to get punished again. I was lucky this morning that the guards didn't check my marks, as I would have been bound to get a harsher punishment.

When slaves become the property of the royals, they're branded with an identification number. If we step out of line, we are branded with an X. Four Xs and you lose your usefulness, and then you're sent to the camps where you are worked to death digging graves for those who die fighting in the war. My life here may be tough, but it's nothing compared to the misery of the camps—working for twenty hours a day, shovelling mud and hauling around the dead until you collapse. Slaves don't last long there.

I have three of these marks branding my arm, meaning I'm one away from this fate. Although my misdemeanour this morning wasn't enough to earn another brand, my punishments tend to be harsher, longer, as I'm considered a troublemaker.

"Did you hear that Prince Jacob will be attending the ceremony tomorrow?" The excited voice of the servant jolts me out of my reflections, my interest piqued. I always listen for information on the royals, it's best to know as much as I can about my captors. Prince Jacob is the youngest of the three royal sons. From what I've heard, he's quieter than the others, spending more time in his library than mingling with the court ladies like his older brother Michael. I thought he was around my age, and I must have been right if he'll be attending the ceremony. I wasn't aware the royals attended the choosing ceremony. Although it's a part of our religion, I had assumed the royals would be above it all, seeing how they're blessed by the Great Mother.

The maids continue to chatter as they arrange more flowers—beautiful lilies, dahlias, and other, more exotic flowers I've never seen before—into the large, amphora style vases. The colours are bright and the scents so vibrant that even the dreariest of souls would struggle not to find a little bit of peace in this room.

"Do you think he'll be paired up?" the second servant asks, hanging a garland of bright red and white flowers.

"Oh, I doubt it," the first servant replies with a scornful look on her face. "The royals don't have to follow the same rules as the rest of us mere mortals. They pretend they do, but we all know the truth. He'll probably only be there to play along with the little farce they have going on," she continues on blithely, oblivious to the shocked look on her companion's face.

"Mary!" The outraged tone of the servant has me glancing out of the corner of my eye as I continue my task. This part of the floor is surely clean by now, but I'm caught up in the gossip. "You can't say things like that, someone will hear you. It's treason!" Her words are hushed as her eyes dart around the room, aware of the ever-present guard standing outside the hall.

"It's true and you know it! He'll probably only be attending for a chance to be chosen to join the magicians. Not that anyone has been chosen for years." Mary is trying to defend herself, but her voice is quieter, as if she knows she has stepped out of line.

The two maids are quiet for a while, continuing to arrange the flowers in the awkward silence caused by Mary's rash words. Shuffling forward, I feel my heart sink as I see the footsteps the servants have trodden onto my clean floor. My knees ache underneath the thin shift that covers my body, and my hands cramp from gripping the brush for so long, my fingers wrinkled and bleeding from the labour. I struggle as I stand, my whole body screaming in pain and my muscles cramping from being hunched over for hours. But I ignore it, reaching for the bucket of dirty water. Head down, I shuffle to the small room attached to the back of the hall, the clink of the chains around my ankles the only sound, echoing around the arched ceilings. Mercifully, they have running water in this part of the castle, so I don't have to walk to the well in the courtyard like I know many of the slaves in the older parts of the castle have to. Emptying the bucket, I fill it with fresh water and begin my slow walk back to where I had been working. Whispers follow me as I trudge forward, the heavy bucket and hours of labour making me slower than usual.

"Is that the slave they were talking about?" one whispers to the other, causing my heart to stutter. I'm used to being ignored, and attention is never a good thing for a slave.

"I think so, she's older than the others. And that long dark hair and pale skin...she's different from the others. It must be her."

I'm used to sticking out due to my appearance. The people of Arhaven are blessed with tanned, bronze skin and golden hair thanks to the strength of the sun that beats down on the land. My black hair, green eyes, and pale skin would have made me stick out whether I was a slave or not. No matter how long I work under the sun, I never tan. I don't remember my past, so I have no idea where I originally came from, but I've heard whispers from the other slaves about the people from the mountains who share my characteristics.

"I hear she'll be terminated tomorrow."

I nearly stumble at her words, shock coursing through my body. I hurry as fast as I can to my corner and drop to my knees, straining my ears to hear what they have to say. Perhaps they have the wrong slave...

"Why, what has she done?"

"She turns twenty tomorrow. They cull the slaves at that age."

"Why do they cull them?"

"You know that all citizens are required to attend the ceremony in order to be blessed, but slaves aren't allowed. Without a blessing from the Great Mother, your soul is lost. Those with lost souls are killed before they can become a danger to society," Mary explains, but I tune out the rest of the conversation, my blood turning cold in my veins.

I knew I was one of the older slaves, but I didn't realise I was the eldest. It's true that many don't make it past childhood, and I've never seen an elderly slave... Dread lines my stomach and nausea rolls through me. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart.

Keep calm, it's probably just a rumour.

"I've never heard of slaves being killed when they turn twenty!" the quieter servant exclaims to Mary. At this point, though, I'm not really paying attention, since Mary's previous words are ringing in my ears.

"That's because they hardly ever live until that age." I can feel the weight of their stares on my back. "Shame, she's a pretty little thing. I wonder what she did to get sold into slavery," Mary comments, before I hear two sets of footsteps walking away from me.

It's only at this point that I let the scrubbing brush fall from my abused hands and I wrap my arms around my torso.

I'm to be executed tomorrow.