Drothiker

6.

Ablaze damning Kosas.

Faolin Wisflave felt as if her body would crumple any minute now. First day at slavery and she didn't think she was going to wake up tomorrow; if she did, maybe without a few bones and knackered muscles.

Her dress was drenched in sweat when she returned to the crypt of slaves after the day's work, her fingers bleeding from the work in kitchen, ears ringing with Cook's hissing and scolding. Faolin was vaguely aware of slaves seated and chatting in the crypt, of the exhausted groans resonating in the bricks as she made her way to her chamber, her lids as heavy as her whole body.

She never realized soldiers ate so much, or were untidy as Saqa. The only part of the day she'd relished had been when she'd had to furbish the swords in the courtyard and stables. Because otsatyas, she could have sworn they called to her, pled for her to wield them.

But damn Jegvr, all her training was lost somewhere in the stones of the Voiceless Pits, Faolin bruised herself in an effort to wield the weapon. Vur and Eliver had snorted—the only minute she'd seen of the two men today. She was fairly certain they must already be curled up in their beds, only because she was inclined to do the same the instant she spanned the endless route to the chamber. She was just about to enter the hallway when—

"Faolin."

Blinking tight to clear her blurry vision, Faolin turned at Eliver's voice—blur singings took a sharp edge, golden lights cleared as she did.

Vur, towering the half-hemvae, asked, "Where are you going?"

Faolin motioned to the hallway of chambers behind her. "Where does it look like I'm going?"

Eliver lifted his lavender brow. "Are you not staying for dinner?"

As if a plea, her stomach growled, loudly enough for both men's gazes to descend to it. It was Vur who imparted, "They're setting up dinner."

It was then she perceived Cook in the crypt behind Eliver and Vur, the arranged tables and watery mouths thanks to the aroma of Cook's delicious, delicious food. Faolin's own mouth rivered, her stomach growling, as if coaxing her.

And with Cook, stood Gnea—Faolin's chamber mate—smiling at Faolin, medium brown hair gleaming in the crypt's lights. They'd acquainted with each other at dawn, twenty minutes prior to leaving for the day. The woman—Faolin wasn't certain whether Gnea was a Vegreka or a Grestel—was enchantingly beautiful, enough to make her wonder whether it was Gnea's mejest seeding the alluring ... whatever she was.

If Faolin had had her mejest, she would have known instantly whether Gnea would be trouble. If she'd had her mejest, she wouldn't have been here at all.

Sighing, she snapped herself out of it, only to find Vur ogling Gnea. The latter blushing instantly and averting her stare.

Faolin snorted. "I don't suppose slavery is so hard for you."

Vur excused his gaze too, and only winked, smirking. Eliver was shaking his head. "You should have seen them earlier today."

"Don't act like you weren't ogling the soldiers while they were exercising," snarled Vur.

Eliver scowled, cheeks rimmed red. "In my defense, I didn't know you caught that."

"You were dribbling."

"I was not."

Faolin laughed. Eliver asked, changing the subject, "Are you staying?"

She nodded, her stomach growling its triumph.