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1
KYRA
“Fuck.”
Gingerly, I press the pad of my fingers just above my eye. The skin is already throbbing, the lid drooping. Sometimes, a black eye doesn’t develop for a few hours, but this one is coming in strong.
My reflection glares back at me, bent forward over the cracked sink as my brown eyes assess my face.
“Kyra,” I groan under my breath, reprimanding myself.
Every word makes the split in my lip ache more, the skin stretching open so that blood dribbles down my chin. My tongue swipes across it, and I sigh against the pain. It definitely could have been worse. With Mosar, it could always be worse…
Pulling back from the looking glass, I reach for a cloth and wet it in the basin of water. I don’t have running water in the servant’s sector of the house. Mosar puts very little into caring for any of his servants, minotaur or human.
I remember when I first came to Milthar two years ago. I fled from the orc encampments, slipping away in the dead of night and bartering more than I care to remember for safe passage on a ship to the island of the minotaurs.
There have always been whispers that it was the one place on Protheka where a human could be free. I’d bought into what I now realize were romanticized thoughts. ‘Free’ on Milthar is a relative term for a race that will always be subservient.
It’s true that the minotaurs offer Indentured contracts – an agreement to work for seven years to earn the rights of their lowest caste. Humans can never be more, will always be excluded from certain districts and bars and restaurants.
But at least after seven years, I can have a home, a job with a boss and not a master. I just have to serve my dues first.
“If I can fucking live that long.”
It’s a concern that has been growing with more and more passing time. As I expertly swipe away the blood and apply what little healing cream I have left over, a tremble works its way up my hand.
I don’t fully understand how minotaurs are chosen to take Indentures, but with Mosar as the one I am tied to, I’m inclined to believe that just anyone can ask for a human to be sent to their home, and the government turns a blind eye to how the humans are treated. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why they would let such a brutally abusive man take control of someone else’s life.
Even when I was in the orc encampments, I was treated more fairly. Yes, they beat us. Yes, they were more likely to bed or eat us. But I have never been punished for such trivial things.
It makes me wonder if I made the wrong choice coming to this cursed island.
“Because of fucking water,” I gripe as I finish trying to clean up my wounds. The anger rattles through me renewed as the memory strikes me hard, and maybe I’m foolish for speaking out loud – especially against Mosar, even if no one is here – but I fear if I don’t speak to myself, I’ll forget how to entirely.
Mosar likes his girls to be silent and obedient. Apparently, I am neither.
That was proven tonight when I was rounding his table at dinner. The plates had been set, the food was perfect, and for once, Mosar seemed content. I was doing my best at being neither seen nor heard. He prefers that things just seemingly appear onto the table – with no magic, of course. Minotaur hate the free flowing use of magic on Protheka, most likely because few are capable of using it.
Mosar’s goblet was already half empty, and I was determined to refill it before he even noticed. I slipped around him, pouring the wine, but I made a mistake. He shifted just as I pulled back, causing me to knock his water glass over.
He would have been angry enough because of my disobedience, but the apology that slipped out pushed him over the edge. I went flying backwards before the last syllable left my lips.
I learned a long time ago that it’s better to just take it so I bit down on my bloodied lip – most likely split by one of his rings when he slapped me – and didn’t make a noise as he shouted and wrenched me up by the hair. Not even a whimper came out of me when he smacked me a few more times and threw me to the floor, my entire face throbbing.
No, I kept it together until I’d dragged myself down the halls and toward my quarters. And then I let myself cry, to mourn the life I thought I would have here. But that could only last so long, and now the tears have dried, anger replacing the sorrow that was burning through me.
With my skin dealt with, I tilt my head, inspecting my scalp as best as I can. The roots are tender and there are some bloodied strands that stand out among the dark blond locks. But there are no noticeable chunks missing and that’s the best I can hope for.
I already know that I need to get out of this house. Mosar shouldn’t come looking for me tonight nor request my presence. If I know him at all – and I’m pretty sure I do – he’s already gone out to the bars to terrorize other people that aren’t me for a little while.
Which means I can slip out without anyone noticing and escape my tortured existence for a few hours.
I finger comb my hair, scrub my skin clean, and glance at myself in the mirror. There’s little I can do about my unfortunate face. It’s hard to tell now, with the scars and constant bruising and my loss of weight, but I was once a little attractive. Now, I have to strive for decent and know that I fall flat.
In my room, I have a spare pair of clothes air drying. They’re stained and frayed but they’re my only option. Careful of the tenderness along my face and scalp, I change, twisting the fabric of my tunic and tucking it into my pants to give my body more shape. Not that I have much of one anymore.
“Well,” I sigh as I glance at myself in the window. It’s dark outside, my room facing Mosar’s lands, so I can see my reflection in the glass. I almost don’t recognize her from who I used to be. My freckles are the only remnant of my long days in the sun. My pale skin and gaunt figure have shown just how long it’s been since I’ve worked the fields of Tlouz. “I guess this is as good as it’s going to get.”
