Page 1 of Burned Alive to Be His
1
JUDITH
The heat in the kitchens is a living thing. It has a weight that settles on my shoulders, a damp breath that clings to my skin, and a stench—old grease, soured wine, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the murky water in the washing basin. My reflection is a distorted ghost, all sharp angles and wide, dark eyes. Survival in the estate of Lord Tarsus is a simple art: become a ghost. Ghosts are not seen, not heard, and most importantly, not chosen.
Today, the heat has teeth. The mistress is hosting a luncheon for the city’s elite, and the head cook, a thick-necked dark elf named Kantor with hands like slabs of meat, is in a state of simmering rage. His temper radiates from him like the waves from the massive, ever-burning hearth. Every slave in the kitchen moves with a practiced, twitchy silence, trying to orbit his fury without being pulled into its devastating center.
I scrub at a pot, the coarse bristles scraping against the blackened bottom. My arms ache with a deep, familiar burn, a fire that has lived in my muscles for as long as I can remember. I am nineteen years old, or so I believe. There are no celebrationsto mark the years, only the slow accumulation of scars on my back and the hardening of my heart.
“You, girl.” Kantor’s voice is a low growl that cuts through the clatter of pots and the sizzle of meat.
My head snaps up. A mistake. Never meet their eyes unless commanded. I drop my gaze back to the pot, my heart a frantic bird beating against the cage of my ribs. His shadow falls over me, blocking the dim, greasy light from the high windows. I can smell the sour sweat on him, the wine on his breath.
“Thefialonberries for the glaze. Where are they?”
I don’t hesitate. Hesitation is a sin punished with the back of a hand. “In the cold cellar, master. On the third shelf, as always.”
“Then why are they nothere?” he hisses, his voice dangerously soft.
I risk a glance up. His violet eyes, so common among his kind, are narrowed to slits. His dark grey skin is flushed with heat and rage. He is a mountain of muscle and cruelty, and I am a weed at his feet.
“I will fetch them, master.” I move to rise, my wet hands slipping on the stone basin.
His hand clamps down on my shoulder, his grip like iron. The strength of his kind is a casual, terrifying thing. He could snap my bones without a second thought. “You will stay where you are. You have a smudge on your cheek.”
I freeze. A smudge. Such a small thing. But in this world, the smallest imperfections are chasms into which you can be thrown. He leans in closer, his thumb coming up to my face. I flinch, a reflexive jerk of muscle and memory. His thumb, rough as stone, scrapes against my cheekbone, hard. It’s not a caress. It’s a scouring. An assertion of ownership.
“Still,” he murmurs, his eyes holding mine. And then he smiles, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. “You will serve the wine today.”
A cold dread, far more chilling than the cellar’s damp, seeps into my bones. Serving. Not in the kitchens, butupstairs. In the grand dining hall, under the gaze of the mistress and her guests. It is not an honor. It is a punishment. It is a stage. For a slave, the stage is the most dangerous place of all. There are a hundred ways to fail, a thousand ways to displease. A spilled drop of wine, a moment of hesitation, a glance held too long.
“Yes, master,” I whisper, my throat tight.
He releases me with a shove. “Get cleaned up. And if you spill so much as a single drop, I will peel the skin from your back myself. Slowly.”
He turns and bellows at another slave, his attention gone as quickly as it came. But the threat lingers, coiling in the hot air. I finish the pot, my hands trembling. The other slaves refuse to meet my eyes. They know what this is. I have been chosen.
An hour later, I am scrubbed raw and dressed in the plain, scratchy linen of a house slave. The fabric chafes the scars on my back. I stand behind a tapestry in a side alcove of the dining hall, a heavy silver pitcher of rirzed wine in my hands. The pitcher is cold, sweating condensation onto my palms. Through the gap in the tapestry, I watch them.
The dark elf nobles of Vhoig. They are beautiful and terrible, draped in silks and jewels that glitter in the magical light drifting from the enchanted chandeliers. Their laughter is sharp and musical, their movements elegant and predatory. They speak of politics, of trade, of the gladiatorial games in the city’s arena. They speak of humans as they would speak of livestock—discussing the price of a strong male for the mines, or the beauty of a new female acquisition for a pleasure house.
My mistress, Lady Halayah, sits at the head of the table. She is a vision of cruel perfection, her platinum hair intricately braided with black pearls, her violet eyes scanning her guests with an air of bored amusement. Her husband, Lord Tarsus,sits to her right. He is a warrior of the Miou caste, his powerful frame barely contained by his fine clothes. His obsession is not with politics, but with history. I know this because I am the one who dusts the artifacts in his study, the fragments of lore he collects from across the continents. I have seen the symbols on his scrolls, heard him drunkenly rant about forgotten goddesses and mythical islands of fire.
It is he who notices me first. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, flick to the tapestry. He gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It is time.
My heart thrums against my ribs. I take a steadying breath and step out from behind the tapestry. I keep my eyes on the floor, my movements small and precise. I move to the first guest, a portly noble with rings on every finger. I pour the blue wine into his goblet, my hand steady despite the tremor in my soul. I move to the next, and the next. Each pour is a prayer.Don’t spill. Don’t falter. Don’t exist.
I am almost finished. I am at the end of the table, pouring for a young, sneering noble who is trying to impress Lady Halayah. As I tilt the pitcher, he shifts in his chair, his arm knocking against mine.
It happens in an instant. A single, perfect drop of blue wine leaps from the spout and lands on the pristine white sleeve of his silk tunic.
The world stops.
The laughter dies. Every eye in the room turns to me. The young noble stares at the blue stain as if a serpent has just bitten him.
“You clumsy animal,” he spits, his face contorting in disgust.
I stand frozen, the heavy pitcher still in my hands. There is nothing to say. No apology will suffice. I have failed. I have marred their perfection.
