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 visible. Ink marks faded on their wrists.
At the long table, a clerk's quill scratched.
"Next."
The girl stepped forward—not at the word, but the sound. A beat late, then corrected, stopping precisely at the painted line.
Bare feet. Clean. No chains.
"Classification?" the clerk asked without looking up.
"Hybrid," said the handler. "Partial elven strain."
The quill hesitated.
"Destination?"
"Menagerie. Beast garden intake."
The clerk looked up then, eyes moving in assessment: the curve of her ear, smooth throat, unmarked skin. She did not flinch.
"She's wrong," he said.
"Paper says otherwise," the handler replied.
A voice came from the doorway.
"Let me see."
The Under-Steward stood just inside, keys at his belt, unhurried as always. The ledger was slid toward him. He turned pages slowly.
"Menagerie," he repeated. "A waste."
"That is her assignment," the clerk said.
"For now."
He studied the girl again, smiling faintly—as if sharing a private understanding.
"How many today?" he asked.
"Eight."
"And by winter?"
Silence.
He closed the ledger.
"Garden. Valenor Estate."
"That's not—" the handler began.
"I'll take responsibility." The Under-Steward was already writing. "Temporary reassignment."
No seal. No justification. Only his signature.
"You know what happens when questions are asked," the clerk said.
"They don't ask about gardens."
The garden lay beyond the inner wall. Stone paths divided beds by growth cycle, not beauty. Water whispered through narrow channels beneath iron grates. Lanterns hung low, flattening shadows.
The Under-Steward stopped at the gate.
"Tools are there. You work until told otherwise."
She nodded.
"You're pretty," he said lightly.
She tilted her head—acknowledgment, not reply.
"They always are," he murmured, already turning away.
He had done this before. Often enough that it felt routine. Pretty ones were easier. Quiet ones easiest of all, especially before fear set in.
The menagerie was loud, public. Things screamed there. Things were counted.
Gardens were different.
Garden labor required little record past the gate. Transfers could be temporary. Losses blamed on weakness, illness, incompatibility.
Didn't last.
Unfit.
Sometimes nothing at all.
Names vanished. Beds reassigned. No one asked twice.
Kaelreth Valenor returned after dark. Doors opened and closed as they should.
A servant waited outside his chambers, silver thread at her collar.
"The High Adjudicator."
He nodded.
The room inside was cool, spare, stone walls bare. He removed his gloves, set them aside. She knelt without instruction.
Her posture was practiced. Balanced.
This was not affection.
This was allowance.
Chosen years ago for this service, she ate better than most. Slept alone. Was spared the labor that broke bodies. Others watched her with envy and caution.
No one touched her without permission.
Kaelreth reclined on the plush chaise, his posture relaxed yet regal. His eyes, sharp and assessing, followed the graceful movements of his scantily clad servant as she approached.
She knelt before him, her head bowed in deference, awaiting his command.
"My Lord," she murmured, her voice soft and submissive. "How may I serve you today?"
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.
She reached for his belt, unfastening it with practiced efficiency. Her slender fingers made quick work of his trousers, freeing his already hardening length. She looked up at him through her lashes, seeking permission.
At his nod, she leaned forward, her tongue darting out to taste him - a mere brush, teasing and light. Then, with a steadying breath, she took him into her mouth, her lips stretching around his girth.
She began to move, her head bobbing steadily as she worked him with skill and precision. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive tip before trailing along the underside, tracing the prominent vein. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat to accept his full length, suppressing her gag reflex with years of practice.
Kaelreth's breath hitched, his fingers curling into the velvet upholstery. He watched her through hooded eyes, the glisten of saliva on her chin. BORING, a daily ritual as natural as morning tea. Just like that.
The servant hummed around him, the vibrations adding an extra layer of sensation. Her hands came up to cup his balls, massaging them gently as she continued her oral ministrations.
She varied her technique, alternating between long, slow sucks and quick, flickering licks, keeping him on edge. Saliva dripped down her chin, coating his shaft and making the glide smoother.
The wet, obscene sounds of her efforts filled the room - slurping, sucking, the occasional muffled moan. Her nose nestled in the coarse hair at the base of his cock as she deep throated him fully, holding herself there until spots danced in her vision.
Kaelreth's hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust into the welcoming heat of her mouth. One hand came down to tangle in her hair, guiding her movements but allowing her control.
She could feel him growing harder, thicker, pulsing against her tongue. His grip on her hair tightened, a silent signal that he was nearing his peak.
The servant doubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked harder, her tongue working in tight circles around his sensitive flesh.
Kaelreth's breath came in short, sharp pants, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
With a guttural moan, he hit his climax, spurting hot and thick down her throat.
The servant swallowed reflexively, milking him for every last drop as she maintained eye contact, a silent act of submission and obedience.As the aftershocks faded, Kaelreth released his hold on her hair, allowing her to pull back.
"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.