The bell tolled once.
It did not summon. It marked time.
The intake hall smelled of damp stone and lye. Straw clung to the corners where floor met wall. A line of women stood along the far side, spaced at arm's length, heads lowered, hands held visible. Ink marks dried on their wrists—temporary, already fading.
At the long table, a clerk's quill scratched without pause.
"Next."
The girl stepped forward.
She moved at the sound, not the word—a beat too slow. Then she corrected, halting precisely where the painted line ended.
Bare feet. Clean. No chains.
The clerk did not look up.
"Classification."
"Hybrid," said the handler beside her. "Partial elven strain."
The quill hesitated.
"Destination?"
"Menagerie. Beast garden intake."
The clerk looked up then.
His eyes lingered—not with interest, but assessment. The curve of her ear, the fall of her hair, the smooth line of her throat. No scars. No tremor. She did not flinch.
He frowned.
"She's wrong."
The handler shrugged. "Paper says otherwise."
A voice came from the doorway.
"Let me see."
The estate Under-Steward stood just inside, keys hanging at his belt, his expression mild. He never hurried.
The clerk hesitated, then slid the ledger toward him.
The Under-Steward turned pages slowly. Too slowly.
"Menagerie," he repeated. "A waste."
The clerk stiffened. "That is her assignment."
"For now," the Under-Steward said.
He looked at the girl again. This time, he smiled—not broadly, not openly. The kind of smile that suggested a shared understanding.
"How many have you processed today?" he asked the clerk.
"Eight."
"And how many will remain by winter?"
The clerk said nothing.
The Under-Steward closed the ledger.
"Garden," he said. "Valenor Estate."
The handler frowned. "That's not—"
"I'll take responsibility." The Under-Steward was already writing. "Temporary reassignment."
No seal. No justification.
Only his signature.
The clerk watched the quill move.
"You know what happens when questions are asked."
The Under-Steward's smile did not change.
"They do not ask about gardens."
He closed the book.
---
The garden lay beyond the inner wall.
Stone paths cut through beds arranged by growth cycle, not beauty. Water flowed in narrow channels beneath iron grates—a low, constant whisper. Lanterns hung low, casting light that flattened shadows rather than chased them.
The Under-Steward stopped at the gate.
"Tools are there," he said, pointing to a wooden shed. "You work until told otherwise."
She nodded.
No hesitation. No thanks.
He watched her a moment longer than necessary.
"You're pretty," he said, conversationally.
She tilted her head—acknowledgment, not response.
He chuckled softly.
"They always are," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Then he turned and left.
He had done this before.
Often enough that it felt routine, not decision.
Pretty ones were easier. Quiet ones even more so. Best if they did not yet know fear.
The menagerie was loud, public. Things screamed there. Things were counted.
Gardens were different.
Garden labor required no documentation past the gate. Transfers could be temporary. Losses were blamed on weakness, illness, incompatibility.
Didn't last, he would say.
Or: Unfit.
Sometimes he said nothing at all.
Names vanished. Beds were reassigned. No one asked twice.
Kaelreth Valenor returned after dark.
No announcement preceded him. Doors opened where they should, closed where they should.
A servant waited outside his chambers, silver thread marking her collar.
She lowered her head.
"The High Adjudicator."
He nodded once.
Inside, the room was cool and spare. Stone walls bare. No personal objects in sight.
She closed the door.
He removed his gloves, laid them on the table. She knelt without being told.
Her posture was practiced. Balanced. Careful.
This was not affection.
This was allowance.
She understood the exchange.
Chosen years ago for this service, she ate better than others. Slept alone. Was spared labor that broke the body.
Others watched her with envy and caution.
No one touched her without permission.
Kaelreth stood unmoving, a statue in the dim light. His gaze fixed on nothing, his expression detached, cold. Before him, she attended her duty, her face a mask of flawless composure. Only the faint tension along her jaw, the subtle tremble in her meticulously still shoulders, betrayed the instinctive strain her body fought to suppress. Every movement was measured, every breath controlled—a study in precision against reflex.
The silence was not merely absence of sound, but a presence. The act unfolded within it—methodical, neither rushed nor indulgent. A transaction of function, executed with sterile perfection.
When it ended, it ended cleanly, like a blade parting a thread. She retreated, posture restored to utter stillness, her breath the only soft evidence of effort past. He remained standing, untouched, as if nothing had transpired between them.
"Leave," he said.
She rose, smoothing her clothing. Her legs trembled slightly—not from emotion, but from position held too long.
"By your blessing, my Lord," she said.
Gratitude was mandatory.
She left quietly.
The room remained unchanged—dull and airless.
From the house, windows glowed faintly.
Some lights meant safety.
Others meant nothing at all.
The girl in the garden did not know the difference.
Not yet.