The Pet of the Opal Palace
The girl’s name was Subject Thirty-Three.
At least, that was what the handlers called her in the records of the Opal Palace, where children born of war were raised not as humans, but as creatures of entertainment. Pets for the highborn. Living dolls.
Thirty-Three lived in the eastern wing, far from the main court. Her quarters were gilded in silver and sapphire, her bed soft as clouds, yet she had never known a single moment of freedom. Every action was trained. Every desire programmed. Her food, her laughter, even the songs she sang at evening feasts—chosen for her. She was not permitted to cry, nor to dream.
She wore silks that shimmered like moonlight, adorned with bells and symbols of servitude. Her masters praised her grace, unaware that behind her calm expression burned a wildfire kept at bay only by silence.
One day, a new master arrived. Lord Dareth of Myrr, a foreign noble whose eyes held storms and secrets. He asked no questions of the pets; only observed. But when his gaze fell on Thirty-Three, something in the air changed.
He tilted his head. “You were not born to be silent, were you?”
She said nothing. She had learned long ago that words brought pain.
But that night, a whisper came to her in the dark. Not from Dareth, but from the shadows in her chamber. The walls shimmered. The fire in the brazier flickered blue.
“Child of ash, child of blood… they have hidden what you are.”
She sat up, breath caught in her throat. The voice was not of man or woman, but of wind and stone, echoing from some ancient place.
“Awaken,” it said.
Then silence.
In the morning, she awoke to find a mark on her palm—a symbol burned into her skin like ink and fire, pulsing with a faint glow. She covered it quickly with her sleeve.
But the mark would not fade.
