The servants' hall echoed with clinks of wooden bowls and bitter complaints. Rough benches creaked beneath dozens of tired bodies, their spines curled forward as they shoveled plain food into their mouths like it was punishment. The stale scent of boiled grains, smoke, and old sweat clung to the rafters.
Kael sat at the edge of the long table, the fringe of firelight just barely brushing the worn hem of his tunic. His bowl held barley porridge, thick with root starch and a wilted sprig of something green. It was warm. It was real.
And he ate it with quiet, determined hunger.
"Same tasteless slop," muttered a boy nearby, poking at his bowl like it had offended him. "Every gods-damned night."
"At least it's not spoiled," grunted another. "Could've just tossed us scraps like they do in the outer halls."
Kael took another bite, swallowing slowly. To him, it tasted like mercy.
"Kael eats like it's festival fare," said a girl across from him, watching him with narrowed eyes. "Bet you'd thank them if they fed you dirt."
"I've eaten worse," he said softly.
A few heads turned. Silence crept in like cold wind through a crack. No one asked what he meant. Kael dipped his head, letting his shoulder-length hair shadow his face.
The moment passed. It always did.
And yet, their words stuck to him like cinders. Not because of mockery, but because they stirred things better left buried.
Worse.
Yes. He had eaten worse.
He had lived worse.
---
It had been two months since her grandmother died.
Her grandmother being the only family she ever had left Lyrielle devasted as she had never known her mother or father. Her father died before her birth and if that wasn't enough The Heavens decided to be more cruel, her mother died bringing her into the world. But her grandmother had raised her with gentle hands, calloused from tending wounds and grinding herbs. Their village, tucked between the outer edges of Velmoria and the harsher empire of Orith, was poor but kind. A human village, simple and untouched. The people there didn't ask about her pale eyes or the strange calm she carried. They just accepted her and her grandmother's healing.
The woman had died in her sleep. Quietly, without pain.
Lyrielle had cried herself hollow.
That night, two months later, she'd gone into the woods, following a long-trodden path to gather Moonstem—a flower rare and stubborn, needed for a balm she never got to finish. She stayed longer than she meant to. The forest had always been her sanctuary, and grief made her slow to return.
By the time she reached the edge of the trees, smoke clawed the sky.
Her village burned.
Screams cracked through the night air—sharp, helpless. She ran, stumbling over roots, gasping her grandmother's name as if she could summon her back. She reached the clearing—and froze.
Men on horseback, cloaked in the banners of Orith, herded the villagers like cattle. The women were dragged. The men were beaten. Blood soaked the dirt.
Lyrielle opened her mouth to scream—
—but a hand clamped over her lips.
She thrashed, terrified, until she turned and saw the old man.
Tomas.
A kind soul. He had brought her bread after her grandmother's death. Fixed her roof when the storms came. His eyes now were wild with pain and grief, and blood leaked from a deep wound across his ribs.
"Don't," he rasped. "Don't go in there."
She shook her head, tears falling.
"You'll die," he said, voice trembling. "Run. Go east. Find the city of Beronth, near Velmoria's borders. Safer there..."
"Tomas—"
His knees buckled. He caught her hand and pressed something into it—a small silver coin, warm from his blood.
"You're not just... one of us," he whispered. "Live. Live."
And then he collapsed.
She stayed with him until his breath stopped.
She didn't scream.
---
Kael stared into the bottom of his bowl.
He hadn't thought of Tomas in months. The memory clung to him now like damp wool, heavy and cold.
He had run for days, aimless, driven only by grief and a promise she hadn't made.
Beronth, he never reached. Not then. Fear changed her course. Danger, too. She cut her hair. Found a name that wasn't Lyrielle. Found shelter in cities where boys with quiet voices could go unnoticed.
She did odd jobs—street sweeping, messenger work, once cleaning out slaughterhouses. She never stayed long. Always moved on before someone looked too closely.
She learned silence. She learned stillness.
And after three years of drifting, she heard of the Servants' Trial.
It was only open that year because of the autumn festival. Kael had been chosen not for skill, but for lack of competition.
And now here she was.
---
"Kael." A voice broke through the haze.
He blinked, looking up.
"You done with your bowl?" the same girl from earlier asked, standing now. "Better return it before the steward sees it dirty."
He nodded and rose, gathering the bowl. His legs moved on their own, carrying him through the torchlight toward the washing station. His figure passed as a shadow among shadows—tall enough, plain enough, careful enough.
Not one person in that hall knew that Kael wasn't a boy.
And that was how he survived.