The morning air carried the same chill it had every day, only now it was trapped inside walls of polished stone and orderly gardens. Lanterns still glowed faintly along the corridors as we were called to gather, each of us clutching our thin robes and wooden tablets. The attendants' steps were precise, measured, and the echo of their heels on the floor set the rhythm we were expected to follow.
I moved with the others, silent, my eyes sharp. The courtyard was larger than any square in the streets, but it smelled the same—dust, damp stone, and the faint sweetness of herbs. Nothing could hide the weight of work waiting for us. The palace might shine with silk and carved wood, but the labor it demanded left no room for admiration.
Our first task was simple in words, brutal in practice: scrub the stone floors of the Inner Court until every corner reflected light. The youngest girls shivered as they knelt on the cold tiles, brushes in hand. My knees ached the moment I pressed them down, but I remembered the streets. Pain was not an enemy—it was information.
The attendants walked among us, their eyes sharp as knives. They corrected positions, pointed out missed spots, and barked instructions that were brief but unyielding. Each command had a weight of consequence, though no one explained exactly what the consequence might be.
Hours passed, marked by the scrubbing of stone, the splashing of water, the ache in my back, and the whispering murmurs of my fellow girls. Some whispered their mothers' names, others said nothing at all. I said nothing. Observation was my currency, and words were expensive.
When the floors were finally judged acceptable, we were moved to the kitchens. Here, the work was different but no easier. Pots of rice and broth demanded stirring and tending, firewood had to be carried, and vegetables washed and chopped with speed and care. The steam from the cooking fires rose to mix with the scents of herbs, meat, and grain. The air was warm, but it made the exhaustion in my muscles sharper, more real.
I noticed how some girls trembled under the weight of carrying heavy pots or bending over the fires. A few dropped items, and the attendants' hands corrected them quickly, sharply, without a word. No one cried out loud; the walls were full of eyes even when the humans were not looking directly. A mistake here, a lapse there—it was a lesson we all understood instinctively: mistakes could cost you more than shame.
I worked quietly, calculating the angles of the fires, the weight of the pots, the exact rhythm needed to stir the broth without spilling a drop. When my arms ached, I shifted my stance and breathed in small, controlled measures. I had learned on the streets how to conserve energy and focus on what mattered. Here, the rules were different, but the principle was the same: survive by being attentive.
At mid-morning, the attendants called for the next task: polishing brass fixtures, dusting silk banners, and carrying supplies to the inner chambers. Each step felt designed to test our endurance. My hands were raw, my knees stiff, and the backs of my shoulders ached with the repeated lifting and bending. And yet, I realized something that made the aches feel almost familiar: the palace work was not unlike life on the streets. Hunger, labor, observation, and caution—these were constants. Here, the stone was smooth and the uniforms plain, but the structure of survival was the same.
When we were finally given permission to rest, it was brief. There was no meal yet, no bath, no relief beyond kneeling quietly while the attendants inspected our work. The girls murmured complaints, and a few tears escaped, but I did not join them. I felt no shame in exhaustion. I understood the rhythm. Finish the work, earn your small measure of comfort. Nothing was free.
By late afternoon, we were allowed our first real break of the day: a small bowl of rice and some dried vegetables. I ate quickly, aware that the next task was waiting, that the work was never truly over. The bowl warmed my belly, but it also reminded me that the palace, like the streets, demanded patience and planning. One could never take anything for granted—not a meal, not a moment of rest, not even the chance to sleep.
After the meal, the attendants ordered us to bathe. The water was lukewarm and scarce. We scrubbed quickly, washing the sweat, dust, and grime from the day's labor, but the effort left us cold when we stepped back into the open air. Even in a palace that gleamed with order and elegance, the smallest comforts were rationed, earned, and temporary.
I noticed how some of the girls huddled together afterward, whispering about what had been asked of them, comparing injuries, bruises, and exhaustion. I did not join them. I sat quietly, pulling my robe tight around me, letting my eyes roam over the gardens and the walls. In their beauty, I saw the same harshness I had seen in the streets. The palace might shine, the floors might gleam, the meals might arrive on time—but at its core, it demanded everything, gave little, and punished swiftly when one failed.
I realized then what I had known all along: there was not much difference between a palace child and a street child. Hunger, pain, discipline, and vigilance shaped both lives. Here, the rules were formal and measured, but the work, the waiting, and the constant test of endurance were no easier than dodging thieves, begging, or scavenging scraps on the streets.
When night finally came, the work done, the floors clean, the pots emptied, and the water drained, we returned to our rows of narrow mats. My body ached, but my mind was alert. I thought about the tasks we had completed, about what mistakes might have gone unnoticed, about what the attendants had noticed and what they had ignored. I cataloged faces, actions, and rhythms, storing them like currency for a day I might need it.
Sleep came slowly, as it always did when the body and mind were in constant calculation. Outside, the palace was silent, but inside, I felt the weight of tomorrow pressing already against my ribs. I knew the same rules, the same expectations, and the same labor would return. Yet, somehow, the predictability brought a small comfort. On the streets, unpredictability had been deadly. Here, predictability allowed planning—and planning was power.
I closed my eyes, feeling the ache in my knees, the blisters forming on my hands, and the hollow warmth in my belly. Life was harsh. Hunger and labor did not respect age or circumstance. The palace had not softened the world; it had simply wrapped the harshness in silk and stone.
And yet, I knew something: I had survived the streets, and I would survive this too.