Narration: Zephyra point of view
I found myself back in the quiet storage room, this time not working on another project, but thinking. The dim light from the lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the floor as I stared at the unfinished pulley system. It wasn't enough. Nothing felt like it was enough lately.
Elysine had already left for bed, exhausted from the day's work, but I couldn't sleep. The gears in my mind kept turning long after the rest of the house had fallen into silence. The pulley had been a small success—a fleeting victory. But it didn't change anything, not really.
I leaned back against the wall, my hands resting in my lap as my thoughts wandered, drifting into a realm I didn't often allow myself to visit.
Could things be different? Could I be different?
---
My family had once held status. I could barely remember it now—the way our home had looked, the way my parents had carried themselves with pride. I was so young when everything fell apart. It all felt like a distant dream now, half-forgotten, blurred around the edges.
But sometimes, in quiet moments like this, I could still feel it. The weight of it. The sense that we weren't meant to be here, scrubbing floors and hauling barrels. My family had once been part of something bigger—something important. And now… we were nothing.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the pulley system, tracing the rough surface. Maybe it wasn't impossible. Maybe, one day, I could reclaim some of what we'd lost. Not for the sake of pride or status, but just to live better—to escape this life of servitude. To have something of my own again.
I closed my eyes, letting the thought take shape. A better life. A different life. One where I could use my mind, my hands, to build things that mattered. Not just to make the work easier, but to create something lasting, something real.
It wasn't about changing the world. It was about changing my world.
---
The next morning, the house was bustling as always. There was an event later that evening, and the elites of Faylindra House were in full preparation mode. Elysine and I moved through the kitchens, helping with the arrangements and trying to avoid the overseers' sharp eyes.
As I set a tray of glassware down on the counter, I heard voices drifting in from the next room. Two of the overseers were talking to one of the elite guests, their tones hushed but excited.
"It's incredible, isn't it?" one of them was saying. "The new machine they're developing… it could revolutionize production."
I stiffened, my hands hovering over the tray as I strained to hear more.
"Yes," the guest replied, his voice carrying a note of pride. "It's the work of Valendor's top engineers. A marvel of design. They'll be unveiling it at the next summit. Only a select few have seen the blueprints."
My heart raced. A new invention—something big, something important. And I was stuck here, cleaning glassware, kept far from the knowledge I craved. They had access to all of it—machines, tools, ideas—and I had scraps.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep working, but the frustration bubbled inside me, sharp and bitter. Why did they get to have it all? Why were people like me—people who could understand, who could build—left in the dark?
It wasn't fair.
I shook my head, biting back the resentment. I wasn't supposed to feel like this. I was supposed to be content with what little I had, wasn't I? But I wasn't. I hadn't been for a long time.
---
That night, after the event had ended and the house had quieted once again, I slipped back into the storage room. The pulley system sat there, untouched since I'd last worked on it.
I stared at it for a long time, my thoughts a jumble of anger, jealousy, and longing.
They weren't smarter than me. They weren't better than me. They just had more—more resources, more opportunities. But that didn't mean I couldn't do something with what I had. It didn't mean I had to accept this life.
I crouched down, picking up a discarded piece of metal, turning it over in my hands. I could do more. I would do more. I didn't need their blueprints or their machines to prove what I was capable of.
I wasn't just a slave. I wasn't just a servant. I was more than that—more than they would ever know.
---
The next day, I started sketching again. Small designs at first, ideas that came to me in flashes while I worked. I found myself scribbling on scraps of paper, on the backs of kitchen lists, even on the walls of the storage room when there was nothing else to write on.
The dreams, too, had started to return—vivid flashes of things I didn't fully understand, but that felt familiar. Images of machines, of gears and levers, of intricate designs I couldn't quite grasp. I didn't know if they were memories, or just the result of my restless mind, but they pulled me deeper into my thoughts.
Every sketch, every design, was a small step forward. A way to prove to myself that I wasn't powerless—that I still had something left of the person I was before all this.