I thought of the future, praying it would favor me, but it seemed the future wasn't smiling back at me. Each time I closed my eyes, I imagined freedom, but the reality that wrapped itself around me was darker than chains.
We arrived in Vernia as hostages, lined up like cattle and handpicked for service. Some were sent to the royal stables, others to the kitchens, while a few were taken for the queen's personal chambers. I thought, for a fleeting second, that I would be chosen to serve the queen. But fate had another plan. I was placed under Madame Tupé, a woman with a face as hard as granite, eyes sharp as whips, and a tongue that lashed worse than any cane. My role was not of honor or refinement; I was the errand maid, the servant of labor, the lowest of the low.
The kingdom cared less for us hostages. We weren't treated as humans but as burdens. No quarters were given for servants like me. At night, we laid our heads wherever we thought safe, under the staircases, in storerooms, sometimes even in the cold corners of the palace walls. The stone floors bruised my back, and rats scurried across my legs while I tried to steal fragments of sleep. Still, I endured. Every day I told myself: This suffering will one day be the fire that fuels my revenge.
An everlasting scar lived in me. Not just the memory of my nation's destruction, not only the image of my family slaughtered before my eyes, but a wound that bled anger into my veins every waking second. I swore that no matter how long it took, I would repay Vernia in full. For now, though, I had to play my cards well, blending into servitude while my heart sharpened its blade.
But hiding my hatred was never easy. The urge to strike back clawed at me. So I began with small acts, subtle rebellions, tiny sparks of chaos that reminded me I wasn't completely powerless.
The first was during a royal ball. The palace glittered with gold and laughter, nobles twirling under candlelight while musicians played. I was ordered to carry wine to the guests, but my eyes weren't on the goblets, they were on the heavy velvet curtains brushing the floor. I "tripped" with the candelabra, letting the flame kiss the fabric. In moments, the curtain caught fire. Screams pierced the air, nobles stumbled over one another, and chaos erupted as soldiers rushed to smother the flames. I stood at the edge of the room, heart pounding, lips curling in a silent smile. The blaze wasn't big enough to burn the palace, but it burned in me like a sweet taste of justice.
Another time, I snuck into the storehouses at night. With scraps of food I'd hoarded, I lured rats into the grain chambers. Within days, shrieks of servants echoed as rodents spilled out, chewing through sacks of the king's prized harvest. The soldiers beat anyone they suspected, but they never looked my way. I carried buckets and broomsticks with innocent obedience while, inside, I laughed at their misfortune.
But perhaps the boldest act was with the king's favorite horse. It was a magnificent stallion, strong and swift, treated better than most servants. The king adored it, often riding it before crowds, as though the beast were a symbol of Vernia's strength. One morning, while tasked with cleaning the stables, I slipped poison into its feed. I remember watching its legs buckle, hearing its anguished neigh echo across the fields. The king's fury roared through the palace when the horse collapsed dead. Dozens of servants were punished. I, however, scrubbed floors in silence, my eyes lowered, though inside me, victory pulsed.
Still, none of these acts filled the void. They weren't enough. Each act was a whisper, but my heart craved a scream. I wanted the king to feel what I felt, to lose, to grieve, to be torn apart. Until then, I would continue my silent war, strike after strike, until my revenge was complete.
Yet revenge was not without cost. Sometimes at night, as I lay curled in the cold, I questioned myself. How long can I keep this up? What if they catch me? What if I die before I see justice done? The doubts clawed at me, but every time I remembered the faces of my family, their blood staining the soil, the doubts melted into resolve.
I knew Madame Tupé suspected me. Her sharp eyes often lingered too long when mischief unfolded in the palace. Once, after the curtain fire, she gripped my wrist so tightly I thought my bones would crack. "You're a sly one," she hissed. "I don't trust you." But she had no proof, and suspicion was not enough to damn me. So I lowered my gaze, feigned obedience, and let her think she held control.
Every day was a battlefield, though no swords clashed. My war was waged in shadows, with fire, rats, and poison as my allies. And though the scars of slavery cut deep, each act of rebellion stitched a new part of me together, a girl no longer helpless, but dangerous.
I was not yet satisfied. Not until I brought down the throne of Vernia, not until the king who murdered my people gasped his final breath. Until then, I would remain the errand maid, the servant of labor, the shadow in the palace.
But in the silence of my heart, I whispered: My time will come. And when it does, the kingdom of Vernia will burn.