In a place where the heat of the desert could not infiltrate, and there were no signs of life, Kalina sat in the isolation of the cavern. It had been used to punish her as a child, and here she was again. How many others had stood here before her? There was no use in crying out, the years of kindness of the Sahra people had depleted in seconds. The moment she had shown defiance to her fate, they showed defiance to her freedom. How could she have become so blinded to her original purpose?

The old witch had told her once. "Obedience is bred through suffering. When one finally understands the difference between suffering and submitting, only then will they ever be contempt with their fate. We all must submit to someone, the emperor submits to god, and we to the emperor, and you will submit to the heir regiment." But why should she submit?

Whispers of his tyranny traveled even to the Sahra mountains. They said he was the rebirth of the great demon, some even wondered if he was the great demon. Death followed in his wake; he killed, it seemed, when needed and when not. As a Valeha she was told it wasn't her place to ponder on the morality of her owners' actions. She had to submit no matter what. It wasn't like she had an option.

Her whole life he was a person who at any moment could have died in the fight for the throne and she would have perished with him. That was how deep their connection was. A prince for whom her life had been built around. And there was a pull, a strange longing for this prince. A hole always empty with the longing of something she could not quiet understand. The old witch had told her that this pull was her fate calling.

She laughed, her voice bouncing off the stone walls, fate. An understanding that seemed so awfully comical to her. Was it fate to be sold into slavery? Was it fate to be taken here? Was it all truly fate? If fate did exist, then it was playing a cruel trick on her for sure. That old hag knew. Yet she still had treated her with kindness and had taken her in like her own child. But… It was impossible to hate them, the women of the tribe who acted as her mothers and the girls with whom she grew up like sisters. They were her family.

Now, the only thing she could do was await her fate. The only way to repay their kindness. But there was no fate, there was no freedom in her choice or life, no this was akin to slavery and nothing more. Slavery disguised in the luxury of becoming a royal concubine.

Soon enough, Nikrin would come and take her away. The moment she was born, before she could even see her own mother, she saw him, and her soul was bound to his. That was how the magic worked. She was the last Valeha, and her mother was, too, a Valeha with the only purpose to create her. The Valeha…she was a completely obedient creature bred to be the concubine of the seventh prince of Arha. And this was the fate that the old witch had stressed to her all her life. The fate of the last Valeha. What a strange fate indeed. Was there any glory in this destiny? Destiny did not need glory, for some their destiny was to suffer, and for her it was to submit.

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She fingered the engravings on the cavern wall in the dark: "to truly lead, one must first understand suffering…true submission is the only path to freedom…there is beauty to be found in the art of pain…control is the weapon of the Valeha." Ancient words carved by the witches or maybe the past Valehas. She knew them by heart at this point. This was just another place where she could not escape her destiny.

Once, many years ago when she had only been brought to the tribe of Sahra, the old witch had sat her on her lap and spoke. "Do not hate me, child. We all have a purpose and mine is such, to create the Valeha. You will be my last creation, and this cruel ancient art will die with me so that no more will there be the women of obedient fate." Valeha, the unspoken word burnt her mouth. It was an ancient word from the desert people that translated to "faithful servant."

It had been so long; she could barely remember her mother's face. All that she did remember was the hair because it was the only, she had inherited from her. Hair that fell in waves of molten gold against her mother's sun-kissed skin. From her perspective as a child, her hair had formed a halo around her. Then when she was 6, she had found her mother dead. The world was cruel, left without the favor of the gods. When the world lost its favor famine spread, then the rivers dried up, and there soon came to be only the oceans – a water unfit for life and drinking – and the wells. Suffering had led to her mother's death. Suffering was the reason behind the violence of those who killed her mother.

Her own suffering started early. It started with her training. "To be a proper servant a Valeha must build her immunity to poisons, then you must learn to defend yourself, your mind and body will always be your greatest weapon. A weapon that you must learn to control."

She sighed and leaned her head against the cold stone surface. How long had the witch said she needed to stay here? What was it- mediate on her views so she could understand her purpose? The cavern was not uncomfortable. It held an unnatural dryness. The opening let in a cool breeze brought on by the desert. The walls are carved with ancient runes and texts to aid in meditation. And the works of magic establishing complete silence. Magic…that, too, disappeared with the favor. Only the remains of it left scattered through rare populations of people. People who had more favor. So much depended on the favor of the gods.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, and allowed the tension to fade from her body, she had to be in control. Control over one's emotions was an important facet to Valeha training. Emotions were a woman's weakness, and to show them was to expose said weakness, but emotions were also seen as a weapon. One should never brandish their secrets to the world. A Valeha must always be on guard because her purpose as a servant was not only to serve her master but also to protect him. So, she practiced the art of control.

Training to control her emotions was now the only thing keeping her calm. A false calmness. One that the beating of her heart gave away but a calmness, nonetheless.

The freedom to give yourself into servitude. A nonfreedom. The false semblance of autonomy. Taking another deep breath, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be whisked into a dreamless slumber. Tomorrow she would need her energy.