His voice cuts across the space between Azhrael's enclosure and where I'm working. I glance up to see him standing in the entrance to Vexris's containment area, holding up a cleaning implement like it personally offended him.
"I cleaned them yesterday," I say evenly.
"Then you did it poorly." He tosses the tool out onto the walkway with enough force that it clatters loudly against the stone. "Again."
My jaw tightens, but I don't argue. Just move to retrieve the tool, already mentally cataloging how many times I scrubbed the damn thing yesterday to get it spotless.
Before I can reach it, another tool comes flying out of the enclosure. Then another.
"All of these," Malrec says from inside, his tone clipped and harsh. "Unacceptable. Do your job properly or I'll find someone who can."
Heat flares in my chest—sharp, immediate anger that I have to physically suppress. I crouch to gather the scattered tools, keeping my movements controlled even though what I really want to do is throw them back at his head.
He's done this before. Found something to criticize that isn't actually a problem, just so he can exert control. Remind me that he's in charge, that I'm disposable, that my presence here is contingent on his approval.
I hate him for it. Hate the way he wields authority like a weapon. Hate the casual cruelty in his tone, the complete absence of recognition that I'm a person rather than just another tool to be managed.
The other tools land on the walkway with successive clatters as Malrec apparently decides the entire maintenance kit is now beneath his standards.
Vexris roars from her enclosure, the sound reverberating through the stone, and Malrec barks something in demonic at her that makes the beast retreat slightly.
Everything is agitated. Everything is tense. And I'm trapped in the middle of it, cleaning up the literal mess while trying not to let my anger show on my face.
"The feeding station in Khorvas's enclosure hasn't been properly secured." Malrec emerges from Vexris's space, his ember-gold eyes scanning the walkway until they land on me. "Fix it. Now."
"I secured it this morning."
"Then you did it incorrectly." He moves past me toward the next enclosure, his shoulder nearly brushing mine in a way that feels deliberate. "Everything you do is half-finished. I don't have time to constantly correct your incompetence."
My hands tighten around the tools I'm holding. The metal digs into my palms.
He keeps walking, already moving on to find the next problem, the next thing to criticize. His posture is rigid, controlled in that way that suggests he's barely holding something back.
Good. Let him be miserable. Let him stew in whatever is making him this insufferable today.
I return to my work, jaw clenched, focusing on the repetitive motions to keep from saying something that will get me thrown out of the stables entirely. Or worse.
The morning drags on in the same vein. Every task I complete is scrutinized and found wanting. Every movement I make seems to irritate him further. He snaps at me for being too slow, then for moving too quickly near a containment barrier. Criticizes my tool placement, then the way I'm standing, then the fact that I'm breathing too loudly near Sythrak's enclosure.
It's relentless.
By midday, my nerves are frayed to the point where I can feel them humming beneath my skin like the containment wards. I'm not the only one affected—the beasts are increasingly unsettled, responding to the tension in the air with agitation of their own. Vexris keeps ramming her barrier. Khorvas won't eat. Sythrak paces his enclosure with a restlessness that sets off warning instincts I can't quite name.
And Malrec just keeps pushing.
I'm crouched near the supply station, organizing the tools he threw earlier, when I hear him bark something from insideAzhrael's enclosure. The beast responds with a low, resonant growl that vibrates through the floor.
"Unacceptable," Malrec snaps. There's a sharp crack of magic, and Azhrael roars.
My hands still on the tools. That sound—the beast's response—doesn't sound like submission. It sounds like fury.
"If you're going to behave like a feral creature, I'll treat you like one."
Malrec's voice is hard, colder than I've heard it, and something in my chest twists uncomfortably. He shouldn't be pushing Azhrael like this. Not when the beast is already agitated, not when everything in the stable is on edge.
Another crack of magic. Another roar.
I straighten without thinking, my body moving before my mind catches up. "He's not going to respond to that."
