When Rowena’s two eyelids snapped open, she sat up, particles of grit and dirt falling from her dress onto her blanket. Her panting breath is the only sound the young girl can hear amidst rain that started to fall on their camp.
Pressing both hands to her mouth, her one blue eye widened as she took in sight in front of her. Her other eye, milky-white from blindness, stills.
Embers in the fire still hissing as a pitter-patter of rain began to fall.
Lady Sylva slept with her mouth open. Her right hand, gnarled inward almost like a bent root, tucked into its custom made red sock. The Erisdalian woman’s typical blonde hair was fading into platinum and was sprawled over her pillow, which Rowena knew had her wand underneath. The awning that Rowena had set up kept her and the two guards that slept beside her dry.
Rowena stared at them, even as rain began to slip between the pine branches the thin girl had tried to pack on top of her. She wasn’t staring because this was an odd sight. Lady Sylva was a mage, and all human mages born in Durannon had some kind of physical deformity as a result of the gift of magic. She was also a Lady, with wealth enough to afford guards on this trip.
No, Rowena was staring because she had seen this very scene in her dream.
She’d also seen that right this moment, Sylva would wake up, roll out of her bedroll and walk to the packs that the party had set up beneath a second awning.
Except, unlike her dream, Sylva was not waking up. She rolled, and muttered something about “Master Scarlet.”
Rowena pulled her boots on, wincing at how tight they felt over her feet. She was about to creep towards the awning when she stopped.
What if Sylva woke up now? What if the mage found out what she was doing? There were excuses she could use but…
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The memory of choking, the air sucked dry from her lungs, froze Rowena where she stood.
But it was risking that or never being free.
With an excuse locked in her mind, Rowena crept to the pile of packs and located Sylva’s. It was a nondescript except for its polished brass buckles and slightly smoother leather construction.
A glance over her shoulder. Sylva and her guards were sound asleep. For how long, Rowena didn’t know. She had to work fast.
Rowena undid the buckles and reached in with her thin fingers. She brushed past potion bottles and a journal until the tips of her nails brushed past rough parchment. Seizing it, she pulled out the rolled scroll and opened it.
Magical Contract of Servitude binding Rowena of Erisdale as servant and thrall to whomsoever possesses this contract and has infused it with their magic…
Rowena didn’t need to see more of the handwritten words, or observe the shifting green magic. She already knew the contents of the magical contract. She had experienced them every day of her young life. Even now she was touching her neck as an onrushing torrent of memories shook her hands.
The most recent one was this morning. She’d made an annoyed scowl at Sylva when the mage had demanded her to give her magic. She’d thought nothing of it, as she’d put out her hands for her master.
But after taking some of Rowena’s magic, her jailer had arched an eyebrow, pointed at her with her wand and spoke an all too familiar Word of Power.
The air in Rowena’s throat stopped. She’d fallen to all fours, trying not to breathe and yet her body rebelling against her will, insistent on trying to fulfil its natural instinct. Yet, it was too much. She’d collapsed, shaking, and writhing, staining the clothes she now wore with dirt, even though her mind knew that Sylva would never actually let her die.
Rowena was Lady Sylva’s adopted child in public, but her secret slave in reality. No more or less than a hunting dog.
No more.
She tore the contract in half. The rip shrieking like music to her ears. It seemed so loud that Rowena spun around. The halves of the ruined contract in her hands.
Lady Sylva and her guards were still sound asleep.
In moments that passed like an eternity, the girl stuffed the ripped contract into her backpack, along with food and a few Erisdalian silver and copper rings. She’d corked her open flask, filled by rainwater. She’d taken her wand, essentially a stick she found.
She couldn’t take a horse and they wouldn’t go, but she did take her pony, Larch, and she untied the horses of her former masters.
It wasn’t exactly the way she wished or planned, but as Rowena donned her cloak and rode into the night, she knew one thing was certain.
She was free.