"And clean the pigsty once you are done here." This was Canib Kufu. Or rather known by his servants as 'Master Kufu'.
"Yes Sir." Enrid said, watching Kufu walk away. "Bastard." He cursed, continuing sweeping the dried leaves.
Enrid Forthwaver, had woken up early. Not it was midmorning and he still hadn't eaten anything. At times he wondered if there was any actual difference between him and a slave.
He was a servant, due to his broken mana core. Enrid was abandoned by his family, with no hope or future in sight...all he could do to live was food for work.
The mana core, a special organ besides the heart stores and releases mana, unfortunately for Enrid, the organ had a defect, that is to say, in magic usage he is a cripple.
"Sigh. Nothing is can do. I am but a poor young man. However, I think it is time I look for a new homestead. Master Kufu treats me unkindly. "
He went on, sweeping the dried leaves along the path, letting the wooden broom drag them in a neat line toward the hole he had dug earlier.
The manor's grounds were vast—some five acres of earth, stone paths, and carefully planted shrubs—but Enrid specialized in the inner portion, the area just outside the house itself.
He took pride, in a quiet way, in keeping this small portion of the estate free of the litter the wind dragged down from the surrounding trees.
Every now and then, he lifted his head, scanning the property. The leaves were thinly scattered, golden and brittle from the onset of fall. Beyond the edges of his sweeping, the estate stretched into rougher grass, dotted with clumps of weeds and the occasional wandering bird.
His Core throbbed faintly beneath his chest, a dull reminder of his inadequacy. The defect left him crippled in all magical matters; he could not summon fire, nor water, nor shape the earth in the ways most people could. Magic ran through every vein of the world, a stream into which even peasants dipped to make life slightly easier, yet for him, it was a locked fountain.
He pressed on. The broom rattled along the gravel, stirring small puffs of dust into the air. He swept methodically, occasionally dragging the heap closer to the hole he had dug near the corner of the inner yard, a rough pit large enough to hold a week's accumulation of leaves.
Once each batch was bundled and thrown in, he returned to the line, hands roughened and stained by the splintered wood of the broom.
Sweeping was monotonous, yet in the repetition, he found small moments of reflection.
Every day was like this—work, hunger, exhaustion. At times, he wondered if there was any difference between himself and the animals he tended.
Slaves and servants might have had families, names, perhaps dignity in their own way, but he had none of that.
Perhaps he could find some semblance of life beyond this, not that he knew of any.
As he dragged the last line of leaves toward the hole, he noticed movement from the edge of the house. Karisa Rueda, a maid from the manor, was walking briskly along the stone path, a basket balanced carefully on her arm.
Her hair was tied back neatly, and her eyes flicked nervously toward the front door as if expecting someone to emerge.
Enrid recognized her instantly; she often worked inside, attending to the household, but sometimes she passed through here to bring him scraps of bread or bowls of broth, small kindnesses that she never dared to announce publicly.
"Good morning, Enrid," she said softly, stopping a few paces away. Her tone was casual, but there was a subtle urgency in her gaze, the kind that spoke of secrets kept and risks taken.
"Morning," he replied, bowing slightly, keeping his broom in motion. He did not dare linger; Master Kufu's eyes were everywhere, even when he seemed absent.
Karisa stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I brought you some bread. You… I thought you might still be hungry."
Enrid shook his head gently. "I am fine. You risk too much." Yet, he could not resist; he reached out and accepted the loaf, warm from the hearth, fragrant with butter. "Thank you," he whispered, tucking it carefully into the folds of his tunic.
She gave a small nod, glancing toward the house. "Be careful. He watches more than you think."
Then she turned, slipping away along the stone path, leaving him to his labor once more.
The sun climbed higher, warming his back as he lifted the last bundle of leaves and tossed them into the pit.
He set down the broom and adjusted the leather gloves that protected his hands. The pigsty awaited. Mud and straw and the scent of animals would assault him, but that was the next duty.
His boots crunched against gravel, each step deliberate, measured.
As he approached the pigsty, a low grunt and the shuffle of hooves greeted him. The pigs, large and impatient, rooted through the straw, snorting and squealing.
He rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands into the muck, beginning the task of cleaning, separating straw from waste, shoveling methodically into a heap to be composted or burned later. Sweat ran down his temples, mixing with the grime, yet he worked with steady hands, disciplined, almost meditative.
Time passed like this. The work was endless, but it had rhythm. He could feel the Core defect gnawing at him, everyday, but he pushed on, muscle memory and sheer necessity carrying him through.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine another life—one where he wasn't weak, where the Core throbbed with steady mana, where he could summon wind or flame without effort. But such thoughts were dangerous, they only gave false hope, and he shoved them aside, returning to the tangible muck and straw, the only things he could truly touch and control.
...
..
.
Enrid's stomach grumbled as he closed the door to the pigsty. Finally, he was done.
The stink clung to his gloves and sleeves, but he had learned to ignore it, or at least mask it with the faintly sweet smell of straw.
He washed his gloves in a bucket of water, rubbing the leather until it was soft.
The mud swirled down the drain with a small hiss. He wiped his hands on his tunic, rolled the sleeves back, and took a deep breath. Dusting himself off the invisible dust, he started walking to his habitat.
Because he worked on the inner parts of the estate, he was fortunate enough to have a small personal space—a one-room cottage at the far end of the yard, tucked near the old willow tree.
As expected, his food was waiting at the doorstep. A simple wooden tray, bread slightly crusted from morning, a cup of water, a plate with a bit of meat swimming in thin broth.
He lifted the tray without entering, settling under the shade of a nearby tree. The branches swayed gently above him. "Finally," he muttered, laying the tray on the grass.
He picked up the bread first, breaking off a chunk and chewing slowly, savoring the dry crumb. The meat followed, each bite warm, the broth tangy but nourishing.
Water to wash it down, lips wetting, eyes closing briefly in quiet satisfaction.
Then he remembered the bread Karisa had passed him. He pulled it out carefully, wiping off the faint dust and crumbs, and ate it last, the faint sweetness of butter lingering on his tongue.
He let himself savor it fully, because such small indulgences were rare in his world, for people like him at least.
When the tray was empty, he rose and carried it to the servant's kitchen—or rather, the small shed they called a kitchen.
The fire was dead, smoldering only faintly from the morning's work. Uncle Mitis, the cook in charge of the servants, sat on a low stool, his spoon clinking against a worn bowl.
"Ah, Enrid," Mitis said, eyeing him over the edge of his bowl. "You've finished with the pigs, have you? Smell tells me you have."
"Yes, sir," Enrid replied, placing the tray carefully inside the shed. "All cleaned and—well, as clean as it'll ever be."
Mitis chuckled. "You're getting better at it, lad. Don't let Kufu hear that or he'll start demanding more."
"Master Kufu already demands enough," Enrid muttered, shaking his head. "I doubt there's a single hour left in the day he hasn't accounted for."
"You'll get used to it," Mitis said, shrugging. "Or you won't. Some lads never do. But you've got spirit." He paused, swallowing a mouthful of broth. "How's the bread I snuck you this morning? Did you receive it?"
Enrid smiled faintly. "Better than anything he'd provide me, sir. Thank you…again." He looked down at the tray.
Most servants and maids tried to make his life easier and worked hand in hand, he could at least wash his own plates.
"You go on. Do not fret about that, do what needs doing." He gestured toward the manor's entrance. "Trimming the hedges. That'll be your next task, I reckon. Nice, neat edges, mind you. Kufu likes em perfect."
Enrid nodded, but Mitis leaned closer. "One thing though, boy. Firewood's low. For supper. You'll need to fetch some before dusk, else we'll all shiver and starve when night comes."
Enrid groaned softly. "Of course. And I suppose I should thank you for reminding me before I start the hedges."
Mitis grinned, a crooked line that softened the stern angles of his face. "Better than starving right. Now do that, yes?"
"Understood, Uncle Mitis." Enrid muttered, returning to his cottage.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, the familiar creak of old wood greeting him like it always did.
The cottage was small.
A single room with an earth floor, a straw mat laid neatly, blankets folded with care and stacked against the wall. Nothing else worth mentioning.
Just as he was taking his eyes elsewhere, he saw it. A letter.
It sat atop his folded blankets, white and clean, the paper uncreased, untouched by dirt or straw.
Enrid froze.
*That wasn't there this morning.*
He stepped closer, each footfall measured. The air felt heavier.
Someone had placed it carefully.
His throat tightened. *This is no prank,* he thought. *No one comes in here.* The servants had better things to do. Master Kufu never bothered. And yet«
He picked it up.
The paper was cool against his skin.
He unfolded it.
And read:
[To Whom This Letter Finds]