Chapter 1
Nova's breath came ragged, strained, and above all, exhausted. She had been scrubbing the floor for two hours straight, armed only with a rusted metal bucket and a rag so dirty and torn it squelched in her hand.
Her fingers felt stiff and numb, the palm reddened, but she couldn't afford to stop—not until the head-house slave gave the order for her and the other thirty women to cease. In this hierarchy, Nova knew her place: lower than the favored few, disposable and weak compared to those in higher standing.
Adjusting her grip on the rag, Nova surveyed the black checkered floor. Countless times she and the hundreds of other women had scrubbed it, yet no matter their efforts, it never shone enough to reflect or gleam in the grand entrance hall of the mansion.
The floor, worn by years of dirty shoes that clomped, stomped, and trampled over it, simply couldn't withstand the filth of the wasteland world beyond these walls.
The walls…
The walls groaned under the assault of the dusty wind from outside, their once-grandeur barely holding together now. They bore witness to Nova's enslavement, the silent witness to the atrocities wrought by the Iron Fist upon those who dared defy them.
Nova released a silent sigh, careful not to let her weariness be heard.
She was exhausted, weakened by hunger above all else.
In her early days as a cleaning servant in the mansion, her stomach would growl incessantly, days on end. Now, though still aching with hunger, it had learned the futility of its cries.
*Clatter.*
“Oh no,” Nova whispered, the sound so familiar it sent a shiver down her spine.
The broom hitting the floor with a loud thud made every girl's heart race, their bodies break into a sweat, and tears well up in their eyes. But Nova couldn't summon that last response.
Her tears had long been dried by the nightmares of the mansion.
The sound signaled that a girl had reached her limit, unable to endure the harshness of the environment or the daily forced labor any longer. It meant she had given up, resigned to her fate.
“You dare stop!” the head slave shouted, her voice cutting through the air. Nova flinched as the head slave stomped past her and the other girls. Once the head slave had moved on, Nova lifted her head slowly, dreading what she knew she would see.
The girl lying on the floor looked young—no, Nova knew her.
She knew Emily. Emily had only been at the mansion for a year, and in that time, Nova had seen her as a kind-hearted girl. But kindness had its limits. Knowing that the other girls suffered from hunger pains at night, making it hard for them to sleep in their chambers, Emily had tried to steal food from the general's kitchen.
Her heart might have been in the right place, but the consequences were dire.
The head slave, despite sharing the same origins of being stolen and forced to work in this wretched place, wasted no time in betraying Emily to the guards.
The next day, when the girls saw Emily again, they recoiled in horror. She had received the worst beating any of them had ever seen. Her body, thrown in front of them by her hair, bore evidence of brutality. Her left eye was swollen shut and purple, her body covered in bruises that told a story of relentless violence.
Three months had passed since that day, but Emily showed no signs of recovering from the savagery inflicted upon her.
Nova's eyes watched through the curtain of her long red bangs, which concealed the hatred and fear boiling inside her. The head slave placed her foot against Emily's head, nudging her lifeless body side to side.
The head slave sneered, pressing her foot harder against Emily's head. “Look at this useless wretch,” she barked, her voice dripping with contempt. “I don’t care if you can’t stand, I don’t care if your tired! Weakness has no place here. Get up, if you still have any strength left, or die like the worthless dog you are.”
“Get up, you have to get up!” Nova repeated in her head, the only words keeping her standing. Yet, her prayers went unanswered, like so many others before.
Emily did not move, did not get up. As the head slave moved her head, Emily's brown hair, usually in a ponytail, fell forward, her bangs brushing against her forehead and revealing eyes that once shone with hope.
Now, those bright brown eyes were lifeless, extinguishing the glimmer of hope they had once offered in the hellish land of Valtoria.
This is what the Iron Gate community did to a person—it crushed their spirit. Seeing that Emily wasn’t going to speak or beg for forgiveness, Nova’s head bowed down just in time. Moments later, the head slave's frustration echoed through the hall as she stomped on Emily's body. “I. Said. Get. Up!”
Nova's eyes stayed glued to the checkered floor, focusing on a single dirty brown stain. No matter how hard she scrubbed, it would not leave. But the consistency of her effort provided a distraction—enough to drown out the other girls’ tears and the surrounding chaos.
“Fine! I tried to help you, I tried to warn you, but obviously, Emily, you don’t care anymore. If you want to die, so be it.” The head slave snapped her fingers, and all the girls' bodies tensed.
The Iron Fist soldiers were coming in.
They were General Alaric’s devoted soldiers, mind-broken and brainwashed devotees.
While the women slaves in Alaric’s mansion had to clean his homestead and belongings, the men often had it worse. Nova always felt the most pity for the men because, although they were all slaves working for the same cruel man, at least the women had their minds intact if they were strong enough to hold onto them. The men weren’t so lucky. If they showed any resistance to being his soldiers, Alaric would brainwash them until they were as obedient as dogs.
It was a frightful thing to see—a man with so much potential and spirit turned cold and hollow like an empty shell.
So, no matter how loudly the soldiers burst into the halls or how they stormed into the room with their dirty feet, stepping on someone’s hand or knocking over Nova's bucket of water, she felt nothing but pity and sadness.
The soldiers marched in, their heavy boots echoing ominously through the hall. The head slave stood back, watching with a satisfied smirk as the soldiers approached Emily’s lifeless form.
One soldier grabbed Emily by the arm, yanking her up roughly.
Her body hung limp, and for a moment, Nova thought she might be dead. But then Emily’s head lolled to the side, and a faint groan escaped her lips. The soldier shook her, trying to elicit a response, but Emily remained unresponsive.
“Take her to the holding cells,” the head slave commanded. “Let General Alaric decide her fate.”
The soldiers nodded and dragged Emily away, her feet leaving trails in the dirt on the floor. Nova dared a quick glance around the room. The other girls were visibly shaken, their eyes wide with fear and despair.
Nova knew that if she didn’t keep her head down and continue scrubbing, she could be next.
As the soldiers left, the head slave turned her attention back to the remaining girls. “Get back to work!” she barked. “You think this place is going to clean itself?”
Time passed in a blur of scrubbing and exhaustion. Nova’s muscles ached, and her palms were raw and bleeding, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. The fear of what had just happened to Emily drove her on, a relentless force that kept her moving even when her body screamed for rest.
Finally, hours later, the head slave called an end to their work. The girls were herded back to their cramped sleeping quarters, where they collapsed onto thin, hard mats.
In the cramped sleeping quarters, darkness hung heavy like a suffocating blanket. The only illumination came from a small, flickering oil lamp in the corner, casting dim, dancing shadows across the room. The air was stale, tinged with the musty scent of unwashed bodies and damp earth seeping through cracks in the walls.
The cots were lined up in neat rows, each barely a foot apart, creating narrow pathways between them. They were simple, wooden frames with thin, lumpy mattresses that offered little comfort. The blankets were threadbare and worn, barely providing warmth against the chill that permeated the room.
Every girl's cot was close to one another, creating a sense of intimacy that none of them desired. Despite the proximity, there was an unspoken understanding to respect each other's space, each girl retreating into herself after enduring another day of harsh labor and constant fear.
The silence of the room was broken only by the occasional whimper or muffled sob from those still haunted by the day's events. Sleep was elusive, chased away by the echoes of the head slave's commands and the memory of Emily's limp body being dragged away.
Nova lay on her cot, staring blankly at the ceiling, her body exhausted but her mind racing with thoughts of survival. Each breath she took echoed in the darkness, a reminder of the fragile line they all walked between life and death in this cruel world.
In the morning, Nova and the girls were immediately roused from their restless sleep. It was a routine they despised, as the scant hours they had to escape into slumber were precious and fleeting.
Nova's head lifted from her cot, though she winced as she pushed herself up with a sore hand. Her hands were raw, tired, and marred by the harsh labor they endured daily.
In matters of appearance, Nova knew she was the most weathered among the girls. Her unruly red hair sprawled in disarray, often obscuring her sunken brown eyes.
The scent of must and dirt clung to her, a constant companion she had long grown accustomed to. Her hands were far from delicate; they bore dirty nails and scars, much like the rest of the girls in the dormitory. Her lips were chapped, her frame as thin as a sickly bird's.
“Nova you look terrible, you sure you don’t want some of my portion of food today?” A girl with long blonde hair said.
Criticism about her appearance wasn't new to Nova. People often remarked on her youthful appearance, which contrasted sharply with the weariness etched into her soul.
Nova shook her head at the blonde girl.
She must be new, she had to be. Offering food to someone like me, who is perpetually on the brink of starvation, was a mistake. In this place, you never knew when your next meal would arrive—if it arrived at all. Sharing food with someone who could fall ill and perish from a bad cough seemed not only generous but also impractical and wasteful.
Emerging from her cot and onto her feet, Nora was hit with a sudden wave of dizziness, prompting her to press the back of her hand against her forehead. It had been three days since her last meal. The heavy wooden door of the dormitory creaked open, and the unmistakable heavy steps of none other than the head maid echoed down the hallway. Nora took the opportunity to observe her closely.
The head maid’s brown-to-black hair was tightly secured in a high bun. Today, she wore a brown dress adorned with numerous front pockets, paired with her usual black stockings and worn-out brown heels. Her perpetually grimacing face remained unchanged: light brown complexion, marked by a prominent black mole on her right cheek, and sullen brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
“Alright girls, today is hygiene day,” announced the head maid, her voice carrying a tone of forced cheerfulness. “As you all know, our master is gracious enough to give us three days out of the week to take care of all our bodily functions. This Sunday marks the day we will attend to our needs.” Her sharp eyes scanned the room, ensuring every girl was alert and attentive.
Her lips tightened into a thin line as she turned towards the first row, assigning each group their tasks for the day—whether it was cleaning, preparation, or allowing them access to the cramped five-shower bathhouse reserved for the women slaves.
Nova's row was granted an hour for personal hygiene before starting their chores, a rare respite that Nora welcomed with gratitude. She knew that attempting any cleaning in her current state would likely lead her down Emily's path.
...Emily.
Nora glanced around the room, but the absence of the ponytailed girl weighed heavily on her.
Poor Emily—so innocent and young.
“Alright! You all have your tasks. Once you finish breakfast, head straight to your assignments. And for any newcomers thinking of slacking off or trying to escape, I've stationed guards in your designated areas. They have the list of every girl present, so if any of you even consider it…” The head maid's grin stretched wide, causing Nova to lift her head and part her lips.
“You'll end up like Emily.”
