8 years later

My name is Zerena Walker. I am eighteen years old. I am the Half-elven daughter of Sarah Walker, disowned from Nolan Grace, my Elven father. I've been in this camp for eight years. They have not yet broken me.

This is what Zerena has been telling herself everyday for six years, since the day she was sold to the Slave Traders by her despicable excuse of a Father. The others taught her that trick when she first arrived. They explained that if she could still remember her name, her age, and why she was here, then they haven't broken her spirits quite yet.

The law of the kingdom of Loria states that all beings spawned from a human and a magical creature, whether they be Elven, Dwarven, Fae, Etc. shall be sent to work at one of three places to keep them in line - The Crag Mines, Madam Dawson's House of Treasures, or Master Fasé's Farmhouse. Zerena has the luxury of being sent to the latter, where they clasped an iron collar around her throat to prevent her and the other prisoners from wielding their magic. Not that she would be useful with it anyways, she never had the chance to practice with it much before Nolan sent her away.

The loud crack of a whip next to her ear has her jolting, nearly dropping the stack of tin trays stacked high atop her arms. She swallows thickly, her mouth and tongue dry as she hurries her steps towards the kitchens. By now, Zerena should be used to the sounds of yelling and the snapping of their Master's whips. That didn't mean they weren't capable of catching her off guard sometimes.

That's what the men call themselves here at the Farmhouse, the people who are put in charge of making their lives Hell. The Masters. These people believe that they are doing all of the Slaves a favor by working them to death with little rest, water, or food. Just enough to keep them barely alive.

"Hurry up, Swine!" One of them shouts, his deep voice like a thunderclap across the dark, musty dining hall. Zerena doesn't dare turn to see who the poor soul is that he's yelling at. Here, it's everyone for themselves, the punishment of sticking up for one of the other slaves is a slow and brutal death, and while Zerena feels disgusted with herself for her inactions, she has every intention of making it out of this place alive.

Zerena feels the heat of the kitchens as soon as she steps through the threshold, the moisture from the soapy dishwater combined with the heat of the ovens made it feel like she was being cooked from the inside out. The only ventilation came from the single window at the far end of the room, which the Masters only allowed to be open a tiny sliver. Not enough for even a hint of a breeze to pass through, or for anyone to peer outside. They had the panes tinted so it appeared to be dusk. They weren't allowed the luxury of even glimpsing the outside world or a taste of fresh air, unless they were being punished.

"Come now girl, we haven't got all day." A woman with streaks of silver in her red hair gestures for the trays, taking them from Zerena so she could set them atop the ones already stacked in a pile near the sink. Silently, she gets to work on scrubbing them as clean as she could, her feet screaming at her from a days worth of movement.

"Why is everyone in such a hurry?" Zerena murmurs to the woman, keeping her voice soft so they wouldn't be overheard.

"Didn't you hear?" Rosale whispers back, quickly drying the trays that Zerena washes to make it look like they had a reason for being so close together. "The Royal Prince himself is coming tomorrow to buy some of us as servants for the palace." She lets out a dark laugh, but quickly silences it. "What a kind soul, taking pity on the less fortunate."

Zerena doesn't miss the bitter tone to her voice. "How often does this happen?" As long as she's been here, not once has anyone important come to buy them, especially not the Royal Family! Already, she can feel just the tiniest glimmer of hope spark in her chest. But it's quickly stamped out by warning look from Rosale.

"This is the first time. I bet the Prince is picky, too, so don't get your hopes up. He likes pretty girls - well, as pretty as one can be trapped in a place like this." The woman gives Zerena a once over that makes her want to squirm. "Not that you aren't cute - plus your hair will definitely catch his eye."

It was true. Zerena, surprisingly, is the only half-elf amongst them with hair as blue as the deepest parts of the ocean. Unfortunately, the years of being unable to properly care for it shows. The tresses are tied back behind her shoulders, hanging limply down her spine and greasy from weeks of not having washed it. Maybe the Masters would allow them to bathe properly before the Royal Prince's arrival, but Zerena whisked the thought away with a huff. Wishful thinking did no one any good here.

Rosale was the only person Zerena had dared to grow close to - normally the slaves went several years without knowing each other's names. What was the point in growing close, when each day that passes on this farm could be their last? Maybe it was because the other woman still had a tiny sliver of light in her eyes that refused to grow dim, or maybe she reminded Zerena a little of her deceased mother. Whatever the case, she was glad to have at least one friend to get her through this nightmare.

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An abrupt elbow jab to her side has Zerena straightening and scrubbing the sponge quicker against the tray currently in her hands, wincing slightly as the hot soapy water sloshes against her forearms. They weren't allowed to wear gloves in the kitchen, the Masters claimed that they got in the way.

"You there, girl." A male voice sneers behind her, the tone demanding that she turn to face them. Swallowing, Zerena complies, turning her body halfway but keeping her gaze lowered to the Master's boots. He prods her side and she stiffens even more, sucking in a breath. Had he caught her speaking to Rosale? She dearly hoped not, for she didn't want the elder woman getting in trouble because of her foolishness.

"I've been informed that you have been getting a bit too familiar with the other swine in these kitchens." Zerena refrains from wincing, her heart beating faster. "You know the rules, scum, no speaking to each other. Remind me, what is the punishment for breaking the rules here?"

Zerena bites her chapped lips, swallowing thickly as she forces the reply from her throat.

"Ten lashings and a day on the post, sir." Her voice is soft as she brings herself to meet his piercing stare.

"I should give your little friend there lashings too." He states, his brown eyes flickering over to where Rosale still stands, stiffly drying the trays - trying to appear as if she wasn't listening.

The iron collar clasped around her neck suddenly feels heavy against her skin.

"No!" Zerena shouts, shaking her head. "Please, it was my fault. If anything . . . give me her punishment instead."

The Master's expression turns to stone at those bold words, his thick eyebrow raising upwards. "Oh really? How charitable, sparing her from the inevitable." His lips form a cruel grin as he shakes his head. "Or just plain stupid."

Zerena does not respond, knowing better than to disagree with him. With a snap of his fingers, she's being grabbed by two other guards, forced to drop the tray in the sink with a loud splash. They each grab her too-small biceps and narrow shoulders, pushing her into a walk. She doesn't fight them, keeping her head lowered so she wouldn't have to face the pitying expressions of the other Slaves as they pass by.

"Bring the other one too, she can watch this little half-breed bitch get what she deserves." The Master gives a wicked laugh, his boots clicking on the polished floor as he follows behind them.

In just a few moments, they are already outside. Zerena squints against the sunlight, noticing that there wasn't even a cloud in the sky to protect her from it. The humidity was stifling, but she wouldn't let them see her falter. Roughly, the guards shove her bare knees to the gravel path. She feels the tiny, jagged stones splitting her skin and bites down a cry of pain.

One of the men tears the back of her dirty uniform off and she resists the urge to try and cover herself as it slides down her arms. Thankfully, they didn't remove the binding that covers her breasts, but she could tell that they had been contemplating it. Zerena feels rough fingers on her chin pushing her head back. The Master leers at her, that nasty smirk on his lips growing.

"Now, this is what I like to see. This is where filthy half-breed bitches like you belong. On your knees and receiving punishment." He cackles, shaking his head. "Though there's plenty of other ways I wouldn't mind dealing with you." Zerena's blood runs cold at those words. "Luckily for you, the Boss would have my head for ruining the merchandise before the Royal Highness has a look. But after? All of you scum will be punished my way."

He snaps his fingers and the guard on Zerena's right hands him his bull whip. He unfurls it, caressing the length of it against her cheek. She shudders in outrage, her fists clenching as the Master finally moves to step behind her. Her eyes widen when she sees Rosale knelt in front of her, forced to watch the entire encounter.

If there's any god out there who gives a damn. Please, let His Highness choose Rosale and I. Anywhere has to be better than this Hell hole.

Without warning, Zerena hears the sharp crack of the whip in her ear. Her body lurches as a searing pain stings the skin on her back, but the guards hold her firmly, preventing her from moving away. Tears prick the corners of her eyes but she bites her bottom lip, refusing to let them fall.

"Count, girl, or else we start over." He says from behind her. So with a shaky breath, Zerena lowers her gaze to the dirt, unable to meet Rosale's eyes a moment longer as she opens her mouth.

Her voice is raspy as she says, "One."

Immediately, he deals the next blow and she can feel the blood beginning to pool. She wants to curse, but she hisses out a meek, "Two."

Three, four, and five are dealt with quickly and she counts each one, albeit almost too slowly. He slows down on six, seven, and eight, her body tensing in anticipation. Finally Zerena looks at Rosale, whose head is being held so that she can't look away. She hates that the woman is being forced to watch this. She doesn't want her thinking that this was her fault in any way.

"Nine." Zerena wheezes as the next blow comes, hitting the same area as the last. Her vision tunnels, but she fights it off. If she passes out now, the Master will only finish it later - perhaps tacking even more on just for the fun of it.

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By the twentieth lick, Zerena couldn't even hold herself upright. Her back was screaming and it was all she could do not to shout in pain herself when the guards yank her viciously upwards. The Master gave them orders to shackle her against one of the many posts lined up at the backside of the farm. There were no trees or buildings to shade her from the relentless sun, which was now at its highest point in the sky.

Rosale had already been escorted back to the Kitchens. Zerena wished she could have at least spoken to her before they hauled her away.

They didn't even allow her to fix her uniform, which was now dangling near her elbows. She hunched over, chest to her knees, eyes squinting shut against the catcalls of the other Masters as they stormed by her. This was not the first time they had left her like this and it certainly would not be the last.

A thought comes to her mind as she pulls weakly against the chains shackled to her wrist.

The Prince will never choose me if I'm chained out here like a dog.

Zerena lets out a whimper, shaking her head as the last bits of hope she had for escaping dissipates completely.