The streets of Highcaster are dark and quiet. A few oil street lamps dimly light the route back to the forge. The party goes on at the palace behind us. The wine I shared with the prince warms my stomach and calms my senses. The stone and wood buildings stand sentinel in the dark, crickets chirping in the flowers and ivy climbing the walls. The river flows nearby, softly rustling. A dog barks somewhere. The city is tranquil. If I let my mind wander, I can almost forget I am a slave. Almost.

Barnard lags behind me, his steps staggering. I hear him mutter curses as he trip, his shoes scuffing on the cobblestones. I walk on ahead toward the forge.

“Hey,” the blacksmith slurs. “Whore.” I glance over my shoulder to glare at him.

“Don’t call me that.”

Barnard laughs, loud and boisterous. “I own you, Ibim whore,” he says. “I can do wha-whatever I want.”

“The king owns me,” I say shortly. “Not you, you ass.”

“Shut up!” he growls. “You worthless—” He yanks me by the back of my dress. I stumble and land against a wall, catching my fall with my hands. The skin on my hands breaks, and my cheekbone scrapes against the stone. I try to push upright, but the blacksmith pins me. His knees knock against the back of mine, spreading my legs apart.

I struggle, realizing what he’s doing. A scream rips from me as he squeezes the back of my neck with one hand, pressing my face against the wall. I feel my hair being torn from my scalp where his fingers dig into my skin. His spare hand roughly hikes my skirt up, ripping the fabric. Prone against the wall, I can’t reach my arms back to push him away. I can hardly hear beyond the rushing of my pulse in my ears and the screams pushing from my lungs.

“I own you, you fu… fuckin’ whore,” he growls. He pushes himself against me, inside me. Pain tears through me at the apex of my thighs. I feel the warmth of blood trickle down my legs, smell the metallic tang of it. I scream, my voice ragged and racked with sobs. He reeks of wine and sweat.

He is clumsy. A few uneven thrusts, and he releases me. I slump against the wall, and he kicks my side. I yell, my voice cracking as I sob. My ribs and abdomen ache.

“Savage bitch,” he mutters. He refastens his trousers, kicking me once more as he steps over me. He grumbles drunkenly, stumbling away down the street toward the forge.

I am left laying on the cobblestones, trembling and bleeding and broken.