Estelle screamed as the lash fell upon her back. She could feel the blood trickling down, see it dropping on the ground, red and furious. Another strike, another scream. She had been injured before. She had broken several bones in training at the Conmunis and had a chronic issue with her ankle that flared up at the worst times. But those were nothing compared to this.

Thirty lashes for her first offense.

Estelle knew that the baker was watching. She could hear him laughing and talking with one of the officers that had caught her off guard. In this country, crime was treated harshly. Melize did not play about and did not give second chances. As the head officer had cheerily informed her, thirty lashes for the first offence and a noose for the second. Her trial had consisted of the officers pointing her out in a crowd and the townspeople voting for punishment. 

Blood flooded her mouth as she bit her cheek, making a noise like an injured animal. Estelle was furious. She had been shorted money and had taken nothing but a single loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, after she had performed the job successfully!

What else was she supposed to do? She was an unskilled laborer. Estelle supposed that she would make a decent hired guard, but to be one legally, one needed a license. And to obtain a license, one needed to have served in the army. And to serve in the army, one must be a citizen of Melize, which Estelle was decidedly not.

Another lash struck her back and she bit down on her tongue, blood flooding her mouth. “Just ten more,” the executioner of punishment declared cheerily.

Estelle squirmed, trying to wriggle free, but the ropes that tied her wrists were secure, and without her weapons or even a scrap of metal, she couldn’t get loose.

When it was over, one of the officers sliced the ropes that tied her wrists and left her laying in the dirt, only a sack to provide her modesty. Estelle grit her teeth and slowly pulled herself to her feet. The blood ran down her back, down her legs, and she snarled at the baker when he went to approach her. He hastily backed away, the coward. There was a feral look about her as she scanned the crowd. She spat at the baker’s feet as she strode past, a great glob of red, and Estelle hoped that he felt anything other than satisfaction. She rather doubted it.

She made her way to the officer’s station, where she was permitted to collect her things. One of the officers, a fresh-faced man who looked far too young to be serving, refused to give her sword and knife back. Estelle simply raised a brow at the boy and demanded to see the commanding officer, fighting the urge to collapse on the floor and start sobbing. Or maybe scream. The only reason she didn’t was because she was unsure if she would be able to rise again unaided.

By the time he appeared, there was a sizable bloodstain on their pristine floor. She was sent to a private cell to dress herself while the officer fetched her weapons. She had served her sentence and was free once more. And free people were permitted weapons in Melize. Estelle ripped the sack that she wore during the whipping apart, turning it into strips, and bandaged herself as best she could.

Estelle was tempted to take out her rage on the boy who had refused to return her weapons, but she wasn’t keen on the noose. There was so much of the world she wanted to see, to experience. But first, she needed to escape this country and its harsh rule.

So she dressed, ignoring the blinding pain, gathered her things and walked out of the officer’s station with her head held high, her sword on her belt, her knife in her boot, her small amount of food in hand. Estelle would not make this same mistake again.

Next time, they wouldn’t catch her.