Kaela’s P O V

Everyone bowed when the Immortal King entered the room.

I didn’t.

That was my first mistake.

He stopped dead in his tracks and locked his eyes on me, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

“Bow, you bitch,” a guard hissed, kicking the back of my legs. The metal hook at the front of his boots entered my leg and ripped out flesh as it came out, blood spurting everywhere.

I shot him a glare, masking the pain even though I was screaming inside.

Damn these bloody bastards.

There were about twenty of us—newly acquired slaves for the king—standing with chains attached to each and every one of us, so much so that if one person moved, it affected the rest.

These people treated us like we weren’t the same.

Seriously, I never understood the hierarchy behind slavery.

Random people took us—homeless teenagers who no one wanted to adopt that had aged out of the orphanage system—and then put a price tag on our heads.

Twenty gold coins had been my worth, and none of it ever came to me.

Yet, I was going to serve in this palace for the rest of my life without getting paid, except I was supposed to count a filthy servant quarter and subpar food.

I’d take living on the streets and feeding from hand to mouth over that any day.

“I like palace slaves to be in top condition,” the king said, glaring at the guard who had kicked me. “Take her to the infirmary for treatment.”

The guard nodded respectfully, but I could hear him mutter a string of colorful words as he searched for the key to unchain my legs from the rest of the slaves.

“Her hands as well,” King Alanis said. He was already seated on the throne perched on a dais, his long red robe flowing around him.

Relief soared through me as he unchained my hands as well. Suddenly, I felt lighter and more at ease. For days I had been dragged around in these heavy metal chains that were so uncomfortable, but they didn't care about my well-being. They only cared that I was not mobile. We walked the rows of slaves and then passed in front of the dais.

The king still had his eyes locked on mine, and I stared at him in defiance, annoyance bubbling out beneath my skin.

He of all people should have done something about this. He could have abolished the state of slavery if he wanted to, but it benefited him, so of course he didn't care.

Every fucking aristocrat in this goddamn place didn't care about the people, only how they could benefit and take and take and take. I rolled my eyes, making sure that he saw it. Let him do his worst; I did not care.

It was not going to be anything more than severe beatings, probably being locked up, or maybe killed. Who knows? I had gone through every worst thing that anybody could have thought of. So I had no fear of what he was going to do.

I was led down a corridor that stretched on for several miles until we got out to the next mine, then we walked and walked to a large building whose stone walls were painted in white. The guard pushed the door open and shoved me forward, making me stumble. My legs were burning beyond anything, especially with the wound, but I didn't dare to complain.

I mean, it was futile.

The physician that was there shot me a look of disdain as soon as he saw my branded wrist.

Here we go again, I thought to myself, like we're a lot of both people of this great land.

The physician was a warlock, however.

So maybe his disgust was the fact that I was an ordinary human.

Drakaryth was once a city filled with dragons and humans thousands of years ago. Some humans were gifted and became dragon riders, while the rest just lived their lives.

Drakaryth, however, was always at war with Pyraeth.

There were the Skrykes—just like dragons but with sharp ice shards as breath—and their warlock riders until a war that sent them extinct, alongside the dragons.

And then we needed each other.

Since then we all lived together in Drakaryth, as Pyraeth was destroyed by the dragon fire.

Or at least, that was what our history told us.

In the more recent maps, Pyraeth had been rebuilt but was no longer Pyraeth. It was now a part of Drakaryth.

The warlocks didn’t like that.

There were rumors that dragons still existed—the shifters that could appear as humans and then change their form at will—but no one had ever seen them.

“Why should she be treated?” the physician asked.

“Order from the king.”

The guard left me there and walked away.

I sat on a high stool, my hands in my lap, looking around the room.

The warlock prepared some herbs and then grabbed my leg roughly, pressing it hard with a soaked cotton swab.

The bleeding stopped.

Then he wrapped it with a clean bandage. “Do not let it get wet or it’ll be infected. And clean the blood you dripped on my floor.”

He stomped out of the door, slamming it shut behind him.

I looked around the room lined with shelves of herbal medicines. A door to my left was slightly ajar and there were cleaning supplies, with two buckets of water; one half-filled.

I took the half-filled one and mixed it with some soap and wiped the blood thoroughly.

Once finished, I stood up and opened the door.

The warlock was nowhere to be found, neither was the guard who had brought me here.

I furrowed my brows in confusion and shrugged, shutting the door behind me.

Time to get back.

Then I paused.

This was my only chance of escape—I’ll be damned if I didn’t take it.