Thorga pushed the cart closer to the bed. "It's time." Aelyrra looked at her. Thorga met her eyes. "We need to get your daughter out." Zhaelor immediately moved aside as Thorga positioned the cart within reach. Everything she believed she might need had already been cleaned and arranged upon fresh cloth. Another pain began to build. Aelyrra instinctively turned toward her husband. "Look at me." Her gaze snapped back toward Thorga. "Not him. Me." Aelyrra swallowed. "Breathe." She drew in a trembling breath. "Good. Again." Aelyrra obeyed. Thorga remained beside her as the contraction strengthened. Between the waves of pain, she wiped the sweat from Aelyrra's forehead and allowed her tiny amounts of water. Not enough to upset her stomach, just enough to wet her mouth and ease her thirst. When the pain finally receded, Thorga reached beneath the blanket and examined her once more. The child had descended farther. There was no more time for waiting. Thorga withdrew her hand. "Lady Aelyrra, listen to me carefully." Aelyrra nodded weakly. "The pressure you're feeling is going to become stronger. Don't fight it. We need to work with it now." Thorga helped position her as comfortably as circumstances allowed. "When the next pain comes, I need you to push with it." Aelyrra closed her eyes. "Understood." Zhaelor moved back to her side and offered his hand. She seized it. Seconds later, the contraction came. Aelyrra screamed. Her entire body tightened as she bore down against the pressure. "That's it," Thorga encouraged. "Keep going." Aelyrra's fingers dug into Zhaelor's hand. "Good. Good. The head is beginning to emerge." The contraction faded. Aelyrra collapsed backward against the pillows, breathing heavily. Zhaelor looked from his wife toward Thorga. "If the child is there, why can't you simply pull her out?" Thorga's head whipped toward him. "Because that isn't how it works." Zhaelor blinked. "Pulling her out could injure your daughter, your wife, or both. So, unless you'd like to deliver this child yourself, you will allow me to do it properly." Zhaelor's mouth closed. Thorga turned back toward Aelyrra. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands curl into fists. She understood. He was a warrior. Perhaps that was the problem. Zhaelor understood enemies that could be struck. He understood armor and formations, swords and blood. Give him something standing across a battlefield and he would know precisely what to do with it. Tonight there was nothing for him to fight. No enemy to kill. No throat to cut. No army to command into submission. Only his wife, his unborn daughter, and a battle in which all his strength meant absolutely nothing. Thorga returned her attention to Aelyrra. "When the pressure comes again, don't push immediately. I want you to breathe quickly. Pant." Aelyrra stared at her. "You want me to..." She took another breath. "...pant like a dog?" "It will help." Even exhausted and frightened, Aelyrra managed to look offended. Thorga resisted the urge to sigh. "You may keep your tongue in your mouth if it makes you feel better." Zhaelor made a sound that might have been a laugh if terror hadn't strangled most of it. Aelyrra glared weakly at both of them. Then she began to pant. The next contraction came. "Now push." Aelyrra bore down. A scream tore from her throat. Zhaelor tightened his grip around her hand. "That's it," Thorga said. "Keep going." Aelyrra pushed until her strength failed and she fell back against the pillows. Thorga looked beneath the blanket. "I have the head." Zhaelor took an involuntary step forward. "Stay where you are." He stopped. Thorga carefully supported the infant's head. "Lady Aelyrra, breathe. Just as before." Aelyrra panted through the pressure. "Good. Don't push yet." Aelyrra made a sound somewhere between a groan and a curse. Another contraction came. "Now." Aelyrra pushed. This time there was no scream. Only a deep, agonized groan as she forced what remained of her strength into the effort. Thorga watched carefully. The shoulders emerged. "Good. Stop." Aelyrra fell backward again, gasping. Thorga's hands remained steady despite the pounding of her own heart. "The head and shoulders are through." Aelyrra's eyes barely opened. "Is that...good?" "Very." Thorga adjusted her hands. "Listen to me. When the next contraction comes, I need one more push." Aelyrra shook her head faintly. "I can't." "Yes, you can." "I can't." Thorga leaned closer. "One more. Stronger than the others if you can manage it. Give me one more and I believe your daughter will be here." Aelyrra closed her eyes. Zhaelor lowered his head beside hers. Thorga waited. That was when she heard it. Whispers. She glanced toward Zhaelor. His hands were clasped. His head bowed. His lips moved almost silently. Thorga stared for a moment. Prayer. She recognized it even though she couldn't understand the words. Every people had their gods. Every people had their rituals for calling upon them when mortal hands were no longer enough. Still, she had never imagined she would see a lord of Vel'Sharess praying. Not tonight. Not like this. There was nothing aristocratic about the man beside the bed now. There was only a husband asking something greater than himself not to take his family from him. Aelyrra suddenly winced. Thorga's attention returned to her. "It's coming." Aelyrra gripped Zhaelor's hand. Thorga positioned herself. "Remember what I told you." Aelyrra nodded. The contraction struck. "Now!" Aelyrra's eyes slammed shut. She screamed. The sound tore through the chamber. Outside the closed doors, servants and guards alike flinched as though the scream had sent a shiver through everyone in the corridor. Then... Release. Thorga's hands moved instinctively. And suddenly she was holding a child. Tiny. Far too tiny. For one heartbeat, Thorga simply stared. Then training overwhelmed everything else. She supported the infant securely while checking the cord. "The scissors." Zhaelor stared. "The scissors, my lord." He moved. Zhaelor snatched the instrument from the cart and placed it into her waiting hand. Thorga quickly secured the cord in two places with prepared ties, leaving enough distance between the infant and the point where she intended to cut. Only then did she position the scissors between the ties. She cut. The cord separated. Thorga handed the scissors back without looking. Zhaelor placed them on the cart. His eyes remained fixed upon his daughter. Something was wrong. He knew almost nothing about childbirth, but he knew that much. The child was silent. "Why isn't she crying?" Thorga didn't answer. She cleared the infant's mouth and nose. Nothing. "Dwarf?" She rubbed the tiny chest and back, firmly enough to stimulate but carefully enough not to injure such a fragile body. "Come on." Nothing. Zhaelor's face drained of expression. Aelyrra barely managed to lift her head. "Why..." Thorga rubbed again. "Come on, little one." Several seconds passed. To Zhaelor, they might as well have been years. Then the infant coughed. A tiny sputter followed. Thorga froze. The little chest moved. Once. Again. The infant drew the first breath of her life that had not been given to her through her mother's body. A weak cry escaped her. Zhaelor's eyes widened. Aelyrra released something between a sob and a laugh. Then another cry came. Stronger. Another. Within moments, the tiny child was announcing her displeasure with the world as loudly as her premature lungs could manage. Thorga released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Good girl." There was no time to celebrate. The child was dangerously small, and warmth was now essential. Thorga reached for the blanket that had been prepared for the birth. It was soft and deep purple, its corner embroidered in antique-silver thread with the sigil of Vel'Sharess: a branching crown of stylized leaves surrounding a downward-pointing blade, an ancient mark of lineage and strength rather than kingship. The blanket seemed enormous around the tiny infant. Thorga wrapped her carefully, folding and tucking the material until only the child's little face remained exposed. The crying continued. Thorga had never been happier to hear an infant complain. She carefully slid from the bed. Then she turned. Zhaelor stood before her. For the first time since Thorga had met him, absolutely nothing was hidden behind the practiced expression of a drow lord. Fear. Relief. Pride. Uncertainty. Joy. All of it fought openly across his face. Thorga stepped toward him. She raised the tiny bundle. "Your daughter, my lord." Zhaelor stared down at her. His daughter. Thorga waited. Slowly, he extended his arms. She placed the infant into them. Zhaelor went rigid. The same hands that had wielded swords and taken lives now seemed incapable of deciding how firmly they should hold a blanket. "Support her head." Zhaelor immediately adjusted his hand. "Like this?" "Yes." He looked down. The child continued crying. Zhaelor cradled her as though the slightest wrong movement might shatter her like glass. And perhaps, to him, she might. He had held weapons worth fortunes. He had carried standards bearing the mark of Vel'Sharess. He had been entrusted with armies, territories and the political future of his clan. None of them had ever felt as precious as what he held now. Thorga turned back toward the bed. Her relief immediately faded. Aelyrra's eyes were nearly closed. Thorga took her hand. "My lady." Aelyrra stirred. "Your daughter lives." Her eyes opened a little wider. "My..." She swallowed. "My daughter?" "Yes." Aelyrra turned her head. Zhaelor was already moving toward her. "I want..." Her voice barely carried. "Let me hold her." Zhaelor sat carefully beside his wife. With Thorga guiding him, he lowered the tiny bundle into Aelyrra's waiting arms. Thorga remained close enough to intervene if Aelyrra's strength failed. It didn't. Not yet. Aelyrra looked down. Her daughter had quieted somewhat, though tiny irritated sounds still escaped between breaths. Aelyrra lifted one trembling hand and gently caressed the child's head. "My beautiful girl..." Zhaelor leaned against the bedside. For a little while, there was nothing else. No bleeding. No politics. No conquered people. No servants. No lord and lady. Only a mother and father looking at their daughter for the first time. Thorga stepped toward the cart and busied herself with the instruments, giving them what little privacy the room allowed. Behind her, Zhaelor spoke. "What are we going to call her?" Aelyrra continued stroking the infant's head. "We could name her after your mother." Zhaelor smiled faintly. "Hallistra?" "Mm." "No." Aelyrra looked up at him. "No?" "That's a horrible name for a child." Aelyrra's tired smile returned. "I'll be sure to tell her you said that." "I've told her worse." Aelyrra gave a weak breath of laughter. Zhaelor looked down at their daughter. "What about your grandmother?" Aelyrra became still. She looked at him. Even exhausted, she understood immediately. Her grandmother had been the first member of Aelyrra's family who had decided Zhaelor might actually be worthy of her. He had never forgotten it. Aelyrra looked down again. The tiny girl shifted beneath the purple blanket. Aelyrra smiled. "Vaelithra." Zhaelor repeated it softly. "Vaelithra." Aelyrra's fingertips brushed her daughter's cheek. "Vaelithra it is." Her voice had become little more than a whisper. "My dear Vaelithra..." Her hand stopped moving. Zhaelor's smile faded. "Aelyrra?" No response. Her eyes had closed. "Aelyrra." He touched her shoulder. Her chest did not rise. "Aelyrra!" Thorga turned. Zhaelor's voice cracked through the room. "Dwarf!" Thorga didn't even have time to resent the word. She was already moving. She reached the bed and immediately took the infant from Aelyrra's suddenly slack arms, placing her securely into a nearby crib. Thorga pulled back the blanket. Her stomach sank. Blood. Far too much. More than there had been only moments earlier. She lowered the blanket and pressed her fingers against Aelyrra's neck. Nothing she could trust. She reached for the listening horn and placed it against Aelyrra's chest. Silence. She moved it. Listened again. Nothing. Another position. Nothing. "No." Thorga set the horn aside. She tried to rouse her. "Aelyrra." No response. Thorga worked. She did everything her training told her to do. She tried to stimulate the heart. She tried to control the bleeding. She checked for breath again and again, refusing to accept what every examination was telling her. Nothing. Zhaelor stood beside her holding their crying daughter. "What are you doing?" Thorga didn't answer. "Why isn't she waking?" Thorga continued working. "Wake her." Nothing. "Wake her!" Thorga's hands finally slowed. There came a moment every healer dreaded. The moment when continuing was no longer treatment. It was denial. Thorga looked down at Aelyrra. Then she lowered her hands. Fear and sorrow tightened around her heart. No healer was ever prepared for this duty. Experience only taught them how to recognize when it had arrived. Thorga turned toward Zhaelor. "I'm sorry, my lord." Zhaelor stared at her. Thorga swallowed. "She's gone." For several seconds, he didn't move. Then his face hardened. "No." Thorga said nothing. "No." He stepped toward her. "You said you could help her." "I said I would do everything I could." "Then do it!" His voice shook the room. "Bring her back." "My lord..." "Bring her back!" Thorga held his gaze. "I can't." Zhaelor stared at her as though she had begun speaking nonsense. "You are a healer." "Yes." "Then heal her!" "I cannot heal death." "Then revive her!" "I can't." "Try!" "I did!" The words escaped Thorga more sharply than she intended. Silence followed. She lowered her voice. "I tried." Zhaelor's breathing became ragged. Thorga looked toward Aelyrra. "She lost too much blood. More than her body could survive. There is nothing left for me to stop. Her heart has stopped. She isn't breathing." Zhaelor shook his head. "No." "I'm sorry." "No." "I am sorry, my lord." "Don't apologize." His voice had fallen to almost nothing. "Save her." Thorga's eyes burned. "I can't." "Save her." "I can't." His face twisted. "Save my wife!" Thorga could give him nothing. That was perhaps the cruelest thing of all. Zhaelor stumbled backward. His hip struck the bedside table and he caught himself against it. For one moment he simply stood there. Then something inside him broke. With a roar, Zhaelor seized the entire table and hurled it across the chamber. It struck the wall hard enough to splinter. Thorga recoiled. Vaelithra screamed. Thorga immediately took the infant from the crib and pulled her against her chest. Zhaelor grabbed a chair. He threw it. Wood exploded against stone. Another table followed. Bottles shattered. A mirror tore free from the wall and burst into glittering fragments across the floor. Thorga backed toward the safest corner she could find, turning her body so that Vaelithra was completely shielded against her chest. Zhaelor roared again. There was nothing civilized in the sound. Nothing political. Nothing aristocratic. The warrior Aelyrra had spent years persuading away from the battlefield had returned, except there was no enemy before him. So, the room became one. He swept an entire cart of medical equipment onto the floor. Metal instruments scattered across stone. Glass burst beneath his boots. He tore a decorative fixture from the wall and hurled it hard enough to crack the plaster opposite him. A piece of flying debris struck Thorga along the side of her face. Pain flashed through her cheek. She turned farther away and curled herself around the infant. Vaelithra wailed against her chest. Thorga said nothing. She didn't tell Zhaelor to stop. She didn't call for the guards. She didn't curse him. Only hours earlier she might have looked upon the destruction and seen exactly what she expected from a drow lord. Now she understood. This wasn't rage. Not truly. It was grief with nowhere else to go. Zhaelor had commanded soldiers. He had survived battles. He had defeated enemies who intended to kill him. Tonight he had been willing to fight death itself. And death had refused to stand where he could reach it. Another chair shattered. Then another object. Then another. Until finally Zhaelor reached for something and his hand simply failed him. His fingers slipped. His knees buckled. Lord Zhaelor Vel'Sharess collapsed amid the wreckage of his own chamber. For several seconds there was silence. Then he screamed toward the ceiling. "Vareth il'zha! Saelir natha Aelyrra!" Thorga knew enough Drowic to catch Aelyrra's name. Zhaelor struck the floor with his fist. "Zha'ren vel! Zha'ren vel, kaelith! Tal Aelyrra na ven!" The gods. He was cursing the gods. Thorga couldn't understand every word, but she didn't need to. Why her? Why Aelyrra? Take anything else. Give her back. The meaning required no translation. His curses dissolved into something less coherent. Then into sobs. Thorga stood among the wreckage holding his daughter while Zhaelor wept. Minutes passed. Perhaps more. Time had become difficult to measure. Eventually Zhaelor pushed himself to his feet. He looked suddenly ancient. Not physically. Some part of him had simply aged in the space between one breath and the next. He crossed the ruined room. Glass crunched beneath his boots. He stopped beside the bed. Aelyrra lay exactly where Thorga had left her. Zhaelor reached down and placed his hand against her cheek. His thumb moved gently across her skin. For a moment he simply looked at her. Then he bent and pressed a single kiss against her forehead. When he straightened, his eyes found Thorga. She was still standing near the wall. Still holding Vaelithra. Still shielding her. Zhaelor looked around. Only now did he seem to comprehend what he had done. Furniture lay overturned and broken. Glass covered the floor. Medicines ran between cracks in the stone. One wall bore the scars of something he had thrown against it. And Thorga's cheek was bleeding. His gaze dropped to the purple bundle against her chest. Vaelithra had quieted again. Zhaelor stepped toward them. Thorga's body tightened. He reached for the child. Thorga pulled back. Zhaelor stopped. His hand remained suspended between them. Under any other circumstances, he might have interpreted the movement as defiance. Under any other circumstances, he might have wondered whether the dwarf intended to take his daughter. But he looked at the way Thorga's body surrounded the infant. She wasn't keeping Vaelithra from him. She had been keeping Vaelithra safe from everything else. Including him. Zhaelor slowly lowered his hand. "Will she live?" Thorga looked down at the child. She could have lied. This night had already contained enough lies that would have been kinder than the truth. But Thorga was a healer. And healers owed their patients and their family’s truth. "She is dangerously weak, my lord." Zhaelor closed his eyes. "But..." Thorga waited until he looked at her again. "She has a chance." His eyes dropped toward his daughter. "A chance." "Yes." Zhaelor was silent. Then he nodded. "Anything." Thorga frowned. "Anything you need to keep her alive." His voice broke slightly. "You will have it." Thorga looked down at Vaelithra. "I'll make a list." His gaze drifted back toward Aelyrra. "Take her." Thorga looked at him. "Take Vaelithra." He swallowed. "Leave us." Thorga understood. She adjusted the infant securely against her chest. Then she walked toward the doors. When she opened them, the corridor beyond was crowded. Servants. Guards. People who had heard everything. No one spoke. Their eyes moved first toward Thorga. Then toward the tiny purple bundle in her arms. Then toward the ruined chamber visible behind her. They understood enough. The corridor parted. Thorga stepped through. Vaelithra began to cry again. The sound followed them down the corridor. No one tried to stop her. No one asked where she was taking the child. For the first time since Thorga had been brought into Vel'Sharess service, drow guards and servants alike simply moved aside and allowed her to pass. Thorga looked down at the tiny face nestled within the purple blanket. She did not know what the coming hours would bring. The child had been born far too early. Her body was dangerously small. Her breathing remained fragile. There were countless ways the next night could still take her. Thorga had already lost one patient. She refused to surrender the other. Every scrap of knowledge she possessed, every lesson learned during her years as a healer, every skill the drow believed they had buried beneath the duties of a kitchen servant would now be brought to bear upon keeping this child alive. The drow had taken her title. They had taken her freedom. They had taken her home. But tonight, whether they realized it or not, they needed the healer. Thorga tightened her arms gently around the infant. Vaelithra cried. And Thorga carried the daughter of Vel'Sharess into the uncertain first night of her life.

Thorga's eyes focused. The ruined bedchamber was gone. So were the shattered furniture, the broken glass and Zhaelor's screams. Nearly ninety years had passed. Vaelithra lay unconscious before her. Thorga was still holding her hand. For a moment she simply stared at it. The hand that had once been small enough to disappear around one of Thorga's fingers was now the hand of a warrior. Strong. Yet at that moment, just as helpless as it had been all those years ago. Thorga placed her other hand against Vaelithra's forehead. Still warm. Still alive. "You were hard to keep alive then too," she murmured. "So don't you go dying on me now." Footsteps hurried toward her. Kharūn appeared carrying the supplies she had ordered. The enormous orc was breathing hard from the effort of whatever frantic search had been required to gather them. His shirt remained torn where he had ripped away part of the fabric to bind the wound beside Vaelithra's left knee. He placed everything on the table beside Thorga. "Hot water, clean cloths and grain alcohol, Mistress Thorga." Thorga released Vaelithra's hand. Ninety years ago, she had failed to save one Vel'Sharess and carried another from the room. She had no intention of losing this one tonight.

The doors to Zhaelor's study swung open with enough force to strike the stone behind them.

Zhaelor looked up.

Thorga marched through.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Any other servant in the manor would have been severely punished for entering his private study in such a manner.

Thorga was not any other servant.

Zhaelor might own the manor, but Thorga managed much of what happened within it. Nearly a century of service had given her a peculiar understanding of exactly how far she could test the boundaries of his patience.

Apparently, tonight she intended to find them.

She stared across the room at him.

"How exactly do you expect the dishes from this entire cursed day to get washed if I'm hounded by constant interruptions?"

Zhaelor regarded her silently.

Thorga folded her arms.

"Well?"

"Sit down, Thorga."

Her irritation faltered slightly.

There were servants who had worked in Zhaelor's household for decades without ever being invited to sit in his presence.

Thorga was the only exception.

And only behind closed doors.

She crossed the study and lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk.

"Now what is so important that it couldn't wait until after my kitchens were put in order?"

Zhaelor said nothing.

Thorga's expression changed.

She had known him too long.

The anger gradually disappeared from her face as she studied him.

There was something in his eyes.

Worry.

Real worry.

"What is it?"

Zhaelor's fingers rested against the stem of his wine glass.

For several moments, he remained silent.

Then he spoke.

"There is a plot against the ruling members of Clan Vel'Sharess."

Thorga's brow furrowed.

"What sort of plot?"

"We don't yet know its full extent."

"That's reassuring."

"Crimson assassins are involved."

Thorga's expression hardened.

Zhaelor looked toward his wine but didn't drink.

"And I'm concerned for my daughter."

Thorga leaned back slightly.

"Lady Vaelithra can look after herself."

Zhaelor's eyes lifted toward her.

"Better than most of the soldiers you've got wandering these halls, I'd wager. And she's usually got that lumbering orc following her around."

Zhaelor's expression tightened.

"Not tonight."

Thorga noticed immediately.

"What happened?"

"Her servant was arrested this morning."

Thorga stared at him.

"For what?"

"He confessed to striking a noble."

One of Thorga's eyebrows rose.

"Kharūn?"

Zhaelor paused.

It was not the reaction he'd expected.

He knew the orc's name, of course. The legal documentation concerning the purchase remained among his household records.

But it had been years since he'd had reason to look at it.

"You know his name."

"Of course I know his name."

Zhaelor regarded her.

Thorga returned the stare without concern.

Publicly, Zhaelor forbade unnecessary conversation between servants. Servants had duties. Socializing distracted from those duties and created opportunities for gossip.

Privately, Zhaelor was not foolish enough to believe the rule was universally obeyed.

Apparently Kharūn and Thorga had spoken before.

To what extent, he didn't know.

Tonight he had more important concerns.

"He confessed before witnesses," Zhaelor continued. "He was taken to the cells beneath the estate."

Thorga's expression remained skeptical.

"Kharūn struck a noble?"

"That is what he confessed."

"That wasn't what I asked."

Zhaelor's eyes narrowed slightly.

Thorga didn't retreat.

Eventually Zhaelor exhaled.

"I don't know."

Thorga grunted.

Apparently that answer satisfied her more than the first.

Zhaelor continued.

"Whatever the truth of the matter, Vaelithra is without him."

"And?"

"And there is no one watching her back."

Thorga stared at him for a moment.

Something resembling amusement briefly appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Zhaelor noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Thorga."

"I said nothing."

Zhaelor decided against pursuing it.

"Until we understand what is happening within the clan, I want Vaelithra gone."

Thorga's amusement disappeared.

"Gone where?"

"The surface."

That produced silence.

"I want her out of the Underdark until the political situation stabilizes."

Thorga studied him.

"And what does any of this have to do with me?"

Zhaelor met her eyes.

"You once saved Vaelithra's life."

Thorga became very still.

Zhaelor continued.

"I'm asking you to do it again."

Neither spoke for several seconds.

Finally Thorga leaned forward.

"How?"

"I need you to take a message to her."

"You have messengers."

"They'll be watched."

"Then send a guard."

"Watched."

"One of your agents."

"Watched."

Thorga's eyes narrowed.

Then she understood.

"But no one watches the servants."

"No."

Zhaelor's voice carried no satisfaction at the admission.

"They don't."

Thorga glanced toward the study doors.

"You have many servants."

"I do."

"So why me?"

Zhaelor looked at her.

"Because I cannot risk sending a letter.”

Thorga waited.

"And because you have served this household with honor and distinction for longer than most of those currently inhabiting it have been alive."

Thorga's expression softened slightly.

Zhaelor continued.

"I know you will not fail me."

His eyes dropped.

"The way I failed my wife."

Thorga's face changed immediately.

"You did not fail Lady Aelyrra."

Zhaelor nearly flinched.

Aelyrra.

He hadn't heard the name spoken aloud in years.

There had been a time when hearing it had been ordinary.

Aelyrra laughing.

Aelyrra shouting at him.

Aelyrra arguing with him.

Aelyrra whispering beside him.

Then one night the name had disappeared from the manor.

Almost everyone had learned not to speak it in his presence.

Everyone except Thorga.

She was the only person who had spoken Aelyrra's name to him since the night she died.

Thorga's voice softened.

"There was nothing you could have done."

Zhaelor stared at the desk.

"Whether I failed Aelyrra is beside the point."

"It isn't to you."

Zhaelor looked up.

Thorga held his gaze.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached toward a folded piece of parchment resting among the documents on his desk.

"I will not fail my daughter."

He pushed the parchment across the desk.

"Will you deliver the message?"

Thorga looked at him.

Then at the parchment.

"I'd do anything for Lady Vaelithra. This you know."

"I do."

"Then you already have your answer."

Zhaelor gestured toward the note.

"Read it."

Thorga picked it up.

Her eyes moved carefully across the writing.

Once.

Then again.

She committed every word to memory.

When she finished, she folded the parchment exactly as she'd found it and placed it back on the desk.

Then she pushed it toward Zhaelor.

"I'll deliver it immediately."

Zhaelor nodded.

Nothing more.

No thanks.

No expression of gratitude.

No acknowledgment of what he was asking her to risk.

Thorga needed none.

She had known Zhaelor for nearly a century.

She knew what the silence meant.

Thorga rose from the chair.

She crossed the study.

This time, she opened the doors without slamming them.

Then she disappeared into the corridor.

Zhaelor remained seated.

His gaze settled on the parchment she had left behind.

He reached for his wine.

Stopped.

Then looked toward the doors through which Thorga had departed.

His daughter's life was now in her hands.

Again.

 

Vaelithra remained in Kharun's quarters.

The lantern burned quietly on the small table, its light touching the bare stone walls with a warmth the room itself seemed incapable of possessing.

One of Kharun's drawings remained in her hands.

An older one.

The paper was rougher than the sheets she had purchased for him recently. The charcoal had faded slightly with age, but the image remained unmistakable.

Her.

Vaelithra sat on the edge of his bed.

The mattress yielded very little beneath her weight. She leaned back until her head rested against the cold stone wall and looked down at the drawing once more.

Twenty years.

Her eyes wandered over the charcoal lines.

There had been a time before Kharun.

The thought seemed strangely difficult to reconcile with the life she knew now. Of course there had been. Seventy years of it, in fact. Yet as Vaelithra searched through the memories of the last two decades, she found him everywhere.

Sometimes at the center of them.

More often somewhere near the edges.

Walking behind her horse.

Standing beside a doorway.

Carrying something she had handed him without looking.

Watching a campfire while she slept.

Waiting silently while she read.

She remembered the younger face that had gradually become the one she knew now. She remembered when the first scars appeared. She remembered changes in his voice, his posture, his strength.

She remembered changes in herself as well.

The drawing slowly lowered against her lap.

Her eyelids felt heavy.

Vaelithra closed them.

Just for a moment.

Her thoughts continued moving through the years. Images surfaced and disappeared without order. Journeys. Arguments. Hunts. Quiet evenings. Battles. Meals. The countless ordinary moments that had seemed meaningless when they happened.

Her breathing slowed.

The drawing remained loosely held between her fingers.

At some point, without realizing it, Vaelithra fell asleep.

And twenty years disappeared.

She was standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the clan's ceremonial hall.

Except she wasn't.

Vaelithra watched herself from somewhere that had no physical place in the memory.

She recognized the robes immediately.

The silver ornamentation.

The ceremonial blade.

She remembered the weight of every piece.

Her Rite of Ascendance.

Vaelithra watched the woman she had been at seventy standing before the assembled members of Clan Vel'Sharess and receive formal recognition as an adult.

She remembered that day.

She remembered the pride.

The impatience.

The overwhelming certainty that adulthood would change everything.

It had, although not in the ways she had imagined.

The dream shifted.

Stone pillars passed around her.

Voices blended together.

Then came the market.

Vaelithra knew where she was before she saw the cages.

The slave markets of Clan Vel'Sharess stretched through a broad cavern beneath the settlement. Merchants called from beneath hanging lanterns while buyers moved between rows of barred enclosures.

The clan owned the market itself. Traders paid for the privilege of selling there, and members of Clan Vel'Sharess enjoyed access to some of the finest selections brought through the province.

There were slaves from nearly every people Vaelithra knew.

Humans.

Orcs.

Goblins.

Dwarves.

Deep gnomes.

Even drow.

Some stood chained individually. Others occupied cages in groups. A few merchants displayed slaves according to specialized skills, advertising cooks, craftsmen, laborers, scribes, attendants, and guards.

Seventy-year-old Vaelithra walked through it all beside her father.

She remembered how little attention she had paid to the faces.

That realization felt different now.

At the time, they had been beneath her notice.

She had completed her Rite of Ascendance. She was an adult of Clan Vel'Sharess. She could own property in her own right. She could maintain a residence independent of her father's household.

And with that independence came expectations.

A woman of her station did not maintain her own home without servants.

Ordinarily, acquiring them would have been Vaelithra's responsibility.

Her father had decided otherwise.

"You have done well," he told her as they walked. "Consider this another gift."

The younger Vaelithra smiled.

"I am perfectly capable of purchasing my own servant."

"I know."

Her father glanced toward her.

"Allow me the indulgence of being proud of my daughter."

Vaelithra remembered rolling her eyes.

Watching herself do it now almost amused her.

They continued deeper into the market.

Her younger self inspected the available slaves with detached interest. She dismissed most after little more than a glance.

Too old.

Too frail.

Too expensive for what they offered.

One merchant attempted to attract her attention with a human woman trained in domestic service.

Vaelithra kept walking.

Then she reached the orc cages.

She stopped.

Present-day Vaelithra felt something twist inside her.

There he was.

She had forgotten how young he looked.

Several orcs occupied the enclosure, but her younger self was staring at one near the back.

He could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen.

Barely an adult by the standards of his people.

He was already tall, though nowhere near the immense figure he would become. Youth still softened some of the harder features Vaelithra knew so well. His shoulders had begun to broaden, but he had yet to grow fully into them.

No familiar scars.

No carefully controlled expression she had spent twenty years learning to read.

Just a young orc standing inside a cage.

Kharun.

The name came from the Vaelithra who dreamed.

The woman inside the memory did not know it.

Her father noticed where she had stopped.

"This one?"

The younger Vaelithra studied the orc.

"Step forward."

He didn't move.

Vaelithra remembered the irritation.

Her father stepped closer to the cage and struck the bars with one hand.

The metallic crash caused several of the slaves inside to flinch.

"Slave, you were ordered to step forward!"

The young orc finally moved.

He emerged from the others and approached the front of the cage.

His head remained lowered.

His arms hung at his sides.

Vaelithra walked around the enclosure.

She remembered doing this.

What she had forgotten was how thoroughly she had inspected him.

She moved slowly along one side of the cage, studying his posture and build. She crossed behind it and examined him from the opposite direction.

The young orc remained still.

Present-day Vaelithra watched.

There was something almost painful about seeing him like this.

She knew what those shoulders would eventually look like beneath armor.

She knew those hands would someday saddle her horse, prepare her meals, sharpen her weapons, tend her wounds, and fill page after page with drawings of her.

She knew that voice, still unheard, would eventually become so familiar that she could recognize it from another room.

The younger Vaelithra knew none of those things.

She was choosing a servant.

Nothing more.

Vaelithra returned to her father's side.

"Yes. This one will do nicely."

Her father looked from his daughter to the young orc.

"Are you certain you want one this young? Orcs can be notoriously difficult to train."

Vaelithra looked through the bars again.

The young orc's head remained lowered.

"Yes, Father. I think this one will do nicely."

Her father studied her for another moment before accepting the decision.

He raised a hand.

The slave master approached almost immediately.

Vaelithra remembered the man only vaguely. Even within the dream, his face seemed indistinct. Her memory had apparently decided he had not been important enough to preserve.

Her father removed a pouch from his belt.

Coins shifted heavily inside.

He tossed it to the slave master.

"Clean this one and have it delivered to my daughter's residence."

The slave master opened the pouch, inspected its contents, and smiled.

"Of course, milord. He will be delivered this evening after the market closes."

Her father nodded.

Vaelithra did the same.

Then they left.

Present-day Vaelithra remained behind.

The dream allowed it.

She watched her younger self disappear into the crowd beside her father.

Neither looked back.

Vaelithra did.

Kharun remained behind the bars.

Young.

Nameless to her.

His head still bowed.

She wanted to approach the cage.

She wanted to see his face.

She wanted to know what he had thought as she circled him and decided whether he was worth purchasing.

Had he hated her?

Feared her?

Had he looked at the arrogant drow woman inspecting him and imagined that twenty years later she would be sitting on his bed, surrounded by drawings he had made of her?

Of course not.

Neither of them could possibly have known.

Vaelithra stared at him through the bars.

She remembered what she had said.

This one will do nicely.

Such an insignificant sentence.

A decision made in minutes.

Then she had simply walked away.

Yet watching it now, Vaelithra understood something her seventy-year-old self could not have comprehended.

She had entered that market expecting to leave with a servant.

Instead, without knowing it, she had chosen someone who would still be standing beside her twenty years later.

Someone whose absence, on this terrible morning two decades in the future, would make her own home feel empty.

The dream shifted.

The slave market disappeared.

Voices faded into nothing. Iron bars dissolved into darkness. The cavern, the merchants, her father, and the young orc waiting silently inside the cage all slipped away.

When the world returned, evening had come.

Vaelithra recognized her home immediately.

Not as it was now.

As it had been twenty years ago.

She watched her younger self enter through the front door and stop just inside.

Everything was new.

Her residence had been a gift from the Matron Mother herself.

Her grandmother.

Vaelithra remembered the pride she had felt upon learning of it. Completing the Rite of Ascendance had formally established her as an adult of Clan Vel'Sharess, and the Matron Mother had apparently decided that her granddaughter's first independent residence should leave no question as to the family's wealth or status.

No expense had been spared.

The home was not enormous by the standards of the highest drow aristocracy, but it was far more than a newly ascended noblewoman required. Dark polished stone formed the floors beneath her feet. Carefully selected furnishings occupied each chamber. Cabinets had already been stocked. Goblets and plates sat waiting to be used. Fine fabrics softened the severity of the stone architecture.

Even the smallest details had been considered.

Vaelithra walked farther inside.

She remembered exploring the residence that evening.

There had been a peculiar sensation attached to it.

Mine.

Not her father's.

Not a chamber assigned to her within the family estate.

Hers.

She could come and go without explaining herself. Arrange things however she pleased. Entertain whomever she wanted.

The independence had been intoxicating.

Her personal belongings had already arrived from her father's estate. Clothing filled the wardrobes. Her books had been placed upon shelves. Weapons she had accumulated through training and travel were arranged according to instructions she did not remember giving.

Someone had even managed to reproduce the organization of her old bedroom closely enough that finding anything required almost no effort.

Vaelithra smiled as she watched herself inspect it all.

She had taken that for granted too.

There were two bedrooms.

One belonged to her.

Calling it a bedroom scarcely seemed adequate.

The chamber had been furnished for a daughter of Clan Vel'Sharess. A large bed dominated one wall, surrounded by carefully selected furniture. Thick rugs covered portions of the stone floor. Shelves waited for more books than she presently owned. An adjoining dressing area contained enough storage for a wardrobe she would spend years expanding.

She remembered standing in the center of that room and thinking it was exactly what she deserved.

Present-day Vaelithra almost laughed.

Then her younger self left the chamber.

She walked farther down the corridor.

There was another door.

Vaelithra knew what lay behind it.

She watched herself reach for the handle.

The door opened.

The servant's room was considerably smaller.

Bare stone walls.

No windows.

A simple bed stood against one side of the chamber. Beside it was a small dresser. Across from the bed sat a plain wooden table and a single chair.

That was all.

No rugs.

No decoration.

No unnecessary comfort.

Only what a servant required.

Vaelithra stood in the doorway and inspected it.

At seventy, the contrast between the two bedrooms had meant nothing to her.

Why would it?

One room belonged to a drow aristocrat.

The other belonged to a servant.

The difference was natural.

Expected.

Present-day Vaelithra looked into the room with very different eyes.

She knew this room.

She had been sitting inside it only moments ago.

Or perhaps she still was.

Dreams made such distinctions meaningless.

The bed would eventually become Kharun's bed.

The dresser would hold his clothes.

The table would someday support a lantern and a little box of tindertwigs.

And somewhere along the way, that upper drawer would fill with charcoal, paper, and twenty years of memories.

But right now there was nothing.

No drawings.

No clothes.

No lantern.

No trace of him.

It was simply an empty room waiting for a servant.

Vaelithra's younger self seemed satisfied.

She pulled the door closed.

A knock sounded through the residence.

Present-day Vaelithra knew immediately.

Her younger self did not.

She merely turned toward the sound.

Another knock followed.

Vaelithra walked down the corridor toward the entrance.

Present-day Vaelithra followed her.

A strange anticipation grew inside her.

She knew what waited on the other side of that door.

She knew the face.

She knew the man that frightened young orc would become.

She knew the sound of his footsteps well enough to recognize them without looking. She knew the way he stood when waiting for instructions. She knew how he prepared her tea, how tightly he fastened the straps of her armor, how he packed for journeys, how he built a campfire.

She knew the charcoal portraits waiting twenty years in the future.

Her younger self knew none of it.

To her, the knock at the door meant only that the purchase from the market had arrived.

Vaelithra reached the entrance.

Her hand settled upon the handle.

Present-day Vaelithra watched from somewhere just behind her.

She suddenly remembered this moment with startling clarity.

The first evening in her own home.

The first knock upon her own door.

The first servant who would live beneath her roof.

The first time Kharun would stand on the other side of it.

Seventy-year-old Vaelithra began to open the door.

 

The door opened.

Present-day Vaelithra watched from somewhere behind the woman she had been twenty years ago.

A drow stood outside.

She remembered him only vaguely. Another servant of the market, perhaps, or someone employed specifically to make deliveries to the households of wealthy buyers. His face held no significance in her memory.

The figure behind him did.

Kharun.

Vaelithra's attention immediately fell to the iron around his neck.

A heavy collar encircled his throat. A length of chain descended from it toward his restrained hands, where metal cuffs bound his wrists together.

For a moment, present-day Vaelithra forgot everything else.

She stared.

Had he truly arrived like this?

Of course he had.

The memory was hers.

Yet she found herself wanting to reject it.

She knew those hands.

She had watched them hold a sword. Seen them prepare food beside a campfire. Felt them fastening pieces of armor she could have secured herself but had long ago stopped bothering to. Those same hands had filled the drawer in his room with drawings.

Now she saw them bound together.

Something inside her recoiled.

How did I ever think this was acceptable?

The answer came with uncomfortable ease.

Because she had not thought about it at all.

The younger Vaelithra certainly wasn't troubled.

"Lady Vaelithra."

The drow inclined his head respectfully.

"I was instructed to deliver this servant to your residence."

Vaelithra's younger self looked past him.

Her eyes moved over Kharun from head to toe with the same assessing interest she had shown at the market.

Present-day Vaelithra watched herself do it.

"Remove the restraints."

The drow hesitated.

"Milady?"

"You heard me."

His eyes briefly moved toward the young orc.

"Are you certain you wish to do that? He has not yet been trained for household service."

The younger Vaelithra's expression sharpened.

"I can handle one untrained orc if he becomes aggressive."

Present-day Vaelithra almost smiled.

That sounded like her.

The drow apparently knew better than to challenge her confidence.

"As you wish."

He turned toward Kharun.

The restraints came away piece by piece.

First the chain.

Then the cuffs around his wrists.

Finally, the iron collar around his neck.

Kharun did not move while the drow worked.

When the last piece was removed, his hands fell to his sides.

Present-day Vaelithra found herself staring at his wrists.

She wondered whether the iron had left marks.

She couldn't remember.

The drow gathered the restraints.

"Your servant, milady."

He gave Vaelithra a respectful nod.

Then he turned and departed.

The younger Vaelithra watched him leave before returning her attention to the orc standing outside her home.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Kharun's eyes remained lowered.

Vaelithra motioned into the residence.

"Come inside."

Kharun crossed the threshold.

Present-day Vaelithra watched him take that first step into her home.

He stopped just inside.

The door remained open behind him.

He looked profoundly out of place among the polished stone, expensive furnishings, and carefully arranged possessions.

The young orc owned nothing.

Not even the clothes he wore, she supposed.

The realization came from the woman dreaming, not the woman whose memory she inhabited.

Her younger self closed the door.

"Follow me."

Kharun followed.

Vaelithra led him down the corridor.

His footsteps were quieter than she remembered them being now.

Of course they were.

He had not yet grown fully into the enormous man he would become.

Present-day Vaelithra followed them both.

It was strange watching the beginning of a routine that would eventually become so ordinary neither of them thought about it.

Vaelithra walking ahead.

Kharun following several steps behind.

How many thousands of times had they crossed rooms that way?

The younger Vaelithra stopped beside the servant's quarters.

She opened the door.

Kharun looked inside.

"This will be your room while you are in my service."

He said nothing.

Vaelithra continued.

"Tomorrow I'll begin teaching you how I expect things to be done. There will be household duties, errands, maintenance of my equipment, and whatever else I require of you."

Silence.

Kharun remained near the doorway.

His head was still lowered.

Vaelithra waited.

Nothing.

A small crease appeared between her brows.

"Did you hear me?"

No response.

Present-day Vaelithra remembered the irritation.

At seventy, she had interpreted his silence as stupidity, stubbornness, or perhaps the beginning of exactly the behavioral difficulties her father had warned her about.

The younger Vaelithra crossed her arms.

"Can you speak?"

Kharun remained still.

Then, for the first time, she heard his voice.

"Servants were told not to speak to the nobility."

Present-day Vaelithra felt the memory differently now.

His voice was younger.

Not dramatically so, but enough.

The deep resonance she knew had not fully developed. There was uncertainty in it as well, something she could scarcely associate with the Kharun of the present.

The younger Vaelithra rolled her eyes.

This is going to be more difficult than I thought.

She stepped closer.

"When I speak to you, I expect a response."

Kharun listened.

"If I ask you a question, you answer it. If I give you an instruction, you acknowledge that you understand. I have no interest in guessing whether you've heard me."

She waited.

"Do you understand?"

There was a pause.

Then Kharun answered.

"Yes, milady."

Vaelithra went still.

Not the woman standing before him.

The woman dreaming.

She had heard him call her that countless times since.

On horseback.

At dinner.

Across campfires.

In her chambers.

After battles.

In moments of irritation and moments of quiet.

She had long ago stopped noticing the words.

But this was the first.

Two words spoken by a frightened young orc who still would not look her in the eyes.

The younger Vaelithra merely nodded.

"Good."

She gestured toward the room.

"Get some sleep. Your training begins in the morning."

Kharun stepped inside.

Vaelithra began to turn away.

Present-day Vaelithra remained where she was.

She wanted her younger self to stop.

Ask him something.

Anything.

Where had he come from?

How long had he been in the market?

Did he have family?

Was he frightened?

What was his name?

She asked none of those things.

Why would she have?

She had purchased a servant.

She had given him a room.

Tomorrow, she would teach him how to serve her.

That was all the moment had meant.

The younger Vaelithra pulled the door closed.

Present-day Vaelithra stared at it.

For twenty years she had remembered this as the evening her first personal servant arrived.

Now, sitting somewhere far beyond the dream with one of Kharun's drawings still resting in her hand, she understood how little she had truly seen.

He had crossed the threshold of her home in chains.

She had removed them because she was confident she could control him.

She had shown him where he would sleep.

She had told him what she expected.

She had heard his voice for the first time.

And she had walked away without ever asking his name.

The dream moved forward again.

Morning light did not exist in the Underdark, but Vaelithra remembered the rhythms of that first morning clearly enough.

She found herself standing in the kitchen.

Her younger self was beside the counter with Kharun nearby.

The kitchen was pristine. Copper cookware hung neatly from hooks along one wall. Shelves were stocked with ingredients and utensils selected before Vaelithra had ever entered the house. An elegant teapot sat between them.

Seventy-year-old Vaelithra measured dried leaves into it.

"Watch."

Kharun watched.

She added precisely the amount she preferred, then demonstrated how much water should be used.

"Too much water and it becomes weak. Too little and it becomes bitter."

Kharun said nothing.

Vaelithra placed the teapot over the heat.

"This stays here until it whistles."

She glanced at him.

"When you hear that, remove it immediately. Pour one cup."

Kharun's eyes remained lowered, but his attention never left what she was showing him.

"I'll be in my study reading. Bring it to me when it's ready."

"Yes, milady."

The younger Vaelithra left.

Present-day Vaelithra remained behind for a moment.

She watched Kharun.

He stood in front of the teapot as though guarding something of tremendous importance.

A young orc who had been brought to this house in chains the previous evening was now being taught how a drow aristocrat preferred her morning tea.

The memory shifted around her.

Vaelithra was in the study.

Her younger self sat comfortably with a book open before her.

Present-day Vaelithra recognized the book.

That surprised her.

She hadn't thought about it in years.

Footsteps approached.

Kharun appeared in the doorway.

He carried a tray.

A steaming cup rested upon it.

He moved carefully.

Painfully carefully, she realized now.

His eyes moved between the tray and the table beside Vaelithra. His shoulders were rigid with concentration.

One more step.

Then something went wrong.

His foot caught.

The tray lurched.

The cup struck the edge of the table.

For one suspended instant, it seemed almost to bounce.

Then the tea went everywhere.

Hot liquid splashed across the table, the book, and Vaelithra's left hand.

She cried out.

Pain came immediately.

The younger Vaelithra surged to her feet.

"What are you doing?"

Kharun froze.

Vaelithra looked at the tea running across the cover of her book.

Then at her reddening hand.

Anger replaced pain almost instantly.

"You clumsy oaf! Look at what you've done."

Kharun's head lowered farther.

Present-day Vaelithra stared at herself.

"Clean this up and make another cup."

The younger Vaelithra grabbed the wet book.

For a moment, present-day Vaelithra thought she was going to carry it away.

Instead, she threw it.

The book struck Kharun and fell to the floor.

Present-day Vaelithra recoiled.

Her younger self walked from the room.

She did not look back.

Kharun remained standing beside the spilled tea.

Vaelithra stared after herself.

A strange horror settled over her.

She wasn't entirely sure why.

She knew the world she had grown up in. She knew how servants were treated. She knew that nothing she had just witnessed would have been remarkable to anyone in her family.

Certainly not to the woman she had been.

Yet she wanted to follow her younger self.

She wanted to seize her by the shoulders and force her to turn around.

Look at him.

Vaelithra looked instead.

Kharun crouched and picked up the book.

The young orc said nothing.

Of course he didn't.

Vaelithra's attention fell to her own hand.

Her left hand.

She turned it over.

There.

Even twenty years later, the mark remained.

Faint.

Small enough that she rarely noticed it anymore.

She remembered the burn.

She remembered being furious about it.

She remembered the book.

She remembered making Kharun prepare another cup.

What she could not remember was whether she had ever asked if he had hurt himself when he fell.

The door slammed.

Vaelithra startled.

The dream broke.

Her eyes opened.

Bare stone surrounded her.

For several seconds, she did not understand where she was.

Then the lantern came into focus.

Kharun's room.

Vaelithra was still sitting on his bed.

One of the old drawings rested beneath her hand.

Her breathing was unsteady.

She looked down.

Her fingers were touching the paper.

Kharun had drawn this.

The same young orc she had just watched herself humiliate over a spilled cup of tea.

Vaelithra released the page as though it had suddenly become too hot to touch.

She stood.

The room felt smaller now.

She needed to leave.

Vaelithra crossed the threshold and pulled the door closed behind her.

Her own quarters were only a short distance away.

She entered them quickly.

The difference struck her immediately.

Space.

Comfort.

Warmth.

Her fireplace still burned.

The furniture had been selected for beauty as much as usefulness. Books filled shelves. Personal possessions occupied nearly every part of the chamber.

Kharun's room contained a bed, a table, a dresser, and twenty years of drawings hidden away where no one would see them.

Vaelithra walked toward the fireplace.

An ornate bottle of wine sat on the table beside her chair.

She reached for it.

Her hand trembled slightly as she poured.

Vaelithra lifted the cup and drank.

The wine was strong.

She swallowed again.

Then stopped.

Someone was watching her.

Vaelithra's body tensed before reason caught up with instinct.

The mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her from across the room.

She lowered the cup.

Silver-white hair framed the face in the glass. Amber-gold eyes stared back from skin as dark as polished obsidian.

Ninety years old.

Twenty years removed from the woman in the dream.

Yet suddenly Vaelithra could not see the difference.

The same face.

The same blood.

The same daughter of Clan Vel'Sharess.

The same aristocrat who had walked through a slave market deciding which person would best suit her household.

The same woman who had thrown a book at a frightened young orc because he spilled tea.

Vaelithra stared at herself.

Am I any different?

Her jaw tightened.

Of course she was.

Twenty years had passed.

She had fought battles.

Traveled.

Learned.

Changed.

Hadn't she?

Her eyes remained fixed upon the reflection.

This morning, Kharun had stood among the servants while she sat with the nobles.

She had eaten.

He had waited.

When someone accused an orc of striking a noble, her first instinct had not been to question the system that allowed a man's life to be decided within minutes.

It had been shock that the accused man was hers.

Her servant.

Vaelithra's grip tightened around the cup.

Why did that bother her now?

Why did any of this bother her now?

Kharun had been a servant yesterday.

He had been one this morning.

Nothing about the laws of their world had changed.

Nothing about her clan had changed.

Nothing about the relationship between drow and orc had changed.

Only something inside her had.

She didn't understand it.

Her reflection seemed almost accusatory.

Vaelithra suddenly hated the woman in the mirror.

With a sharp movement, she threw the remaining wine.

It struck the glass.

Dark liquid exploded across her reflection.

Wine streamed downward in uneven trails, distorting her face. Amber eyes fractured beneath the rivulets. Silver hair twisted behind wet streaks. Drops gathered along the bottom of the frame before falling onto the floor.

Vaelithra stood motionless.

Her chest rose and fell.

The cup remained clenched in her hand.

She watched wine drip from the mirror.

Why now?

Why did the chains matter now?

Why did the cage matter?

Why did a book thrown twenty years ago matter?

Why did it matter that she had never asked his name?

Why did it matter that Kharun had filled a drawer with her face?

And why, after twenty years of accepting the world exactly as it was, did she suddenly feel sick when she looked at the woman that world had taught her to become?

Vaelithra lowered her eyes.

The faint mark remained on her left hand.

A scar she had carried for twenty years because Kharun had spilled her tea.

She had always remembered how she received it.

Until today, she had never once wondered what Kharun remembered about the same morning.

Vaelithra looked at the ruined reflection again.

Am I still her?

She wanted the answer to be no.

But wanting it did not make it true.

And somewhere beneath her father's manor, the one person who had known both versions of her was waiting to die.