The Next Day

The Prince slumps in his elaborate, gold and white carriage, his head resting against the window. The hour long ride from the palace to Master Fasé's Farmhouse seemed to take an eternity. What made matters worse was the paved road turning into a dirt path, the wheels of the wagon seeming to find every hole, bump, and crevice. His backside was already beginning to grow sore. Tristan curses when they hit a particularly large bump. His advisor clicks his tongue at the Prince from the bench across him.

"That's no language for the Royal Prince to use." The old man warns, though he only smirks when Tristan throws a glare his way.

"Yes, well, the sooner we stop this wretched carriage, the sooner I can clean my mouth." Tristan draws back the curtains, squinting against the sunlight as he peers outside. The day is a lovely one, puffy white clouds scattered across the deep blue skies. He could see that they've entered the countryside, fields of corn, wheat, and cotton running for miles alongside the path the palace horses trotted on. His mouth forms a thin line when he spots the large manor atop the hill, protected behind a large brick wall that sat around the border of the grand house. More than likely to keep its occupants from escaping.

The thought has the Prince's brows furrowing as he leans back, allowing the curtains to fall closed once again. He looks towards the old man, casually reading today's post across from him. "How are we to choose only four servants from each destination? Surely, we have room for them all." It was cruel of his Uncle, but he supposed he should be grateful for being granted at least this.

"It's the King's orders, Prince." Lord Farrow sighs, folding the stack of papers neatly and setting it on the bench beside him. "Besides, if we were to purchase them all, we go against the agreement we have with each of them. We'd ruin their business."

The Prince scoffs at that, shaking his head. "Business! You talk as if these aren't people's lives, Farrow." Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "What's so wrong with magic, anyways? Why are only the half-bloods shunned, and not all of the magic-wielders of the land? Why not enslave the Elves, Faeries, and Dwarves while we're at it?"

Lord Farrow tuts his tongue, giving the young man a chastising look. But still, His Highness does not back down. "It's believed that human blood mingled with magic has the potential to be more potent. The result of uncontrolled magic could be devastating, Prince. Plus, the Half-Bloods could cause an all out Anarchy if they realize their true power. Your Uncle, the King, is doing his all to ensure that does not happen."

"By enslavement?" Tristan asks incredulously, utter bewilderment in his emerald eyes.

"When you are King," Lord Farrow says slowly, raising his hands in a gesture to calm the young Prince. "Then you can reverse your Uncle's laws, if you wish." The carriage suddenly comes to a slow stop, the elder man opening the door. "Look sharp now, Prince, we have arrived."

Tristan makes the short walk up to the entrance of the Manor, accompanied by Lord Farrow. The oak double doors are swung open, revealing a short, balding man looking to be in his mid-thirties. He lowers himself into a sorry excuse for a bow as he speaks in a whiny, high-pitched voice.

"Your Highness, we are glad for your arrival. Might we bring you some refreshments before you begin your selections?" He asks, lifting his head and giving the Prince what he thought must have been a dashing smile.

"No," Tristan shakes his head, pushing past the man to step inside. "I'd rather you show me them now, I have a long day ahead and want to get this over with quickly."

"Yes, of course." The man straightens, looking pale as he hurries to lead Tristan and Lord Farrow to the awaiting slaves. "Right this way. We have chosen only the best, hopefully you will find what you're looking for." The Prince halts as this, voice edged with ice as he regards the man.

"I asked to see them all. Not just your best." Tristan states, eyeing the man with disdain. "Show me everything, I want a tour of the Farm."

The chubby man gives a nervous chuckle, glancing uneasily towards the Prince's Advisor. "But that's not what we.."

"You would deny your Prince of his request?" Tristan barks, gaze narrowing. The man shakes his head vehemently, sputtering.

"O-Of course not, Your Highness!"

"Then let us continue." Tristan gestures for the man to begin moving. He waddles ahead, dabbing his sweaty forehead with his kerchief as he leads the men through the main hall and out the back door. Sitting only a few yards away is a smaller stone building with windows only on the second and third stories. If the Prince had to guess, this is where most of the prisoners are kept. Though the building didn't look nearly big enough to hold them all.

They walk past the building, approaching what looks to be a garden. There were several slaves here, wearing bedraggled, torn uniforms that look suspiciously like potato sacks.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

"These are the gardens, where we grow fresh vegetables and fruit for the Manor." The stout man explains proudly.

"You say 'we', but you mean the slaves, right?" The Prince remarks viciously. Lord Farrow places a hand atop the young man's shoulder, silently reminding him to hold his temper. Their escort does not reply.

Soon, they are reaching a row of multiple metal poles with chains dangling loosely from the tops of them. To Tristan's astonishment, at one of the poles sits a young woman, chest bent over her knees. Her uniform was torn at the back, revealing skin caked with dried blood. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he motions with his chin.

"Take me to her."

----------------------------------------

Zerena awoke to the sound of crunching stone, hissing as she feels the stinging pain on her back when she forces herself to sit up. She was grateful for the clouds that provided her with at least some shade. She opens her eyes, blinking a few times as she registers that it wasn't a mere cloud blocking out the sun, but a person. Not just a person, but an important looking young man wearing an elegant, crisp white tunic.

She meets his green gaze with her navy blue, before quickly snapping her eyes back to the gravel in front of her. "Y-Your Highness, my apologies, I-" she begins, but is cut off by the feel of gentle, gloved fingertips against her chin. The Prince lifts her gaze once more, his mouth set in a firm line. Hastily, he removes the cloak that was sitting atop his shoulder and places it around the woman, hiding her exposed skin from further view.

"Can you stand?" He asks, voice soft. Zerena lifts her arms weakly, gesturing to the shackles binding her wrists to the small of her back. She couldn't stand without risking an injury to her shoulders.

"Not with these," She answers quietly.

Prince Tristan snaps his fingers, holding the palm of his other hand open. One of the men behind him places a silver key in his hand. With a soft click, the shackles come open. Zerena rubs at her wrists, sore from the harsh metal digging into her skin. She pauses when His Highness holds out his arm, offering to help her to her feet. She eyes him warily and he shakes his head, a kind smile on his lips. Zerena has never seen a man smile like that before. "I won't hurt you."

With a shaky breath, she places her hands on his arm and he carefully hoists her up. "What's your name?" He asks, steadying her when she wobbles on frail legs.

"Zerena." Her voice cracks and she clears her throat, unable to meet his stare when she tries again. "My name is Zerena."

"Zerena..." He hums. This time when he speaks, it's not directed at her, but the Slave Trader. "How much for her?"

"O-Oh, this one's not for sale. She can barely stand by herself as it is. Surely you-"

"I. Asked." The Prince growls, eyes narrowing. "How much for Zerena?"

The shorter man gulps, nodding his head. "Yes, yes of course. For this one-" He approaches Zerena, to which she tries to back away. She did not want that man touching her. Thankfully, he doesn't make an attempt to close the distance as he looks her up and down. "Five silver pieces. She hasn't got much meat on her, but her hair alone, once washed, will look exquisite."

The Prince nods his head, gesturing to the other man. This one is taller, dressed in the same white tunic as his Royal Highness. "Lord Farrow, fetch the pouch from the carriage - and take Miss Zerena with you."

Zerena's mouth falls open as her head whips to the young man, navy hues wide with shock. He couldn't be serious?

Why on Earth would the Prince, The Prince, want me?

"As you wish, Your Highness." The man named Farrow bows his head and Tristan places Zerena in his care. He holds out his arm, his smile gentle as she places her small hands against him for support. Her legs are wobbly for the first few steps, but she manages to steady herself. She pauses and Farrow gives her a questioning look.

Zerena turns, voice shaking slightly as she speaks. "Your Highness, if it's not too much - there is a woman that works in the Kitchens, she goes by Rosale. She's one of my dearest friends here and I . . . I would request that you bring her with too." She swallows, her tongue feeling like parchment against the top of her mouth.

The Prince regards her with an expression she couldn't quite read, strands of his honey gold hair falling in his eyes. Then a smile stretches on his lips and he nods his head. "Don't worry, I will ensure that she's found and will bring her to the carriage myself."

Unable to believe that this is really happening, Zerena faces Lord Farrow, accepting his outstretched arm once more and allowing him to lead her to the large Manor. A pang of guilt hits her as they pass by the other slaves, staring at her with envy in their eyes. But if they were in her shoes, they would have done the exact same thing.

They pass through the back door of the house quickly, moving through the main hall and stepping through the threshold of the entrance. Zerena spots one of The Masters, the man who had whipped her the day previous, and moves closer to Lord Farrow. Her escort notices this and sends a glare, silently telling the other man to back off.

"Lord . . . Farrow?" Zerena begins, uneasiness in her voice. She isn't quite sure if it's appropriate for her to speak. She doesn't even know what the terms of her purchase is, or what exactly she would be doing at the palace. Would she be a maid, expected to serve the Royal Family day and night? Or would she be in the Kitchens, or even, perhaps, a stable hand? Her mind was racing with questions. Questions she was too nervous to bring herself to ask. The elder man glances down at her, that kindness still remaining in his eyes even as they neared the carriage. Even that, along with the pure white horses pulling it, seemed to gleam in the sunlight.

"You must have many questions. The Prince and I will be happy to answer them for you." The footman, a tan, mousy haired looking young lad bows as he opens the door for them. Farrow helps her climb in and she chooses to sit on the bench across from him. "But we will answer them once you've settled. The Head Maid will explain your duties more thoroughly." He looks her up and down, shaking his head. "Once you and your friend have . . . had more time to adjust, then we will explain your true purpose."

"I don't understand . . ." Zerena breathes, placing a hand against her temple. She wasn't upset by any means. Just, in shock. She had dreamt of a day where she might escape this place. But she never thought it would come so quickly, or that The Prince would be the one to choose her of all people to serve in the palace. "This is all happening so quickly. I . . ." She places her hands in her lap, bowing her head in gratitude. "Thank you."

The smile from Lord Farrow's lips disappears slightly as he regards her. "Don't thank us quite yet, lass. You have a lot to learn and will have to keep up. If the King thinks you are ill-suited, or receives poor word from the Head Maid, then you will be sent back here. The same goes for your friend."

Zerena isn't too surprised by his words. She knew there had to be conditions to them buying her. She would work her hardest, nonetheless. Ending up back at the Farmhouse is not an option for her.

The door to the carriage opens once again and in climbs Rosale, giving Zerena a shocked look as she sits on the bench beside her. Clearly, the elder woman had not been expecting the Royal Prince to buy her, either. Once the Prince is in and seated, the door shuts and the carriage lurches forward. Zerena gazes out the window, heart thumping in her chest as the Manor grows smaller and smaller, the fields of corn and wheat turning into hills of green grass. A breath escapes her lips as she finally sits back, allowing the curtains to fall shut.

Zerena wasn't quite sure what would await her and Rosale once they reached the palace walls. But whatever did, she was sure it had to be better than before. She would start a new life, become a new person. No longer will she allow herself to cower under a man's stare.

She will be a raging river.