Page 4 of Chains of Nightshade

"Did you hear?" One whispers to the other. "Lady Morana is throwing another feast tonight."

"More work for us." His companion grabs a piece of bread. "And more mess for the defect to clean up." Their words are sharp, but I'm numb to their blow. It's true. I'm exhausted, weak and defective.

My fingers curl around the brush handle. The rough bristles scratch my palm, but I barely notice. My mind drifts, floating away from the pain in my joints, the burning in my muscles. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll just fade away entirely, dissolving into nothing more than another shadow on these stone walls.

The cook bangs a pot. "Less daydreaming, more scrubbing."

I dip the brush back in the bucket. The water's gone cold and dirty. Like everything else in this place. Like me.

A dark elf noblewoman sweeps through, her dress brushing against my back as she passes. She doesn't even pause, doesn't acknowledge my existence. I'm nothing more than another piece of furniture, less valuable than the floor I'm cleaning.

Back and forth. Back and forth. The motion never ends, just like this existence that stretches endlessly before me.

Laughter filters through the kitchen doorway, the musical tones of dark elf voices cutting through the monotony of my scrubbing. I pause, my hands stilling on the brush as their words drift in.

"Did you see that pathetic human cleaning the floors?" The voice belongs to Lady Morana's daughter. "The one that looks like she might break if you breathe on her too hard?"

"Oh, that one." Another voice, deeper, more masculine. "The defect."

My shoulders tense, but I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, watching water pool in the grooves between stones. A drop falls from my face, joining the puddle. I hadn't realized I was crying.

"That human's barely alive," the male voice continues. "They should've tossed her out with the trash years ago."

More laughter follows, the sound piercing through my chest like needles of ice. My fingers clench around the brush handle, knuckles white with strain. They're right. What use am I? I can barely lift this brush, can hardly finish my tasks without stopping to catch my breath.

The cook bangs another pot behind me, making me flinch. "Get back to work," he snaps. "Those floors won't clean themselves."

I dip the brush back in the bucket, ignoring how my arms shake with the effort. The dark elves' voices fade as they move away, but their words remain, echoing in my head. They're not wrong. I am barely alive, just existing, taking up space that could be better used by someone stronger, someone useful.

The brush moves across the stone again, leaving trails of dirty water in its wake. Just like me – trying to clean but only spreading the mess around.

My hands won't stop shaking. The brush slips from my grip, clattering against the stone floor. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as I struggle to draw breath into my burning lungs. Just a moment's rest. That's all I need.

"Look at her." It's Marcus's voice, one of the human staff, who has just entered with a sack of wheat. His voice cuts through my labored breathing. "Can't even hold a brush."

I press my palm flat against the cold floor, trying to ground myself as another wave of dizziness washes over me. The kitchen's warmth feels stifling, pressing in from all sides.

"She's so useless." Heavy boots stop beside me. "Why hasn't she been replaced?"

Through the curtain of my hair, I see Marcus shaking his head. His pity stings worse than his words. At least hatred is honest.

"Because no one else wants to clean the lower levels," another servant, Alice, replies. "Even the rats avoid those halls."

My fingers curl against the stone as I try to push myself up. My arms tremble with the effort, and I sink back down. The cold seeps through my thin dress, chilling me to the bone.

"Still." Marcus's boots shift. "There's got to be someone better than... this."

I close my eyes, willing them to move on, to leave me alone with my weakness. The familiar tightness in my chest increases, making each breath a struggle. They're right. I am useless. A burden. A defect.

"Just get back to work," the cook barks from across the kitchen. "And you—" His words crack like a whip. "Get up. Those floors won't clean themselves."

I reach for the brush again, my fingers barely able to close around its handle. The weight of it feels impossible, like trying to lift a mountain.

The sun creeps higher, casting long shadows through the kitchen windows. My arms burn from the endless scrubbing, but the floor seems no cleaner than when I started. I continue to listen to the dark elves' voices waffle in through the hallway.

"These humans multiply like vermin," a silky voice says. "We should cull the weak ones."

"That one in the kitchen, scrubbing the floors," another voice, closer now says. "It's practically dead already."

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