Overheard, rewritten, and described by the chronicler—Omji-Kru-thak.
Amanda opened her eyes. The cold of the stone floor pierced right to the bone. Standing over her in the gloom of the cell was a woman in a coarse tunic. Around her neck, she wore a thick, studded leather collar. She had the eyes of someone who had seen it all and expected nothing good to come of it.
“Where… where am I…” Amanda stammered, trying to push herself up.
“Shut your trap,” the woman cut her off. Her voice was as dry as last year’s leaves. “Not a word, or they’ll have us both flogged until there’s no skin left on our arses. Listen, for I won’t repeat myself.”
She stepped closer, blocking what little light there was.
“The world, my girl, is called Urtagh. There is no other. The Gods dreamed it up and molded it so. For us, the little folk, all that’s left is to believe it and dance to the tune they play. And the tune, damn it all, is a vile one.”
The woman fell silent for a moment. Her gaze wandered into the void, as if chasing away specters she would rather not remember. She cleared her throat.
“Once upon a time, the Gamyu-na lived here. Soft, peace-loving folk, hiding behind thick walls. And there were the Kekru-Gha. Savages from the wastes. Always hungry, always furious. They hated those walls. Loathed them, and to tell the truth—they shat their breeches at the sight of them. But they got themselves a warlord. Barak-thura. A young wolf who slaughtered his own father in a duel just to take the pack. He gathered them all and marched on Amja-la, the capital of those peaceful weaklings.”
The slave smiled crookedly, a smile utterly devoid of mirth.
“A young princess ruled there, Mji-la. She wasn’t born yesterday. She quickly grasped that no stone would stop that horde. And you know what she did? Ordered the gates opened. Stripped stark naked, walked out into the mud to face this Barak-thura, carrying a collar in her hands. Knelt before him in her birthday suit and gave herself into slavery to save the rest. And save them she did. Today, they have a monument for her, big as a mountain, scraping the clouds.”
The woman absentmindedly rubbed the thick strap on her own neck.
“The warlord accepted the gift. Ordered the walls torn down to the bare earth. Made the princess his unfree wife. They say the great god Kakru-te later did the exact same with the goddess Yamji-na. Since then, every one of us belongs to a man. Slave or wife, it’s the same dog, the same chain. There is a hierarchy, of course. Just pray to whatever old gods you have left that you don’t end up in the pens. It’s the worst whoredom under the sun. I know what I’m talking about. I rotted there for two bloody years.”
She turned on her heel toward the heavy, iron-bound door.
“Twelve years ago, I woke up on this same cold stone. Treat your old world like a corpse. It’s dead and it won’t rise again. You have three days. Water, stone, and your thoughts. Meditate. If the overseer decides you’re still a dull-witted fool, you’ll sit here another week. Pray he’s in a good mood.”
The door slammed with the thud of a falling coffin lid.
