Shadows We Serve

My breath is short, sweat trickling down my temples. My fist slices through the air and crashes into Ellie's jaw. She staggers, blinking hard. I don't let up. Quick sweep, she hits the stone floor with a dull thud.

I leap on her without hesitation. My knees pin her arms, the blade of my training dagger brushing her throat. She doesn't move. Just a thin trickle of blood. Barely anything. Then, two sharp taps on the ground.

— Okay... okay, she gasps.

I rise, panting, and offer her my hand. She hesitates a second, then takes it and pulls herself up.

— That was good, Ellie, I say gently.

— No it wasn't.

Always that same harshness in her voice. My sister never forgives herself. Even when she wins.

— Want me to remind you what Dreya said ?

— Maybe she was wrong.

I grab her arm before she can turn away, force her to look at me.

— She's never wrong. And you don't get to doubt now. You're getting a Great House. That's for sure.

Her gaze slips sideways, just a little. The shadows down here make it easy to disappear into silence.

— And if I don't ?

I stay quiet. Then I give her a confident smile. Not for me. For her. So she keeps holding on.

— You will.

She responds with a small, hesitant smirk, then resumes her walk through the tunnel, a narrow corridor carved from black rock, lit only by cracks in the ceiling. Light from the Upperworld, far above.

I stay still for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the low hum of the caverns. I stretch each tense muscle, then finally decide to get ready.

In the sleeping quarters, no one speaks. Each girl slips into the same fitted dark uniform, ties her hair into a bun. No names, no signs, no colors. We are Executioners in training or nothing at all.

I step into the adjoining chamber and strip off my reinforced corset and trousers in one practiced motion, setting my daggers within reach on the ledge. Naked, I approach the waterfall that trickles from the jagged stone wall frigid, metallic water that runs constantly through the lower caverns. Around me, other girls do the same. No words are exchanged. Just the sound of water and breath.

I step under the current, jaw clenched, and undo my bun. It's always the same ritual. The same steps. The same silence before the fall.

Back in the dormitory, I climb to my bunk and pull on the fitted black uniform, the fabric still carrying the weight of yesterday's effort, unwashed in the rush. As I lace up my boots, Ellie sits beside me, already dressed, her dark hair perfectly tied back.

— Do you think we'll see each other again soon ?

I tug the laces tighter, then glance up to meet her eyes.

— I don't know.

The flicker of sadness on her face cuts sharper than a blade. I place a hand on her shoulder.

— But we'll write to each other. Promise ?

She nods, then leans into me for a hug. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tighter than I should. We stay like that until the deep toll of a bell echoes through the cavernous stone. Time's up.

We rise as one. I offer her my hand. She takes it. Together, we descend the spiral staircase that carves endlessly through the rock, one level deeper with each breath. At the bottom, the air is dense. Dozens of girls are already gathered in tight rows, aged ten to eighteen, shoulders straight, backs rigid, faces unreadable. We fall in silently.

Then Dreya appears.

No ceremony. No cloak. Just the same uniform we wear, her stance sharper, heavier with command. She steps into view, high above us on a natural ledge carved into the cavern wall. Ellie tightens her grip on my fingers.

— Good morning to you all.

Her voice is calm, steady. It carries effortlessly through the stone.

— I'm glad to see you here, assembled. Because if you're here, it means you survived. The training. The winters. Yourselves.

Her eyes scan us.

— You are the last wall between chaos and order. The Cities above have forgotten you exist, some even deny you, but they only stand because of you.

She pauses. No expression. No softness.

— We, the Executioners, are not just weapons. We are watchers. We are correction. We are what remains when law fails and no one is left to act.

A low murmur ripples across the crowd. Ellie holds her breath.

— At eighteen, you will be assigned to a High-Rank House. You are not there to love. You are there to observe. To strike, if needed. To serve until death, or judgment.

Her voice drops, sharp as stone cracking.

— You will be feared. Used. Ignored. But never forgotten. And one day, you'll have to decide what you truly serve : peace... or truth.

From behind her, she unfurls a long scroll. The list. Ink on parchment. Cold fate.

She begins reading, name after name. With each word, another girl is called, another life assigned. Soft gasps. Quick glances. Silent hands held tight.

We're near the end.

— Ellie...

I feel her squeeze my hand.

— You are assigned to House Vardelis.

I turn. She's already looking at me, a cautious smile tugging at her lips. The Vardelis. The highest House. The rulers. Powerful. Feared. Protected by more than one Executioner. She won't be alone. That's what matters.

Dreya lifts her gaze.

— Emma...

I stop breathing.

— You are assigned to House Darneth.

The crowd murmurs. A beat of disbelief.

I stay still. Ellie stares at me, eyes wide.

Everyone knows the story. House Darneth. Once noble. Then traitors. Disgraced. Shunned. No Executioner has served them in generations. Until now.

I remain frozen, my gaze hard. Dreya closes the scroll and leaves the hall without another word. Around us, the girls return to their routines, training, studying maps, preparing to depart. I let go of Ellie's hand and climb the stone steps toward the leader's quarters.

At the door marked with the Executioners' seal, a serpent coiled around a dagger, I knock sharply, then enter without waiting for permission.

Dreya is seated behind her massive desk of polished stone, scrolls and wax seals spread across its surface. She doesn't look surprised by my intrusion. If anything, her eyes suggest she was expecting it.

— The Darneths ?!

I spit the name like venom. She rises slowly, every movement controlled.

— Why is it so hard for you to follow orders ?

Her voice is quiet, almost calm, too calm.

— Assign me to another House.

My tone is firm, but I already know how this ends. Dreya lets out a quiet laugh, sharp as ice.

— It will not be reconsidered.

She fixes her gaze on me.

— Go pack your things. Say your goodbyes.

I stay where I am, fists clenched. My voice is cold.

— And if I refuse ? If I desert ?

Dreya doesn't flinch. A faint smirk lifts the corner of her mouth.

— I don't need to remind you what happened to the last one, do I ?

She steps closer, and her voice drops lower, no louder than a whisper, but cutting deep.

— We all remember. She had the nerve to come back.

A pause. Her smile tightens.

— We made sure no one ever tried again.

Silence. I can't move, can't breathe for a second.

— So, you choose. Loyalty... or execution.

I hold her stare a moment longer, fury simmering just beneath my skin. Then I turn and walk out, my boots striking hard against the stone.

Back in the sleeping quarters, Ellie is waiting for me, her pack already slung over her shoulder. The others must have left. I move to my bed and start packing with rigid efficiency. Daggers. Clothes. A few scrolls. My hands move fast, angry, methodical.

Ellie steps closer. I can feel her eyes on me quiet, worried.

— She wouldn't let you switch ?

I don't look up. My voice comes out sharper than I mean.

— No.

I finish and throw the strap of the bag over my shoulder. One last time, I look around the place we grew up, the stone walls, the narrow bunks, the silence heavy with everything we can't say. Then I turn to Ellie.

She's watching me, trying to hide how much this is breaking her. But I see it anyway.

I pull her into a hug. Tight. Final. She clings to me like she's afraid I'll disappear the second she lets go.

— You'll write to me every day, right ?

Her voice shakes. She's not trying to hide the fear anymore.

— I promise.

I meet her gaze, steady and warm, forcing myself to be strong for her. She nods, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

I brush them away with my thumb.

— Come on. It's time.

I take a deep breath and walk Ellie outside. Our footsteps echo through the empty hallway. At the entrance, our paths split as she climbs onto the horse sent by her new House. She settles into the saddle with practiced ease, but I can still see the tension in her shoulders. One last glance. She meets my eyes, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

I turn away.

Unfolding the map from my bag, I head in the opposite direction, beginning the long journey toward the family I've been assigned to.

Two days of walking. The dense forest swallows me whole, damp and oppressive. My legs ache, my thoughts blur from solitude. I survive on what little I can hunt or forage, sleep light and restless, one eye always open.

Then, in the distance, a banner. Faded and torn, its edges dancing weakly in the breeze. The colors are nearly erased, but the shape... the old crest, warped and tired, is unmistakable.

I slow down. That banner is a relic of power long lost, a legacy blackened by betrayal.

My chest tightens. This is it. I'm nearly there. No turning back.

At last, I reach the house.

It's nothing like I imagined. Not a grand estate, not a fortress. Just a small, weather-worn dwelling at the edge of the world, half-swallowed by vines and moss. It looks forgotten. Abandoned.

Still, I approach with careful steps, alert. I push the door open without knocking and immediately freeze.

A soft noise behind me. I duck. An arrow whistles past my ear and thuds into the wooden frame.

Instinct kicks in. I twist, drawing a dagger and launching it toward the trees in one fluid motion. Then I drop low into a defensive stance, two more blades in hand, eyes scanning the undergrowth.

Silence. The forest holds its breath. I don't move. Someone's out there watching.

Step by step, I edge forward, each motion silent, deadly. Just as I brace to throw another blade, a small figure emerges from behind a tree.

A child.

A little girl. She holds a bow taut, an arrow still aimed at my heart. Her stance is steady, her eyes unwavering.

— Who are you ? I ask, daggers still raised.

She doesn't answer. Just stares.

Then, too late, I sense movement behind me. Arms close around my waist.

I react without thinking kick my legs up, slam my body backward. We both crash into a tree with a grunt of pain. The girl cries out, but I don't look away. My dagger hovers inches from the man's throat. He gasps beneath me, breath shallow. I don't strike. Not yet.

— Wait ! He shouts suddenly, hands raised.

I freeze.

His sleeves, faded fabric, frayed seams, but there it is. The crest. Barely visible, half-unstitched... but undeniably Darneth.

Slowly, I straighten, eyes locked on his. The little girl runs to his side, still gripping her bow.

— You're part of the Darneth family ? I say coldly.

The man pushes himself upright, wincing. He's older than I expected. Beard unkempt, shirt stained, eyes hollow with fatigue.

— Exactly. And you have no business here.

A short, bitter laugh escapes me.

— Trust me. I agree. But I've been assigned to your House.

His eyes narrow. He looks me over the dark uniform, the mark stitched just over my heart.

His confusion deepens.

— Why ?

I kneel to collect my daggers one by one, sliding them back into their sheathes behind my corset.

— Doesn't matter. It wasn't my choice.

The air grows still, the weight between us unspoken.

Finally, he exhales and turns.

— Very well. In that case... follow me.

I fall in step behind him, taking in every detail as we walk. The house is a single-story shell, slowly being swallowed by damp. The walls sweat moisture, the floorboards groan beneath each step. He shows me the narrow rooms, peeling walls, a sagging kitchen, a lone fireplace standing in an empty space like a forgotten monument. Out back, in a bed of yellowed hay, a cow with hollow flanks stares at nothing.

This place reeks of decay. Everything here matches the name they bear, ruined, dull, forgotten.

— We don't have enough room to house you, so...

— The barn will do. I cut him off.

I meet his gaze. He holds it for a moment, then looks away. He doesn't argue. He knows what I see when I look at this place.

— You think we're worthless too ? He asks, barely more than a whisper.

— I'm not here to think. Just to obey.

He nods once and turns away.

— Then I'll leave you to settle in.

The little girl follows him, pausing to look back at me. Her stare is somewhere between caution and curiosity. Then she's gone, and I'm left alone with the cow, who shifts as I approach, blinking slowly.

I nudge her aside to grab a handful of dry hay and spread it in a corner. I set down my bag and sit, silent. The air smells of wet straw and old manure. The walls press in, low and heavy. After a while, I get up. I can't breathe in here.

Outside, the sky has darkened. Clouds gather in thick, restless waves. I cross my arms, watching them roll above me. This isn't my place. I'll prove it to Dreya, I'll find a way back.

The first drops fall. Then rain slashes the earth, hard and cold. Thunder rolls in the distance. Perfect cover. I tighten my braid, sling my bag over my shoulder, and slip out of the barn without a sound. I don't look back and enter the forest.

The rain soaks through my clothes, making them heavier with each step. Thunder crashes in steady waves, shaking the ground beneath me. My vision blurs, but my focus stays razor-sharp. I know the risk. Desertion is a death sentence. But staying, trapped in a barn, guarding a family fallen from grace is a slow death of its own. I wasn't made for this.

Lightning splits the sky, striking a tree in the distance. Wood cracks, sparks fly. I freeze, breath short, pulse hammering just as something slams into me from behind.

Too late to dodge. The impact throws me face-first into the mud. I hit the ground hard but roll, twisting just enough to draw my dagger as I scramble to my feet.

A hooded figure lunges out of the storm. I block the first blow, stagger back, slipping on the wet earth. I slash in return, my blade finds his arm. He jerks away with a growl, rain streaming down his face.

A flash of lightning reveals him. Eyes locked on mine, calm and unwavering. I adjust my grip on the dagger, ready to strike again.

— What do you want from me ? I shout through the storm.

He doesn't back down.

— What you were sent for. To protect my family.

His voice cuts clean through the rain. 

— Your family doesn't deserve protection.

— And if you desert, you'll be no better than the image you have of us.

I say nothing. Because he's right, and I hate it.

Above him, a cracked branch sways, groaning under the wind. Without thinking, I throw myself at him. We hit the ground just as it snaps and crashes down where he stood.

For a second, there's only the sound of our ragged breathing. I'm on top of him, soaked to the bone, dagger still in hand. I hate this, this forest, this family, this duty but staying out here would be suicide.

We both get up, wordless. Our eyes meet. Then we run. Mud sucks at our boots. Rain lashes our faces. The estate rises in the distance like a shadow.

The barn is closest. We slip inside. I slam the door shut barely a second to breathe before he pins me against it, a pitchfork handle pressed hard to my throat. My feet leave the ground.

— This is the last time you run. Got it ?

Air rasps out of me. I kick him twice in the gut. He staggers back just enough, I punch him square in the face. He barely flinches.

His fist crashes into me, and I hit the ground hard. Pain explodes through my ribs. He grabs my braid, yanks it back, dragging me toward him, towering over me. I growl, caged beneath his weight but I don't stop. My knee drives into his side. He grunts, tightens his hold. I seize a handful of dust, throw it in his eyes. He recoils, just for a second. I start to slip free.

Too late. He grabs my arm, yanks me close, spins me. My back slams into the ground. His knees lock over mine, one hand clamps down on my wrist, the other forces my dagger toward my own throat. I twist, thrash, burn. But every move is met, matched, stopped.

Then his free hand comes down, fast, sharp, unforgiving. A blow to the side of my head.

White flashes. Silence. Darkness.