3. Vera
3
VERA
T he brush scrapes against stone, back and forth, back and forth. My knees press into the hard floor, sending dull aches through my legs. Not that it matters. Nothing really matters anymore.
"You missed a spot." The cook's voice cuts through my daze. "Right there, by the hearth."
I drag myself across the floor, my arms trembling with the effort. The weight of the brush feels heavier with each passing moment. Water sloshes from my bucket, creating new puddles I'll have to clean.
"Worthless girl." The cook stirs something in a large pot. "Can't even clean properly."
Cook has been preparing food in the kitchen since dawn, and I've been cleaning the workspace before then. I don't mind the dark, when the world is quiet and numb. It's the only time when I feel safe.
Two human servants enter the kitchen, their boots tracking mud across my half-cleaned floor. They don't spare me a glance as they grab their morning meals.
"Did you hear?" One whispers to the other. "Lady Morana is throwing another feast tonight."
"More work for us." His companion grabs a piece of bread. "And more mess for the defect to clean up." Their words are sharp, but I'm numb to their blow. It's true. I'm exhausted, weak and defective.
My fingers curl around the brush handle. The rough bristles scratch my palm, but I barely notice. My mind drifts, floating away from the pain in my joints, the burning in my muscles. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll just fade away entirely, dissolving into nothing more than another shadow on these stone walls.
The cook bangs a pot. "Less daydreaming, more scrubbing."
I dip the brush back in the bucket. The water's gone cold and dirty. Like everything else in this place. Like me.
A dark elf noblewoman sweeps through, her dress brushing against my back as she passes. She doesn't even pause, doesn't acknowledge my existence. I'm nothing more than another piece of furniture, less valuable than the floor I'm cleaning.
Back and forth. Back and forth. The motion never ends, just like this existence that stretches endlessly before me.
Laughter filters through the kitchen doorway, the musical tones of dark elf voices cutting through the monotony of my scrubbing. I pause, my hands stilling on the brush as their words drift in.
"Did you see that pathetic human cleaning the floors?" The voice belongs to Lady Morana's daughter. "The one that looks like she might break if you breathe on her too hard?"
"Oh, that one." Another voice, deeper, more masculine. "The defect."
My shoulders tense, but I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, watching water pool in the grooves between stones. A drop falls from my face, joining the puddle. I hadn't realized I was crying.
"That human's barely alive," the male voice continues. "They should've tossed her out with the trash years ago."
More laughter follows, the sound piercing through my chest like needles of ice. My fingers clench around the brush handle, knuckles white with strain. They're right. What use am I? I can barely lift this brush, can hardly finish my tasks without stopping to catch my breath.
The cook bangs another pot behind me, making me flinch. "Get back to work," he snaps. "Those floors won't clean themselves."
I dip the brush back in the bucket, ignoring how my arms shake with the effort. The dark elves' voices fade as they move away, but their words remain, echoing in my head. They're not wrong. I am barely alive, just existing, taking up space that could be better used by someone stronger, someone useful.
The brush moves across the stone again, leaving trails of dirty water in its wake. Just like me – trying to clean but only spreading the mess around.
My hands won't stop shaking. The brush slips from my grip, clattering against the stone floor. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as I struggle to draw breath into my burning lungs. Just a moment's rest. That's all I need.
"Look at her." It's Marcus's voice, one of the human staff, who has just entered with a sack of wheat. His voice cuts through my labored breathing. "Can't even hold a brush."
I press my palm flat against the cold floor, trying to ground myself as another wave of dizziness washes over me. The kitchen's warmth feels stifling, pressing in from all sides.
"She's so useless." Heavy boots stop beside me. "Why hasn't she been replaced?"
Through the curtain of my hair, I see Marcus shaking his head. His pity stings worse than his words. At least hatred is honest.
"Because no one else wants to clean the lower levels," another servant, Alice, replies. "Even the rats avoid those halls."
My fingers curl against the stone as I try to push myself up. My arms tremble with the effort, and I sink back down. The cold seeps through my thin dress, chilling me to the bone.
"Still." Marcus's boots shift. "There's got to be someone better than... this."
I close my eyes, willing them to move on, to leave me alone with my weakness. The familiar tightness in my chest increases, making each breath a struggle. They're right. I am useless. A burden. A defect.
"Just get back to work," the cook barks from across the kitchen. "And you—" His words crack like a whip. "Get up. Those floors won't clean themselves."
I reach for the brush again, my fingers barely able to close around its handle. The weight of it feels impossible, like trying to lift a mountain.
The sun creeps higher, casting long shadows through the kitchen windows. My arms burn from the endless scrubbing, but the floor seems no cleaner than when I started. I continue to listen to the dark elves' voices waffle in through the hallway.
"These humans multiply like vermin," a silky voice says. "We should cull the weak ones."
"That one in the kitchen, scrubbing the floors," another voice, closer now says. "It's practically dead already."
I keep my head down, focusing on the brush strokes against stone. Their boots stop near my bucket, expensive leather gleaming in the morning light.
"Why waste resources on creatures that can't even perform basic tasks?" The first voice drips with contempt. "The strong ones at least have some use."
"True." A laugh like breaking glass. "The weak ones are better off dead. It would be a mercy, really."
Water splashes over my hands as I dip the brush again. My fingers tremble, sending ripples across the dirty surface. The dark elves move on, their conversation fading into discussions of the upcoming feast, but their words settle into my bones like winter frost.
I sit back on my heels, wiping sweat from my forehead with a shaking hand. The room spins slightly, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. My chest aches with each breath, like someone's wrapped iron bands around my ribs.
"I'm just a burden." The words slip out in a whisper, barely audible over the kitchen's usual clamor. "To everyone."
The truth of it weighs heavier than any chain. Even the other humans avoid me, afraid my weakness might somehow spread to them. Like a disease. Like a curse.
Many hours later, after being shoved, yelled at and beaten by the dark elves feasting, I'm relieved of my duties. My muscles scream from hours of serving, cleaning, existing.
I drag myself to my small corner in the servants' quarters, a threadbare blanket and straw mat my only companions. The stone floor beneath radiates cold through the thin material, but I barely notice anymore. It's just another discomfort in an endless sea of pain.
A rat scurries past my feet. Even it has more purpose than I do. At least it knows what it wants – food, shelter, survival. What do I want? Nothing. Nothing at all.
"Hey." Alice's voice drifts from her mat a few feet away. "You should eat something."
I turn my face to the wall. The thought of food makes my stomach clench. "I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten all day."
"What's the point?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Silence follows. Then rustling as she settles into her bed. "Suit yourself."
The darkness presses in, heavy and thick. Somewhere above, the dark elves are probably still celebrating, their laughter and music muffled by layers of stone. Down here, there's only the sound of breathing and occasional coughs from other servants.
My chest feels hollow, like someone's scooped out everything inside and left nothing but an empty shell. What am I even doing here? Taking up space, using resources that could go to someone stronger, someone useful.
I pull the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders, but it does nothing to ward off the chill that seems to come from within. My eyes sting, but no tears fall. I'm too empty even for that.
The gods must be cruel to keep me here, trapped in this endless cycle of meaningless tasks and constant reminders of my worthlessness. Or maybe they've forgotten about me entirely. That would make more sense.
I close my eyes, praying to whatever deity might be listening. "Please," I whisper into my blanket. "Don't let me wake up tomorrow. Just let me fade away. Let everyone forget I ever existed."
The darkness offers no response. It never does.