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The final crunching of hay fills the room as his footsteps become more distant, until a creaking metal sound rings out, a hint of ambient light decorating the room for a moment.
Then the door shuts, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.
“Stupid,” I whisper, wishing to claw my own eyes out at this point.
Maybe if I’d just listened to him and made nice, I wouldn’t be in this situation. I know firsthand how few women survive servitude.
I’ve killed myself. Inevitably, I’m going to find out that whoever purchases me is far worse than even Zathex. And that’s going to mean either saying the right things and going along with everything he asks me to do, or ending up dead.
I want to fall to the hard stone floor and sob, because it’s the only option I’m left with. But I’m not even able to lie down in this position.
I wanted to earn my wings and become a xaphan. I dreamed of finding a higher station and earning a better living for me and my father.
But I’ve always been in shackles, I think. I was just blind to them.
6
KAZRITH
“That can’t be everything, can it?”
I rummage in my pockets, looking for the scribbled piece of parchment and then studying my carriage.
The burning bright sun hangs high overhead, searing its unforgiving glare into my eyes. Home was not so bright, albeit the red skies. Getting used to this is going to be impossible.
A faint breeze shakes the trees overhead.
I swear I’m forgetting something.
Patting Zinni on the back to calm his abrasive and aggravating whinnying, I climb into the carriage and study my belongings, staring down at the parchment. My sweaty hands have rubbed off on it, leaving the ink barely legible.
Before me is a scattered, almost indiscernible scene. I have had time to catalog my acquisitions but haven’t had time to organize them.
“I’ve got the pretentious rocking chair,” I say aloud, noting the small piece of furniture clearly fit for some spoiled demon brat. Its wood gnarls over itself, forming symbols and sigils.
I try not to think about how old it looks or ponder what could have happened to the child who owned it. What’s important to me is that I acquired it cheaply and that I can sell it for a profit.
I run down the list, trying to discern what I’m missing.
“I’ve got the bag of small blacksmithing daggers,” I say aloud, noting how primitive and crude they look as I pull them out of the coated rucksack. They must have been somebody’s first projects, but sentimental fools often find value in them.
I move aside products, looking over handmade creations, valuable antiquities, and raw materials alike. The carriage is packed so tightly, I have to avoid tripping over the goods.
Then I hear footsteps outside, trodding against the rock and gravel road. I think about who could possibly be wandering in these desolate parts before reaching one conclusion.
“Hey, Vrask,” I shout outside, not even bothering to check. “Any way you’ve seen a massive bag of nimond beans?”
After a moment, the footsteps stop, and Vrask peers into the cabin.
“Well, hello to you, too, asshole,” Vrask says. “I thought I’d see you off. And here you’re accusing me of stealing your shit?”
I sigh in frustration, stretching to stop myself from escalating. I know I’m not going to see him again soon, so I can’t exactly start one of our signature fights.
“You know that I’m not going to be gone that long, right?” I ask. “We’ll run into each other again.”
He scoffs. “Well, maybe I won’t even bother then. Safe travels, I suppose.”
I shake my head in confusion.
