Narration: Zephyra point of view

The dream was always the same, but somehow, it felt different this time—more vivid, more real. I stood in a field of endless green, the kind you only see in old paintings, where the sky stretched on forever and the sun bathed everything in a golden glow. And there she was, a little girl, skipping along the stone path, her laugh carried by the wind like a song I half-remembered.

"Katrina!" Her voice was pure and bright, ringing in the still air. "Katrina, I love you."

Who was Katrina? Why did I care? The questions never had time to settle because, before I knew it, the girl had plucked a handful of grass and tiny wildflowers, offering them to me with a wide grin.

"I made this for you."

Her smile was contagious, and before I realized it, I was smiling back. But as my fingers reached for the bouquet, she began to blur, the world around her dissolving into shadows. The brightness dimmed. The warmth faded. And there I was again—grasping for something that was never really there.

"Wait! Don't go!" I cried, but it was useless. Just like every other time, the dream began to slip away. I could feel panic rise, that tightness in my chest that always followed when the last colors of the meadow faded into black. "I know you! I just… I can't remember!"

I jolted awake, sucking in a deep breath, my pulse still racing. The cold, hard reality of my tiny room hit me immediately—no lush meadow, no carefree girl, no sunlight. Just the smell of stale air and stone, with a draft that never quite went away, no matter how many blankets I piled on. My small, worn bed barely felt like a refuge. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold on to the dream for just a second longer, but it slipped away, like trying to catch water with open hands.

I didn't have time to dwell on it, though. The sound of Mistress Dorelith's sharp, impatient knock came a second later, a rude reminder that I wasn't living in dreams. I was living here—in Faylindra House. A servant, nothing more.

"Zephyra! Up! Now!" Her voice carried through the door, commanding and irritated. It was always like that. No softness, no warmth. Just orders, as though she was speaking to a dog.

I pulled myself up and splashed water on my face from the basin in the corner. The cold shock hit me like a slap, pulling me fully back to reality. In the cracked mirror above it, my reflection stared back, as tired and worn as ever. The circles under my eyes had deepened—evidence of too many nights spent haunted by dreams of a world that didn't exist for me. I ran a hand through my tangled hair and then quickly wiped the mirror clean. No point in staring. No point in thinking.

With practiced ease, I threw on my worn apron and shoes, the soles thin and barely holding together. The sound of the house waking up echoed faintly down the hall—the clinking of pots, the low hum of voices, the unmistakable creak of old wood under hurried footsteps. There wasn't a moment to lose.

I moved through the corridors quickly, head down, blending into the background like I was supposed to. Faylindra House wasn't a place for daydreamers or rebels. It was a machine, and I was just another cog in its endless workings.

The kitchen was already bustling when I got there, the scent of bread baking and broth simmering filling the air. The heat from the oven provided a brief respite from the ever-present chill that clung to the stone walls. But no one noticed me as I slipped in. No one ever did.

I grabbed a bundle of firewood and made my way to the old iron stove in the corner. The flames had nearly died out, barely flickering against the cold air. It was stupid, really—fixing things wasn't my job. But as I knelt in front of the stove, staring at the bellows that had been neglected for who knows how long, something inside me just couldn't let it go.

My hands moved without thinking, inspecting the gears, tightening the leather strap that had worn thin with age. There was something about it—something familiar. A part of me that knew exactly what to do, even though I shouldn't have. In moments, the bellows groaned to life, sending a rush of air into the stove. The flames roared up, bright and fierce, chasing away the cold.

It was a small thing. Insignificant, really. But for a brief moment, it felt like a victory. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped back, feeling a tiny flicker of pride before quickly pushing it away. No one could know. No one could see.

"Zephyra!" Mistress Dorelith's voice snapped through the air, and I jumped, heart pounding.

"Yes, Mistress!" I replied quickly, my voice steady, though my pulse wasn't. Without a second thought, I returned to my tasks, kneading dough, scrubbing floors—anything to keep moving, to keep from thinking too much.

The day was long, as it always was. Time blurred, one task bleeding into the next. But then, something shifted. Whispers floated through the kitchen, servants hurrying about with wide eyes, the tension thick in the air.

"What's going on?" I asked one of the older servants as I wiped my hands on my apron.

"An event," she replied with a sigh, her face lined with the weight of years spent in service. "The Faylindra family is hosting important guests tonight. You know what that means."

Of course, I knew what that meant—extra work, more pressure, heightened scrutiny. If anything went wrong, it would be us paying the price. I finished my tasks quickly, stacking the bread and sweeping the floors, my stomach twisting with unease.

As I stepped into the grand hall, the sight of it still struck me, even after all this time. The lavish tapestries, the polished wood, the silverware arranged with precision—all of it a world apart from where I belonged. The room was set like a stage, and I was just part of the invisible crew making sure the show went on.

The guests began arriving soon after, their laughter and conversation filling the air. I caught glimpses of their faces, but I kept my gaze down, moving between tables as silently as possible. They spoke of things that felt like they belonged to another world—politics, inventions, power. Things I wasn't meant to understand.

And then I saw her. Thessara Valendor. She stood near the center of the room, commanding attention with nothing more than her presence. Confidence radiated from her, and every conversation seemed to orbit around her like she was the sun. My stomach knotted. She had everything—respect, recognition, a place in this world. Things I'd never have.

But I didn't have time to dwell on it. A commotion broke out among the other servants—overseers barking orders, voices rising in anger. I watched, frozen, as one of them shoved a young girl aside, her eyes wide with fear.

For a second, I wanted to do something—anything. But I didn't. I couldn't. This was the way things were. This was the way they had to be.

As the overseers regained control, I forced myself back into motion. The festivities continued, the laughter and chatter of the guests a stark contrast to the unease that gripped my chest. It was a reminder—no matter how much I longed for something different, something more, this was my place. And it wasn't going to change.

I returned to my work, focusing on the rhythm of my hands, letting it drown out the thoughts I couldn't afford to entertain. The night dragged on, and I moved through it like a shadow, unnoticed, unimportant. And that's how it would stay.