The palace smelled nothing like fear. Not like the streets I had known. It smelled of clean water, incense, polished stone, and a quiet that felt almost cruel in its perfection.
I was fifteen now. Five years had passed since the night the men took my mother, five years of hunger, cold, and learning how to vanish in plain sight. Every street corner, every alley, every market stall had been my teacher. I had survived because I observed, because I moved quietly, because I let the world underestimate me.
The gates closed behind us with a soft, heavy finality. I didn't look back. Looking back only lengthened the ache in your chest, and I had learned long ago that pain was a luxury I could not afford.
We were herded through a corridor wide enough for ten carts to pass, walls smooth, unyielding, swallowing our footsteps. Around me, the other girls whispered, clutched their sleeves, trembled. I watched. Every detail mattered—the distance between guards, the turn of a head, the way someone carried themselves. Observation was survival.
When the first courtyard opened, sunlight fell in precise squares across water that ran straight, gardens that were trimmed to discipline. The palace ran on rules, and rules, once understood, could be used.
A woman in gray robes approached, neither young nor old. She scanned us like we were livestock, then spoke.
"You are no longer citizens. You are not daughters. You are not guests. You are candidates for service. Whether you remain so depends entirely on your usefulness."
A thin wooden tablet was pressed into my hands. I looked down. Seventy-Three. My number. My name no longer mattered.
We were separated, measured, examined—height, posture, teeth, hair, scars, hands, everything noted. I undressed when told. Cold water, heat, inspection. Every mark, every scar, every weakness observed. I held my breath. I had learned in the streets that exposure is dangerous, but observation is power.
"She sees too much," I heard one attendant murmur. Another shrugged. "We'll see if that lasts."
By the time I was dressed again, my robe was pale and simple, identical to the others. The palace had started erasing us before our first night had even begun.
We slept in rows that offered the illusion of privacy. I lay awake, listening to breathing, counting footsteps, memorizing the faintest shifts in the air. I did not think of the streets. I did not think of my mother. Not yet.
I only watched. I only learned.
And I waited.