Page 2 of Burned Alive to Be His
Lady Halayah sighs, a sound of pure, theatrical boredom. “Take her back to the kitchens, Kantor. And do be creative. I am so tired of the usual screams.”
Kantor materializes at my side, his hand gripping my arm in a vise. He yanks me from the room, my feet stumbling to keep up. The laughter resumes behind us, louder this time, fueled by my disgrace.
He doesn’t take me to the kitchens. He drags me down the narrow stone steps to the sub-cellar, a place of damp stone and absolute darkness, where the only sounds are the drip of water and the scuttling of rodans. He shoves me inside and bars the door.
“The master will deal with you after his guests have departed,” he growls through the thick wood. “He has a new whip he is eager to try.”
The darkness swallows me. I slide down the rough wall to the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably. A new whip. I have felt the old ones. They peel skin like fruit. I curl into a ball, the cold of the stone seeping into my bones. This is it. This is the end. I have survived nineteen years in this hell, and my life will end over a single drop of wine.
And in that absolute, crushing darkness, something inside me breaks. Not my spirit. That was broken long ago. No, this is something else. The hard, calloused shell I have built around my soul cracks open. And from that crack, a tiny, hot spark of rage ignites.
I will not die here.
I will not die in this house, for their amusement.
My breath hitches. The thought is so foreign, so dangerous, it feels like a punch to the gut. But once it is there, it will not be extinguished. It grows, feeding on years of pain and humiliation, until it is a roaring fire in my chest.
I push myself up, hands fumbling along the damp walls. I know this estate. I have cleaned every corner of it. I know its secrets. The wine cellar has a small, barred grate that opens into the waste run-off channel. It is meant for ventilation, not escape. But I am small. And I am desperate.
My fingers find the rough iron of the grate. It is set deep in the stone. I pull, my muscles screaming in protest. It doesn’t budge. I pull again, a sob of frustration tearing from my throat. My nails splinter against the stone.
Then I remember. The blade.
In the haste of being cleaned for serving, they took my kitchen tool, but they missed the one I keep for myself. A small, sharp shard of metal I found in the refuse pile, honed on the kitchen stones until it had a razor’s edge. It is tucked into the hem of my tunic, a secret I have kept for years.
My trembling fingers find it. I work the tip of the shard into the crumbling mortar around the grate. I scrape and dig, the sound loud in the suffocating silence. I work until my fingers are raw and bleeding, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Mortar crumbles, falling like sand onto the floor.
Hours pass. I hear the faint sounds of the party ending, the scrape of chairs, the distant laughter. Lord Tarsus will be coming soon. The thought sends a fresh wave of terror and adrenaline through me. I work faster, my movements frantic.
With a groan of protesting metal, the grate shifts. I pull with all my might, and it comes free, scraping my arms. The opening is impossibly small. The stench of sewage and refuse wafts up, a smell that promises a freedom more foul than any prison.
I don’t hesitate. I force my shoulders through the opening, the rough stone tearing at my linen tunic and the skin beneath. I wriggle and push, my hips catching for a heart-stopping moment before I am through, tumbling into the shallow, filth-strewn channel below.
I land in a crouch in the ankle-deep sludge, my body screaming in protest. Above, I hear the heavy bar of the cellar door being lifted.
I run.
I scramble through the dark, narrow channel, the foul water splashing at my legs. The tunnel opens into the main sewer line beneath the estate, a river of filth that flows toward the Vhoig docks. I follow it, my only guide the faint, distant sound of the sea.
The city above is a distant rumble. Down here, it is a world of darkness and stench. I move on pure instinct, my mind blessedly blank, focused only on the next step, the next breath.
After what feels like an eternity, I see it. A faint, grey light ahead. A sewer grate that opens onto the docks. I pull myself up, my muscles screaming, and push. The grate is heavy, but it lifts. I peer out.
The docks are a chaotic mess of noise and movement, even in the dead of night. Ships are being loaded and unloaded under the magical glow of enchanted lanterns. Dark elf overseers shout commands, their voices cracking like whips. Human and Zagfer laborers haul crates and barrels, their faces grim and weary.
I know I cannot be seen. A lone, filthy human slave will be caught in an instant. I watch, my eyes scanning the chaos, learning the rhythms. I see the guards patrolling in pairs, their paths predictable. I see the moments of distraction, when a new ship arrives or a fight breaks out among the laborers.
My target is a large, ugly trade ship, its hull scarred and patched. It’s a merchant vessel, not a military ship, less likely to be thoroughly searched. Its cargo is barrels of cheap ale and crates of dried fish, destined for some far-off port. Anywhere but here.
I wait for my moment. A brawl breaks out near the gangplank, drawing the attention of the nearest guards. It’s now or never.
I slip out of the sewer, a shadow detaching from the darkness. I move low and fast, my bare feet silent on the grimy cobblestones. I dart between stacks of crates, the stench of fish and tar filling my lungs. I am almost there. The gangplank is just ahead.
“Halt!”
The voice is a whip crack behind me. I freeze, my blood turning to ice. A guard. He must have seen me. My heart seizes in my chest. This is it. I failed.
I force myself to stay still, pressed into the shadows between two towering stacks of barrels. I hold my breath, my knuckles white where I grip my small blade. I can hear his heavy footsteps approaching, the clink of his armor. He is searching. He is close. So close I can smell the leather of his uniform.
