Page 1 of Chains of Nightshade

1

VERA

The silver tray trembles in my hands as I navigate the dimly lit corridors of House Nightshade. Each step sends waves of exhaustion through my frail body, and my breath comes in short, painful gasps. The ornate dishes clink against each other, threatening to spill their contents.

"Watch where you're going, defect," a passing dark elf noble sneers, shoving past me. His razor-sharp teeth glint in the flickering light.

I steady myself against the cold stone wall, my fingers leaving sweaty prints on its smooth surface. The weight of the tray makes my arms ache, but I can't afford to rest. Not when Lady Morana expects her dinner precisely at sunset.

Two servant girls whisper as they pass, their voices carrying in the empty hallway. "Poor thing won't last the winter."

"Better that way. One less mouth to feed."

Their words shouldn't hurt anymore. I've heard variations of them since I could walk. Born weak, stayed weak – that's what they say. The other slaves at least have their strength, their ability to work. Me? I can barely carry a tray without trembling.

The magical crystals embedded in the walls pulse with a soft purple glow, casting dancing shadows that make my head spin. My legs wobble beneath me, and for a moment, the world tilts sideways.

"If you drop that tray, girl, it's the whipping post for you," an elf guard calls out from his post beside the great hall doors.

I bite my lip and force myself forward. One foot in front of the other. That's all I know. All I've ever known. The dark elves own every breath I take, every moment of my existence. They own my weakness, my sickness, my worthlessness.

The kitchen master's words from this morning echo in my head: "You're lucky we keep you at all. Most would have put you down by now."

Lucky. Yes, that's what they call it. Lucky to serve. Lucky to exist. Lucky to drag this broken body through endless days of servitude until it finally gives out.

A dark elf lord strides past, his leather boots clicking against the stone floor. The half-eaten apple in his hand catches my attention before he tosses it at my feet.

"Pick that up, human."

I must do what he says, the whip at his side a promise of punishment if I don't. Keeping the tray in my hands steady, I bend over, every movement sending daggers through my body. The bruised apple rolls against my fingers, and I clutch it with shaking hands. When I look up, the dark elf lord has already gone, probably forgotten I exist. Just like my parents have.

Did they cry when the dark elves raided our village? Did they search for their stolen baby? The older slaves whisper about the raids, about how the elves would sweep through human settlements like a plague. I try to imagine my mother's face sometimes, but it's always blank, empty. Like looking into still water at night.

"Move it," he barks.

The tray wobbles in my grip. My chest tightens as I imagine dropping it, the inevitable punishment that would follow. Not that it matters. Each day bleeds into the next, an endless cycle of serving until my body gives out. The kitchen master said it yesterday – I won't survive another winter.

Maybe that's for the best. One less mouth to feed, one less burden for the other slaves to carry. I've heard them talk about how they have to cover for me when I'm too weak to complete my tasks. Their resentment stings worse than the elves' cruelty.

Sleep calls to me, promising peace. But I lack even the strength to embrace that final rest. So I shuffle forward, carrying my tray, waiting for my body to make the choice my will cannot.

His laughter bounces off the walls like shards of broken glass, each echo a reminder of my place. The bruised apple weighs heavy in my palm – another gift I didn't ask for, another reminder of what I am.

Lady Morana's door looms before me, its black wood etched with runes that pulse with a sickly green light. The magic emanating from them makes my stomach churn – or maybe that's just the exhaustion. My arms shake as I lower the tray to the small table beside her door, careful not to disturb the precise arrangement of the dishes.

Two guards flank the entrance, their armor so dark it seems to swallow the light. They don't even glance at me. I'm beneath their notice, like a speck of dust or a shadow on the wall.

I check each item one final time. The bloodwine sits in its crystal decanter, exactly three fingers' width from the edge. The roasted meat – I don't want to know what kind – rests on its silver platter, garnished with purple herbs. The black bread, still warm from the ovens, fills the air with its yeasty scent.

One of the guards shifts his weight, his armor creaking. A warning. I'm taking too long.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I straighten up. The motion sends a wave of dizziness through me, but I can't show weakness here. Not in front of Lady Morana's door.

"Dinner," I call out, my voice barely more than a whisper. The word scratches my throat like ground glass.

I don't wait for a response – we're not allowed to. My feet carry me backward, keeping my face toward the door as protocol demands. Three steps, then I turn and hurry away, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

Two human kitchen slaves pass by, their whispers carrying through the hall.

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