The carriage rolled to a slow stop at the servant's entrance of the Guardian King's palace. The horses exhaled heavily, their breath visible in the cool morning air. The driver pulled the reins, steadying them, while the man beside him—a tall, weathered figure—climbed down without ceremony.
He turned, yanking open the carriage door. Inside, a figure sat still, silent.
"Out," the man ordered gruffly.
The being inside obeyed, stepping onto the cobbled ground. She was female in form, her features delicate yet unnatural. Her skin, though shaped like flesh, bore the unmistakable texture of clay. Her eyes, deep and dark, took in the palace walls with an unreadable expression.
With a firm grip, the man took her by the arm and led her through the servant's entrance, the heavy wooden doors groaning as they swung inward. The air inside was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and simmering broth, the warmth starkly contrasting the crisp morning outside. The distant hum of voices filled the halls—cooks shouting orders, maids exchanging hurried gossip, the rhythmic steps of attendants moving through the corridors.
At the center of it all stood Dorcas, the head servant. She was a woman of unshakable posture, her sharp gaze flickering toward them the moment they entered. Dressed in the deep red uniform of the palace staff, she barely spared the man a glance before reaching into the folds of her apron and handing him a small pouch.
"The Guardian King thanks you for your service," she said.
The man accepted the payment with a grunt, gave the clay-skinned girl one final look, and turned on his heel, exiting without a word.
Dorcas examined the being before her, noting the smooth, inhuman texture of her skin. "You understand speech?"
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
For a moment, the being hesitated. Then, softly, she said, "Mirey."
Dorcas nodded briskly. "Mirey, then. You'll be assigned to general duties for now. Learn quickly, do as you're told, and you'll find your place here." She motioned for a young servant girl standing nearby. "Sara, take her to the east wing. She'll start in the kitchens."
Sara, a human girl no older than fifteen, nodded and gestured for Mirey to follow.
---
Life in the Guardian King's palace was a steady rhythm of duty and routine. The morning began before dawn, with servants rising from their simple straw-filled cots to prepare the palace for the day. Fires had to be stoked, floors scrubbed, and the grand halls dusted long before the first noble footfalls echoed through them.
In the kitchens, where Mirey had been stationed, the air was thick with steam and the scent of roasted meats. Enormous cauldrons bubbled over open flames, their contents stirred by sweat-drenched cooks. Mirey was assigned to kneading dough beside a row of flour-dusted bakers, her clay fingers pressing into the pliable mass with a precision that startled those around her.
"She's strange, isn't she?" one of the scullery maids whispered to another, casting glances toward Mirey. "Too still."
"She works fast, though," the other murmured. "That'll keep Dorcas happy."
After the morning meal preparations, Mirey was reassigned to the great hall, where she polished the long banquet tables under the watchful eye of an older servant, Joren. He was a man of few words, but he appraised her work with a nod of approval.
"You don't talk much," he finally observed.
Mirey paused, considering her response. "I speak when necessary."
Joren chuckled dryly. "You'll fit in well enough, then."
Beyond the servant quarters, the palace bustled with life. Advisors strode through the marble corridors with urgent whispers, guards in gleaming armor stood vigilant at their posts, and nobles gathered in candlelit chambers, discussing matters of trade and war over goblets of rich wine. In the grand gardens, the King's favored courtiers strolled beneath the blossoms, their silken garments trailing across the stone pathways.
The Guardian King himself was rarely seen outside the throne room, where only his most trusted councilors dared to enter. His presence loomed over the palace like a silent force, his will carried out through the hands of the many who served beneath him.
As the days passed, Mirey observed everything. She learned the names of the kitchen staff, memorized the patrol routes of the guards, and noted which nobles carried favor with the King. She listened to the whispered rumors exchanged in the laundry rooms, the laughter of the young maids as they hurried through their duties, the hushed prayers of the older servants before they retired for the night.
She became a part of the palace.
Yet no one truly saw her.
And that was exactly what she wanted.
---