The corridor narrows as we descend, the temperature dropping slightly as we move deeper into the lower levels. Nimae gestures toward a doorway on the left. "That's yours. Mine's across the hall. Meals are served in the common area at dawn and dusk. If you miss them, you're on your own."
I step into the room and take stock. It's small, functional, with a narrow bed pushed against one wall and a storage chest at the foot of it. A single rune-lamp casts weak light across the space, flickering slightly as though the magic feeding it is stretched thin. The walls are bare stone, unadorned, and the air smells faintly of old ash.
"It's not much," Nimae says from the doorway, "but it's yours."
"It's fine." I drop my bag onto the bed and turn back to face her. "When do I start?"
"Now, if you're ready. They'll want to see what you can do."
I nod, already pulling my hair back and securing it with a strip of cloth. "Lead the way."
The kitchen is chaos.
Not the kind of chaos that suggests disorder, but the kind that comes from too many people trying to accomplish too much in too little time. Humans and half-demons move through the space in tight, practiced patterns, their movements overlapping without collision. The air is thick with heat from the cooking fires, and the scent of roasting tuskram and spiced dreelk makes my stomach tighten with hunger I've learned to ignore.
Nimae deposits me with a half-demon woman who barely glances at me before rattling off a list of tasks in a voice that brooks no argument. "Floors need scrubbing in the east corridor. Storage room needs organizing. Dishware from the upper levels needs cleaning and restocking."
"Understood."
"Good. Don't break anything."
I spend the next several hours on my knees, scrubbing stone floors with a brush that's seen better days and a bucket of water that grows progressively grayer. The work is mindless, repetitive, and I let my thoughts drift as my hands move. Around me, the estate hums with activity—footsteps echoing in distant corridors, voices calling out instructions, the faint vibration of something heavy shifting below.
A human man passes me at one point, his face lined with exhaustion and his hands wrapped in bandages. He doesn't speak, but he nods once in acknowledgment before disappearing around a corner. Another worker—a half-demon with copper-toned skin and broken horns—stops long enough to warn me about the water temperature in the lower levels. "It runs hotter than you'd expect. Don't burn yourself."
I thank her, and she moves on.
By the time the bucket is empty and the floor is as clean as it's going to get, my back aches and my knees are sore. I stand slowly, stretching out the stiffness, and return the supplies to their designated storage area. The kitchen staff barely acknowledges me, already absorbed in preparation for the evening meal, and I slip out without drawing attention.
Nimae finds me in the corridor. "You're needed in the stables."
Something in her tone makes me pause. Her expression is carefully neutral, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—concern, maybe, or reluctance.
"The stables," I repeat.
"Yes." She hesitates, then adds, "Just... be careful. Don't get close to the enclosures. Don't make sudden movements. And if something goes wrong, you run."
I nod slowly. "Understood."
She doesn't look reassured, but she says nothing else as she leads me toward the descent corridors. The temperature shifts almost immediately, growing warmer with each step, and the air thickens with sulfur and something faintly metallic. The walls here are rougher, less finished, and the ambient light comes from heat veins in the stone rather than rune-sconces.
The descent feels longer than it probably is, each step taking me deeper into the estate's foundation. My pulse stays steady, my breathing controlled, but there's a tightness in my chest that I can't quite name. Anticipation, maybe. Or something older.
The corridor finally opens into a vast, segmented space, and I stop at the threshold.
The stables.
They're nothing like I expected. This isn't a series of simple pens or cages—it's a hybrid environment carved directly into the volcanic bedrock, with containment bays that look more like tailored ecosystems than enclosures. Some are wide caverns with molten runoff channels glowing faintly in the darkness. Others are reinforced crystalline structures that hum with binding magic, the sound low and resonant enough to feel in my bones.
Walkways run above and between the bays, suspended by thick iron supports and enchanted stone that pulses faintly with restrained power. Below, chains and glyph plates are embedded into the rock, forming a web of control that shifts and adjusts as I watch.
And the sounds.
Distant scraping. Low, guttural growls. The occasional crack of wingbeats against containment fields. The stables are never silent, even when the creatures within them are still.
"You'll be cleaning the outer walkways," Nimae says, her voice quieter now. "Stay away from the barriers. Don't touch anything you're not supposed to. And don't?—"
"Don't interact with the beasts," I finish. "I understand."
