Narration: Zephyra point of view
The morning light slipped through the cracks in the shutters, casting thin beams across the floor as I stared down at the piece of broken metal in my hand. It was a hinge, rusted and bent beyond repair—useless, by anyone else's standards. But not to me.
I twirled it between my fingers, feeling the weight of it, the grooves and dents worn smooth by time. A familiar itch stirred at the back of my mind, the same one that had been growing stronger since the dreams started.
I didn't have much—just scraps, really. Bits of old nails, a frayed piece of twine, a chipped handle from a broom. But with enough patience, I could make something of them.
I had to.
I sat cross-legged in the corner of the small, cramped room, my back pressed against the wall. The other servants were already up, moving about their tasks. Elysine was somewhere outside, dealing with laundry or maybe tending to the garden. That gave me a bit of time—just a few moments to work in peace.
I picked up a thin, twisted piece of wire and started threading it through the hinge, straightening the bent metal as best as I could with the tools I had—a rock, mostly. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be. It just needed to work.
It wasn't about rebellion, not the way people thought of rebellion anyway. It wasn't about grand gestures or uprisings or defiance against the masters. It was simpler than that.
This was about survival. About making things easier for myself, for Elysine, for those who lived like we did. If I could fix things, if I could improve something, even in small ways, maybe my life didn't have to be as suffocating. Maybe, just maybe, I could carve out a small piece of control in this world that had taken so much from me.
I twisted the wire tighter, looping it through again and again, until the hinge felt secure. It was nothing remarkable, just a small fix, but it was mine.
A quiet rebellion.
I pressed the hinge back into place, testing it. The door creaked open more smoothly than before. No one would notice the change, but I would. And that was enough.
---
Later, as I moved through my tasks, I couldn't help but see opportunities everywhere. The broken kitchen stool that wobbled when you sat on it, the stiff broom handle that gave splinters if you held it too tightly, the rusted pulley system used to hoist supplies. Each one was a problem waiting to be solved, a puzzle that begged to be fixed.
But I had to be careful. Too many fixes, too much attention drawn to me, and the overseers would take notice. People like me weren't supposed to be clever. We were supposed to be obedient, quiet, invisible.
Still, the pull to fix things was strong, and I found myself sneaking moments throughout the day, adjusting this, tweaking that. Nothing too obvious, nothing that would make anyone stop and question it. But every small improvement felt like a victory, like I was reclaiming a part of myself that had been buried under years of servitude.
---
I was working on a frayed broom handle in the storeroom when I heard the creak of the door. I froze, the handle halfway wrapped in cloth, my heart pounding in my chest.
Someone was behind me.
I turned slowly, my pulse quickening as I saw another servant, a boy around my age, standing in the doorway. His name was Corrin. We hadn't spoken much, but I knew he worked in the stables, tending to the horses.
His eyes flickered from me to the broom in my hands, taking in the makeshift repair I had been working on.
"You fixing that?" he asked, his voice low.
I swallowed, nodding cautiously. My hands tightened around the broom handle, ready to shove it behind my back if he got too curious.
Corrin stepped into the room, glancing around as if to make sure no one else was watching. Then, to my surprise, he smiled.
"That's clever," he said, nodding toward the broom. "Better than anything they'd give us."
I blinked, unsure how to respond. Was he mocking me? Testing me? But the look on his face seemed genuine—impressed, even.
"You... you won't tell anyone, will you?" I asked quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Corrin shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. "No need for that. You'd get in trouble, sure, but for what? Making things easier? If anything, they should be thanking you."
I relaxed, though only slightly. "They don't like it when we fix things," I muttered. "They think it means we're getting ideas."
Corrin laughed softly, shaking his head. "Ideas. Right. Like fixing a broom means you're gonna take over the world." His grin faded a little as he added, "They don't care about the little things, though. As long as you don't cause a fuss."
He turned to leave but paused at the door. "You're good at this. Better than I thought. Keep it quiet, and you'll be fine."
And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing there with the half-wrapped broom in my hands, my heart still racing.
I finished the repair quickly, the knot in my stomach slowly unraveling. It was a small thing, a tiny moment of camaraderie between two people who understood the quiet battles we fought every day.
But for the first time, I felt something new—a glimmer of possibility. If Corrin could see what I was doing, appreciate it even, maybe there was more to this than just fixing things. Maybe I could make my life a little better, a little easier, one small project at a time.
The rebellion wasn't loud, and it wasn't grand. It wasn't about overthrowing anyone. It was about these small, silent acts of defiance—about taking back control where I could.