The Archshade

One

"Again."

The Empress folds her hands, clicking her long, painted nails together like claws. Her personal guard raises his riding crop above his head and lashes the back of my calves a second time. Pain explodes across my skin—a slicing, stinging pain. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.

At the third lash, I stumble and fall to my knees, hoping for mercy but knowing better. The fourth forces a strangled cry from my lips. At the final lash, my legs are useless, shuddering with a raw, aching numbness. My knee-length skirt exposes the sickly, purple marks swelling over the flesh of my calves.

Crawling away on my hands and elbows, I cast a glance at the crystal vase of dead flowers sitting on the table in the center of the Empress's chambers. Even in death, a trace of their perfume still lingers in the room.

"Get that wretch out of my sight," the Empress commands. She closes her eyes and presses her fingers to her temples, gently massaging her painted skin. "This whole ordeal has brought on another raging ache in my mind."

"Yes, Your Radiant Highness."

The guard clamps his meaty hand on my shoulder and drags me across the lavish rug with its gold tassels and soft threads. In the entry hall of the Empress's chambers, the guard pulls open the massive gold door and flings me into the corridor. I land in a heap, a tangle of battered skin and sore limbs.

"Get yourself gone," the guard growls. "And consider yourself lucky. Those were light lashings."

A snarling smile comes to my lips, and even through the throbbing pain, I find my voice. "You'll have to try harder next time," I taunt.

The guard draws himself up, puffing out his chest. "Watch your tongue!" He tightens his grip on the horsewhip in his hand. I brace for the sixth lashing, digging my fingernails into the stone beneath me.

The guard cracks the riding crop against the floor, a hair's width away from my leg. A warning. He then jabs the crop in my face, hissing his threat to me.

"Next time, I break them."

He slams the door shut.

I manage to rise to all fours like an animal, but I'm forced to pause there, gasping in agony. My eyes water as I stare at my fingers, sucking in breaths through clenched teeth. Pain radiates through my legs like a dozen knives slowly driving into the meat of my calves. From the back of my throat, tiny whimpers struggle to emerge from my lips, but I swallow them down, burying them in my gut. Instead, I let out a low, guttural growl and hock a gob of spit at the golden door. Watching the dripping fleck of disrespect only mildly soothes the smoldering in my chest.

Once the worst of the stinging subsides, I use the stone wall of the corridor to pull myself up. Walking is a slow process, but my feet know where to go: this long corridor, take the door on the right, head down the hall for the servants, through another door, down a flight of narrow steps, around a corner, through another bustling hall, and finally into the kitchens.

The maids and butlers rush from room to room, taking on an air of annoyance as I slowly pass by. I glare at every person I see, daring them to scold me. They see me limping along. I know they see me even though their eyes never meet mine. I know they see me because yesterday it was someone else, today it's me, and tomorrow there'll be another thrall shambling through the underbelly of the palace like an injured rat retreating to its nest.

Down the staircase, I begin to smell it. Familiar scents waft into the servant halls from the kitchens—the earthen smell of yeast dough, the savory aroma of braising lamb, and the pungent whiff of exotic spices. Normally, my mouth would water at the thought of all the delicious food being prepared for the emissaries, but at the moment, my stomach is sick with pain. My steps are unsteady, and I grimace with each one.