The flames had long subsided. Oxygen filled her lungs and her skin regained its pristine state; no burns, no charred skin, simply a girl whose beauty could sprout jealousy within the moon itself.
The environment she found herself in, meanwhile, differed in its entirety.
Steel walls of an entrapping, pale gray tint, with only the brown of rust to break some of its monotony. The air seemed to distort itself to feel as damp as possible, mixing the stench of sweat to create the most unpleasant of odors.
Reviving from her last death, Elena’s head recoiled, her view of the world seeming to tremble as she regained her consciousness.
“You, little Princess there, get to work! You’re gonna get them mad at all of us.”
The sound caused further knockback within her newborn senses. She violently shook her head, forcing reality to regain sense.
The order had come not from a guard or knight, but from a fellow prisoner, a woman of bulky build clad in a brown robe that lacked any ornaments. Chunks of her hair had been ripped from the back of her head, revealing what looked to be a number 189.
Most perplexing, was what her hands were doing. Before her passed an assembly line. Her role was assembling crystals, which the conveyor belt then led toward a box.
Elena approached the woman, and asked, “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” she replied, irritated. “Trying to survive, of course.”
The exhaustion was written all over her. Not just in her tone, but in the way her hands moved. They were like a machine, repetitive in their motions, only that unlike an actual machine her movements showed signs of slowing down.
Elena was confused at first by her answer to her question, but as she looked around herself, reality itself removed her of any and all doubt.
All around them, there were other prisoners like the two of them, working the assembly line. At its start, green liquid poured into a container, which was then transported across many spots to produce a final product: an Earth Crystal.
Elena held in the vomit forming in her mouth. What she could not hold in however, were her words of disgust at such a sight.
“You are building crystal off the blood of your brethren?” she yelled.
Those outrageous words caused the woman to bonk her fists on the conveyor belt, before turning and raising her head to meet Elena’s eyes, “It is that, or getting leashed. At best. At worst”—her voice mellowed out, her gaze cast down— ”you are sent to the cremation chambers.”
Elena’s heart thumped her chest at what the woman was conveying. She and the rest of the workers surrounding them all shared the same lack of spirit within their eyes. They were beings who had succumbed to their fate, who’d accepted they had no choice but to either work or die.
The woman then exclaimed, “I don’t know who you think you are with that snazzy attire, but if you’re not a guard, then get used to your new life.”
With her white dress of fine silk and elaborate adorning in the shape of a crow and a cicada, Elena stuck out like a sore thumb. Her perfect skin also betrayed the notion that she might have spent time working there; dirt and sweat were the only creams that embellished the faces of everybody else.
She was an outsider to this factory, someone whose soul remained unbroken by the evils of forced labor.
This was unlike the woman before her, who slammed her eyes shut, and said, “Now do your part!” Work! Work, work, work, until you’re too old to work” Her exasperation and despair were evident in that last part, which she repeated like a mantra. She bit her lower lip, then softly added, “Then they’ll cremate you. One last use out of your tired bones.”
“I am not going to,” Elena revoked.
“What? Do you have a death wish?” the woman answered, befuddled by the strange girl’s behavior. “Or are you so naive as to think you have a choice?”
Ignoring her question, Elena further observed her surroundings, this time paying attention to what lay above her head. She noticed a wide glass window, placed to observe those working at the assembly line.
And that’s when she spotted a most familiar sight.
“I have to go. But before I do, could you tell me your name?”
“Huh? 189.”
“No, your real name.”
“Why do you care?”
“I just do. Answer me.”
With a sigh, the woman revealed her name. “Amelia.”
“Very well. Nice to meet you, Amelia.”
With a wave, Elena dashed in the direction of the window.
Elena, who came from Earth, knew a thing or two of working until old age. It was a notion, a way of life, for which she always held disdain. She was not one to judge a person’s worth and virtue for how much sweat their body could produce. Any system where refusal or inability to work meant death was a system she disapproved of.
Thus, there was only one fate she could envision for this dreadful labor camp: complete destruction of everything it stood for.
It was with that frame of mind that she’d asked for that woman’s name.
She made a promise. To that girl who burned to death right within her grasp. That they’d make it through. That a better world for everyone would be built by her hands.
Thus, the reason she asked for Amelia’s name was simply to boost her own resolve.
As she was one of the millions of lives for whom she was fighting for.
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For better or for worse, Elena was not a selfless being.
Despite stating she’d fight for the sake of everyone, there were still people her heart prioritized.
The correct course of action was to try to find that machine she’d seen before, to open the gates for Miles and the others to make it inside and tear the place asunder.
But the picture that window had revealed took control of her body, and so, toward its direction she was propelled.
Sneaking past the guards stationed nearby, Elena opened a door to an area overseeing the Crystal Factory, and before finishing closing the door, a name leaped out of her mouth.
“Cordelia!”
There she was. Within the depths of a most dreadful place, but safe, without a scratch on her light-brown skin.
The girl’s profile met her call, but to her horror, it was with indifference. Cordelia’s eyes remained fixated on the world beyond the window, while her arms showed no change to their motions, remaining set on sweeping the floor.
Reacting to the lack of response, Elena breathed a tired sigh, and raced toward her body. “You are alive! We need to get out of—”
“Do not touch me,” Cordelia said, in monotone, slapping away Elena’s approaching hand, with a motion that was twitchy but devoid of much force.
Elena glanced in confusion. Cordelia, who rarely showed strong will, staunchly rejected her touch.
“Don’t you get it? I’m trying to get you out of here,” Elena said.
“I am fine here. You are not needed,” was Cordelia’s response, straightforward but with a hint of apathy to her voice.
“W—what?” Elena’s gaze sharpened. “Are you blind? Can you not see how terrible this place is?”
Once Elena’s question was raised, Cordelia’s slim fingers tightened their grip on the broomstick. The sweeping motion the broom was performing was put on pause.
“I remain alive. That is all that matters.”
A cold response. So cold, Elena could feel time itself freeze.
Silence had overtaken the room, but not in its entirety. From outside, the sound of profanities and cracking whips snuck in the form of whispers.
“You can’t be serious. Are you saying you want to stay here?”
“I am unhurt. That is all that matters.”
“You’re a slave!” Elena yelled, unwilling to sugarcoat the scenario.
“Master Thales keeps me safe. That is all that matters.”
“Thales?” Elena furrowed her brow at the mention of that man’s name. “That man is running this hell house in here, and you’re speaking glowingly of him.”
“Lady Elena…”
Elena was taken aback, her eyebrows raising at the speed of rockets.
Cordelia… that girl she’d put so much of her heart at risk to reach… she was staring dead-straight at her, while referring to her with a formality she thought they’d grown past.
“...I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, but here I am alive and cared for. That is a blessing of the highest order for a Marked such as myself.”
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Cordelia.
She knew that word. She knew it was her name.
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But she did not know the relevance of it being her name. More than a name, it was a memory. A memory she’d inherited from what felt like a past life.
She didn’t recall much from those days, her mind too underdeveloped back then. But while the pictures her mind had collected were fuzzy, she knew there was a before and an after, a moment of separation between her two lives.
Without notice, the blue skies and seas that gave color to her life were replaced by dreary grays and browns. The blowing winds that would caress her skin gave way to the hurtful bite of whips and lashes.
The moment those sceneries disappeared, so too did the significance of that name.
Cordelia.
She hid that name deep in her chest, locked somewhere within its confines where nobody, not even herself, could make use of it. When called to, only to the sound of numbers did she answer.
“Number 36, come here!”
“Yes, master.”
One day, she was taken away from those dreary walls. Sunny fields full of cotton now surrounded her, and with it came the return of wind, albeit one much warmer than the ones from the sea.
But even with the change of scenery, the whippings did not reside.
“Number 27, you sniveling rat, take this.”
The number assigned to her had changed. The colors surrounding her had changed. Her age had changed.
But the pain remained.
It was a never-ending cycle. Moving everywhere across the continent, her body collecting scratches and wounds like souvenirs.
As she grew older, she began to understand more and more. That she was a “slave”, that there was something called “freedom” that she lacked, and that some of her fellow brethren yearned for it.
But she didn’t care. They were concepts foreign to her life, and thus she failed to make sense of them.
Her only wish was for the pain to go away.
And one day, a rush of wind granted that desire.
The man holding a whip above her head morphed into red paste. The golden arc of a sweeping blade cut through his stomach, a large hole where skin once resided.
The bursting blood spiked her face, dyeing the world before her with its tint. Her eyes nonetheless remained observant and unblinking, as the man who was meant to harm her dropped dead to the ground.
All the while, blowing winds once again caressed her face, unlocking a memory from before she could form memories.
There was a melting of emotions. Her uneducated mind lacked the resources to precisely pinpoint what she was feeling.
And before she could come to grips with what she’d witnessed, a large, imposing figure approached her. He held a weapon as he glanced down at her, causing her to shiver in response.
To her surprise, he withdrew said weapon, kneeled down, and reached out his hand. His features became discernible. He had wrinkles on his face, gray hair, and scars on his forehead. But despite that, something about the man’s face calmed her. Perhaps it was the warmth his eyes conveyed, or the smile his lips formed.
“Tell me your name,” the man said, patting her hair.
The girl hesitated to reply. So many numbers had been assigned to her, in such a short span of time, she didn’t even really remember what the correct response should be. The lashings had helped block out such an important detail.
Her mind searched further. She traveled back through time, to that life she had barely any recollection of. And within the reaches of that foregone world of sea, there was where the answer to his question was hidden.
“Cordelia.”
She spoke that name. For the first time in this life of hers, she had given sound to that word.
It caused her eardrums to recoil a bit; such was the shock of hearing her own name.
But it caused no such reaction in the man before her, who instead narrowed his eyes and simply said, “That’s a lovely name.”
That was the day Cordelia was saved.
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Her childish eyes were on a feast.
Once again, her world had changed its hue. Walls and ceilings surrounded her, but they were carefully crafted, full of patterns and eye-catching colors. There was clear intent behind their design, built for pleasing the human eye.
“Cordelia, meet Number 8. She will teach you the ropes around the Palace.”
“Aww, What a cute girl.”
The woman Thales was introducing to Cordelia met her with a smile, albeit one with clear cracks in its sincerity. The plain brown robes she wore contrasted with her silky-smooth skin, as well as with the intricate wall patterns that lay behind her. She was not too advanced in age, around her forties or fifties, but next to Cordelia’s childish frame she appeared ancient.
Perhaps most notable, she had a large, blue brand on her forehead, of a similar pattern to the one Cordelia had on her arm.
“My name is C—Cordelia,” she said, her voice so brittle it could break.
As the woman heard that name, her eyes widened, and then she gave Thales a look of concern.
“So long as you remain here, you shall be known as Number 9,” explained the woman. “And call me Number 8.”
She patted the young girl’s hair, before taking her by the hand and guiding her through the palace.
Number 8 became Cordelia’s teacher. How to clean, how to cook, even how to read. Those were all teachings acquired through Number 8’s tutelage.
But perhaps most important, Number 8 taught her how to survive. How not to enrage her patrons, the best techniques to avoid beatings. She’d taught her magic, including how to heal her and other’s wounds. But was instructed to use it only in private, else she’d be rightfully punished for going against the Goddess’ will.
And Cordelia took those teachings to heart.
Whenever the Royal Family ordered anything, Cordelia learned to oblige without complaint.
Whenever Sir Thales requested anything out of her, Cordelia also followed his orders. Not only because he was her superior, but because she remained indebted to him.
It was thanks to his sword, after all, that Cordelia’s world had changed.
He was the reason she could sleep every night in a soft bed. He was to thank for her belly being filled and her thirst being quenched.
Every once in a while, she’d hear whispers from Number 8 about concepts such as “freedom” and “rebellion”.
They remained foreign to her.
She’d become content with her way of life. If there were further peaks for her life to reach, she had no intent of climbing toward them.
Why would she, fear of falling remained present within her?
One night, Number 8 was slain.
That same blade that once carved Cordelia’s new way of life also brought an end to that of her mentor, creating a wound on her stomach that resulted in a sharp, sudden demise.
Before even cleaning the blood off his weapon, Thales, the finest of the Kingdom’s knights, placed his hand on the shoulder of Cordelia, who silently observed the unmoving body that’d become besmirched by blood and guts.
“Such is the fate of those who harbor dangerous ideas in this Kingdom.” Thales sounded ashamed, showing pity for the very woman his hands had killed. “It is a shame her life had to end like this, but alas, I am only a sword who follows the Divine Decree.”
The words he was saying sparked confusion within Cordelia, who stared up at him with her pale blue eyes. Thales, perceptive of the young girl’s gaze, gave her a smile not unlike that of their first meeting.
And without any further changes in his expression, he sternly said, “So from now on, follow my every command. Else you will end up like her.”
Slowly but surely, Thales began to give her new orders. For her to undress, to run her hands down places she didn’t even know men had.
Cordelia happily obliged.
Her body, ever since birth, had been cursed with that putrid brand, and all it’d ever been good for was for enduring whippings and beatings. These new sensations that Thales was making her feel were strange, confusing at times, but compared to that pain from before they were soothing. On the right day, they were even pleasurable.
If this was the price for not ending up like Number 8, then she would pay it with gusto.
Everything was fair for her, so long as she never felt pain again. So long as she stayed alive.
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“Bullshit.”
Just that word. That was Elena’s only rebuke to the truth she’d just learned.
“Bullshit. Can you not see the way that fucker groomed you? How he abused you?”
“I don’t comprehend what those words mean, but I do not need your input. I would like to remind you that it is due to meeting you that I was sentenced to death. Meanwhile, It is only due to Sir Thales’ grace that I remain alive.“
Elena’s heart stopped beating for the entire time it took for her to process Cordelia’s words.
“Are you saying… I’m the reason you’re here?”
“Correct,” Cordelia answered without a second of pause. “When I first cast magic in the city streets in order to protect you, Thales pleaded to the King to forgive me. It worked, but then the very next day I was caught using healing magic on your body, and the King was not as forgiving in this instance.”
Elena could feel the soreness of her throat increase with every word of Cordelia’s explanation. It was a feeling most despicable, one that threatened to taint her very soul.
This girl whom she swore to save… that girl had only been harmed by her actions, by her very arrival into her life.
If her feelings toward Cordelia had never existed, then she’d be currently in the palace, without freedom but at least without fear of death.
“But worry not,” Cordelia remarked. “Thanks to Sir Thales’ goodwill, I have avoided the Cremation Chambers, as well as some of the harshest lines of work.”
“Goodwill, you say?” Elena asked.
“Yes. He has even arranged a room for me to sleep in, featuring a bed.”
A situation utterly despicable.
Cordelia had been the one to utter it, yet it was Elena who understood the hidden meaning of that word.
So long as he could keep using her body, Thales would not allow Cordelia to die. That was what this “Goodwill” of his entailed.
At that knowledge, Elena readied her vocal cords to speak. She wanted to explain, to reveal the barbarity of that man’s intentions.
Cordelia’s furious gaze silenced her before she could even begin to speak. Those blue eyes she’d once been so smitten by were now rejecting her soul.
She’d been trying to impose her own will on the girl called Cordelia, ignorant of her needs, indifferent to her desires. Despite being a Marked herself, her behavior had been that of privilege, a privilege brought over from her past life on Earth. She thus had failed to see the situation from the perspective of one born in this world, acting on values that proved far too naive.
It was only fair, then, for Cordelia to push back against her, for those eyes built of sea to not share the same priorities as hers. To reject freedom was a notion incomprehensible to Elena, as sensible as that of rejecting air. But to Cordelia, who’d never known such a thing as freedom in the first place, it was something she believed she could do without.
These were perspectives alien to one another, simply incompatible. So long as that breach between their worldviews existed, it was undue for Elena to continue imposing her will. Who was she to claim what was best for this girl? All her efforts had accomplished was delivering further suffering to someone she claimed to esteem.
That was the conclusion at which she wanted to arrive. The judgment she deemed most appropriate.
But she couldn’t.
She wasn’t quite ready to accept that hypothesis, as there remained a small sparkle of doubt brewing within her heart. A glimmer of hope that her actions had not been entirely misguided, that there was more to the story than what Cordelia was revealing.
“Cordelia.”
“Yes, Lady Elena.”
Elena clenched her fists. “Why did you heal me?”
Stone faced, Elena had raised her question, and the impact on Cordelia proved immediate. The silver-haired girl recoiled, taking a step back, and bringing her hand to her chest, to catch her heart in case it decided to jump out.
“Why did you use magic, which is supposedly forbidden, just to protect me?”
Elena continued striking, fishing out an answer out of Cordelia, who began to tremble with doubt, yet remained devoid of a response.
“Answer me!” Elena ordered, now in the form of a roar.
She remained silent, but Cordelia answered all the same. The way her face contorted revealed the truth of her emotions.
Deep down, in the same place she’d once stored her name, hid a tinge of desire within Cordelia. A desire for freedom, a yearning to escape the harsh life of a slave. Otherwise, why would she have done that which is taboo?
If Elena could bring that desire to life, if she could be for Cordelia a window into a new life. Then no matter how unethical, how unwise, she would—
“Silence, Elena.”
The one to answer Elena’s words was not Cordelia, but a person who’d just arrived to the room, and who carried with his very being an aura of dread.
“Thales!” Elena shouted. “You fucker. I am going to—”
“To what? You are powerless here,” said Thales.
Elena gulped. Her anger had blinded her, and she’d underestimated the danger of the situation, insulting the man at a time when every second mattered.
Her eyes sought a way out, but it was pointless.
“Let me go, you creep!” Elena screeched, her body held up by Thales’ bony hands. She punched his chest, but her fists plinked off him, causing as much damage to him as would a baby.
“Cordelia,” he said, “please remain here and await for further orders. And forget anything this woman has told you.”
“Y—Yes, Sir Thales,” answered Cordelia, sounding wheezy.
“Is that hesitation I hear in you, Cordelia?” said Thales, raising his chin.
“No, Sir Thales,” Cordelia said, returning to her usual, monotone form of speech, pulling up the hem of her dress.
“That’s pleasant to hear.”
With that final remark, Thales left the room, bringing Elena in tow to a place unknown.