The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones, echoing off the palace walls. Seris kept her back straight, hands folded neatly, chin level.
The air smelled of cold stone, horse sweat, and smoke from the torches that lined the courtyard. Guards flanked the carriage in silence, their eyes hidden beneath black hoods. Seris did not meet them. She could not. She had been trained to obey, to move like a shadow, to survive.
The gates opened like the jaws of some monstrous beast, revealing the palace hall beyond. High ceilings stretched overhead, walls of gray stone veined with frost. Banners snapped sharply in the wind, the gold thread glinting dimly in torchlight. Seris stepped down, careful, precise. Each footfall measured, each breath controlled. A doll in motion. A gift to the Crown.
Inside, the girls were lined up like offerings. Linen shifts clung to thin bodies, damp with fear and sweat. Leather tags replaced names. Numbers hung from their wrists. Identity stripped away. Seris joined the line at the far end, eyes low, body still. Some girls watched her with envy, some with despair, but she did not care. Not yet.
Three inspectors waited at the head of the hall. Dark robes trimmed with gold, each carrying an instrument of judgment: a ledger, a measuring rod, a short, curved blade streaked with dried blood. The smell of iron was thick, permanent.
The first girl stepped forward. Fingers clasped. Praying to the God who let this happened to us.
She stepped forward, arm twisted and scarred. "Damaged," muttered the measuring inspector. The blade came down again, slicing through soft flesh. The girl cried out, a high, ragged scream, before her knees buckled. Blood ran dark and fast across the floor. An attendant struck her across the ribs to quiet her, and she went still, barely breathing. The iron smell thickened, clinging to Seris's nostrils. Behind her, someone gagged quietly. "Silence," barked the ledger priest. Silence returned, heavy and oppressive.
Another girl collapsed nearby, her shift stained with blood. An inspector pressed the curved blade to a bruise on her shoulder, muttering about imperfection, a small, precise cut slicing the skin.
The girl whimpered, clutching at her arm, but no one comforted her. Another girl fainted, hitting her face on the floor. The smell of iron and burnt wax from the torches made Seris's stomach churn. Stillness. Perfection. Survival.
The inspection dragged on. Girls stumbled, cried, screamed softly, passed out. Blood dripped from wounds and smeared across stone, leaving long, dark streaks. The floor grew slick. An inspector kicked a girl to make her rise. She hissed through teeth, a wet, sharp sound of pain. Seris did not move. She could not. She had been trained for this.
When the inspection ended, surviving girls were herded through endless corridors, torchlight flickering against stone walls. The air smelled of iron, sweat, and fear. Blood stains remained, stark reminders of failure. Whispers followed.
Then it was her turn. The hall narrowed. Stone walls, flickering torchlight, cold measuring eyes. "Number 47," said the first inspector, flipping through the ledger. He lifted her chin, fingers pressing along her collarbone, brushing over her shoulders, down to her hips. Heat flared beneath his touch, but she did not flinch. She had learned never to flinch.
His hand lingered, too slow, too familiar. Something inside her snapped. She pressed her heel down onto his foot with all her strength. Bone met bone. He hissed and stumbled back. His hand rose, threatening. Seris did not move. She did not flinch. Another inspector barked sharply, "Watch it! Are you mad?"
The first inspector froze. "That one is for the inner court," said the second, voice cold and sharp. "The most presentable of the lot. Damage her, and you answer to the Castellan." A long silence followed. The first inspector lowered his hand, though his eyes still burned into her, promising punishment later.
"Pass," he said finally. Pass. Like she had won something, though no one knew what. Seris stepped forward, past the blood and the stains of the others, bare feet brushing against the slick, red stone. She did not look down. She did not look back.
________
The inspectors' grip on her arms was firm but not cruel as they guided her through twisting corridors, past the echoes of girls who had already failed, past torches that bent and flickered in the stone gloom.
The smell of iron and sweat clung to the walls, thick and permanent, as if the palace itself remembered the blood that had fallen here for centuries. Seris walked perfectly still, every step calculated, her back straight, her hands folded. A doll in motion, a gift to the Crown.
They brought her to a heavy wooden door. The brass handle was cold beneath her fingers. One inspector opened it without ceremony and gestured for her to step inside.
The door shut behind her with a solid, final thud. Silence pressed against her ears, cold and thick. Seris's bare feet met the stone floor, smooth and unyielding. The room smelled of dust, old smoke, and faint iron—the residue of what had come before.
A mirror leaned against the far wall, its dark wood frame tall and unyielding. Seris's eyes fell on it. She had never cared much for her reflection; mirrors had always been a temptation for vanity, a weakness that could be punished.
But now, she stared. Long, straight brown hair fell like ink down her back. Light freckles dusted pale skin, smooth and unmarred. Eyes steady. Lips pressed. She looked like what she was supposed to be: perfect, polished, a vessel for the Crown.
Her stomach twisted. That was all she would ever be to them. A body to breed, to adorn, to obey. They had taught her all her life that women were sin made flesh, that girls carried Ophelia's curse in their blood. And still, she was alive. Still, she was here. Still… she breathed.
Her fingers touched the glass, cold and smooth. The reflection seemed to watch her back, daring her to obey. Rage pooled in her chest, dark and thick. Never.
She would not kneel. She would not bend. She would not be used as a vessel for their money, their religion, their cruelty.
The torchlight flickered, shadows leaping along the walls. For a moment, the room felt alive, as if it too held its breath, waiting. She clenched her fists at her sides. They had called her a gift to the Crown, a prize, property.
For twenty-one years she had obeyed, balanced books on her head, knelt through endless prayers, walked like a doll, slept in straw, spoken only when spoken to. And now, they expected her to continue. To remain silent, pliant, unbroken.
The door creaked. A guard waited, silent, black-hooded, expressionless. Seris lifted her chin. She would give them no flaw to measure. They would see only what she allowed: the perfect, obedient girl, fragile but unyielding.
Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate line, teeth pressed together. She would not kneel. She would not obey. She would not allow herself to be a tool for the Crown, a commodity, a sin-laden child. She could not. She would not.
She straightened, shoulders square, hands folded, chin level. Perfect. Polished. Obedient. But the mirror reflected more than the polished surface; it reflected something alive beneath the calm, something cold and hard, something ready.
Seris turned from it, leaving the reflection behind. The hall awaited. Rules, lessons, punishments, inspections. Chains, wands, blades, eyes everywhere. She had survived every one so far. She would survive this.
And she would never bow.