Chapter 1
Elia
The oppressive midday sun causes my shirt to stick to me like a second skin as I kneel in the burning sand.
The beads of sweat continue to trickle down my forehead, and I take a second to remove my wide-brimmed hat.
The handkerchief tucked into my pants is still damp from the earlier hours of work and does little to help.
“Keep working!” I hear the guard’s shout before the hard kick slams into my lower back.
I grunt as my hands brace the impact in the sand, trying to ignore the spreading pain.
I glance up at the guard who kicked me, noticing it’s Soren.
He shares my bed on occasion, the last time being just the previous night.
“What was that for?” I glare at him, grabbing my hat and jamming it back on my head.
He smirks and winks at me. “Only doing my job, Clover. Nothing personal.”
“Yeah, right,” I mutter under my breath as he walks away. “See if I open my bed to you again.”
I return to the mind-numbing work of digging through the sand before Soren has another reason to bother me. He probably would come by again tonight anyways, and despite my threat, I would welcome him in. There’s not much else to do around here in the labor camp, and it’s better than being alone.
These labor camps, nicknamed ‘Sand Traps’ by most for obvious reasons, are meant to be temporary places of work and refuge.
Because of that, all residents work everyday, trying to earn as much as possible in order to move on.
I am one of the very few permanent residents here, guards notwithstanding, arriving when I was fifteen, almost a decade ago now.
A metal clank tells me my shovel has hit something. The sand is rough against my calloused palm as I pull out a silver spoon, bent at the handle.
“Worthless,” I sigh, tossing it into my bag anyways.
The camps are another way for the King of Ashven to earn more obscene wealth.
Workers here spend dawn to dusk digging and sifting through this barren landscape, trying to find any remnants and artifacts from the Ancients that lived centuries ago.
Some are as simple as a silver bowl or a gold ring, and I find about a dozen candlestick holders and silverware each week.
These items get melted down and made into bars that fill the King’s coffers.
However, what the King really wants are any relics that might contain the Ancients’ magic that existed in those old kingdoms. These elusive finds can look like any of the aforementioned objects, but contain some sort of power or ability that the Ancients once held.
At the end of the day, all items found are turned over to the guards and your pay for the day is based on each person’s haul.
Well, at least that’s what I’ve been told and seen from my time here. All the money I earn supposedly comes off my family’s debt I’ve been working to pay off. However, in my ten years here, I’ve never seen so much as a copper and I’m not any closer to freedom.
After another few hours of searching, the sun starts to set and the loud bell of the end of the day sounds from the distance.
I gather my day’s findings in my provided bag (two gold broaches, a brass serving tray, and that last bent spoon), tuck my tools into my belt, and manage to rise to my feet.
I have long since given up on trying to brush the sand off my body.
It’s become a part of me, in every crease and crevice of my body.
I head over to the line forming at the guard’s tables, waiting my turn to hand in my artifacts. Some people in line nod to me, others turn their eyes downward to avoid mine, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention for any reason.
I’m almost to the front when I see the main overseer and two accompanying guards, Soren included, in my peripheral marching towards the line. Everyone immediately shrinks into themselves, trying to make themselves seem smaller to avoid him.
“You!” The overseer stops two feet away from me, and I slowly turn my head to see if he’s directing his yelling to me. I hold my tongue as he continues.
“Clover. You’re coming with me.” I curse softly. I was crossing my fingers that he wasn’t talking to me.
“Why?” I raise my eyes to meet his beady stare. “I still have to turn over my finds from today.”
The back of Soren’s hand connects hard with my face before I could even register his movement. I stare daggers at him. He can’t be serious. I wouldn’t say I’m an expert in bed, but I’m good enough that I should avoid his beatings.
This is probably his sick form of foreplay, though.
“You don’t get to question his leadership,” Soren barks. “You’ll do as he says.”
He grabs me roughly by my forearm and yanks me out of the line. I hastily hand my bag of goods to the person behind me for them to claim as I’m half dragged away.
“I can walk by myself,” I seethe, twisting my arm out of Soren’s grasp.
He doesn’t make eye contact with me, and with the overseer here as well, it must be something serious. I decide to stay close to Soren. The enemy you know, and all that.
The overseer is a tall, beefy man and you could probably fit at least two, maybe three, of my bodies side by side in the width of his.
I can tell he’s never missed a meal in his life.
That must be where all the camp’s food is going, because the scraps us residents receive can’t be all they cook.
He’s rarely seen out of his office, usually making the guards handle everything by themselves.
I follow behind, playing back the last month of events in my head, trying to remember if there was anything I’d done recently that would warrant this kind of attention.
I mostly keep to myself in camp, having learned early on that forming any kind of friendship is futile when turnover is so high.
Everyone outside of the guards leave within a month or two, so it’s no use making friends when I know none can be permanent.
When I first came here, I couldn’t keep my smart mouth shut and tried to push back on the guards.
That’s how I caught the attention of Soren.
But after a few nights sent to the dunes during a sandstorm and after a few other beatings, I learned pretty quickly to stay in line.
There was also no point in trying to escape when you’re in the middle of the desert; you’d die of thirst before you could even find the road.
I continue to rack my brain. Nothing in my memory comes to mind. Besides the quick kick this morning, which is par for the course around here, it was another month of endless, dull monotony, so I doubt it has anything to do with my behavior.
All at once I stop still, stumbling as the guard behind me crashes into me.
“What are you doing?” Soren seethes. “Keep moving.”
I allow myself to be dragged along besides him, lost in the thought that had dawned on me unexpectedly.
This spectacle could be my parents, returning from their long trip, wanting to make us a family again.
By the time we arrive at the guard’s headquarters, the entire fantasy is already built up in my head.
The door is going to open, and I’m going to see my mom and dad, their arms wide open in greeting.
I’d run over to them and collapse into their embrace, sobbing, for at last we’d be together again.
They would take care of their debt themselves and I’d be finally free.
That dream is shattered as soon as Soren leads me into what I’m guessing is the overseer’s office. An empty office, parents nowhere to be found.
It was a nice dream, though, one I hadn’t thought about in some time. It used to be on replay in my mind when I first arrived here, but the longer I stayed, the more distant that dream became.
“Wait here, and don’t move,” the overseer orders gruffly. He pulls me by my shoulders to stand in a corner of the room opposite the door, squeezing my shoulders painfully before releasing his hold. “Don’t open your mouth to speak and this will all be over.”
As if that doesn’t cause a cold chill to trickle through my body.
I watch curiously as the overseer goes over to a door behind his desk that I didn’t notice at first. He knocks once.
“Clover has been obtained for you, sir.” The doorknob turns slowly, and a panic I don’t realize I was holding in starts to come to the surface. Is it someone worse than the overseer? Is it actually my parents behind that door?
I watch as the door slowly opens, revealing a well dressed man, only slightly older than myself.
I immediately notice the finery of his clothing, the high-waisted creaseless pants tucked into black boots polished so much that I could see the reflection of the office in them.
He wears a double-breasted coat, in the bright goldenrod and cobalt blue colors of Ashven, sword sheathed on his hip.
He traveled all this way to the desert and yet I can’t spot a single grain of sand on any of his clothing.
When I raise my eyes to his face, I take in the chiseled, shaved jawline, and notice the blond hair that waves slightly in front of his face, combed to perfection.
But it’s not until I meet his sapphire eyes that I make an inaudible gasp.
I have never seen someone as regal, as powerful, or as handsome as him.
He looks like the sun himself in this office, all golden locks and radiating strength. A King amongst toy soldiers.
The overseer comes over and shoves me towards the man as the man enters the room gracefully, with no haste, one foot in front of the other.
“Clover, this is the King’s lead Hunter. He’s requested your help in one of his hunts.” I must hit him with a ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ sort of expression because the overseer leans in to sternly whisper in my ear. “He’s paid off your debt in return. So be a good girl and do what he says.”
I continue to stare at the pools of blue in the Hunter’s eyes as the corners of his mouth lift slightly, a subtle warmth settling over his expression.
Yep. Definitely worse than the overseer.