Of Soot And Cinders

II

SOOT

Everyone was excited for the ball. I couldn't deny being a little excited myself. Though none of the slaves would be allowed to attend, from now until the ball all of our work days were to be cut in half. As ordered by the prince. And that was something I could get excited for.
During breakfast, the biggest meal of my own day, everyone was given their orders. I was jealous of those who who were entrusted with jobs such as setting up decorations or going out to gather expensive  gifts for guests. Or the chefs and cooks who were allowed to create whatever their heart desired to serve at dinner. But at least I wasn't a part of the stable crew who had to completely clean out all the stables for incoming guests. Not that I was an ideal candidate for dealing with the animals, my jerky way of walking often frightened them.
I got to be in the ballroom and see what was happening, just from the vantage point of one of the nine grand hearths that lined the walls.
Nobody was surprised when I was given that task, my name was Soot after all, but they did groan and hold their faces in their hands when I asked why anyone would hold such an expensive party and choose to give us the day off.

"Ahhh Soot, child. It's so the prince may find his mate ya know." 

I sighed and felt my sorrow sink deep into my chest. "Aye, sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry about child." Whispered Sara.

She was wrong though. It was one of the greatest prides of our people. The ability to connect deeper with your Mate than any other connection on the surface of the earth. Not the humans, not the vampire clans, not the merfolk beneath the ocean waves were gifted by the goddess as we.
Well not me of course. Just the other werewolves.
My mate, or chance at having one, had been taken away at the age of six. I had been branded with the sign of the old church, an ancient organization who had tried to overthrow the goddess while she walked on earth. It still had power now. Arching over the skin of my neck. The power of the church, its symbol of a raging angry sun, used to be a declaration of war and forsaking the goddess to the wolves who wore it and the goddess took away your privilege because of it.

It was an old deterrent for slaves to run off. Used by masters and owners to keep them from finding their mate. Because if they found their mate they would be free of their chains. Nobody would threaten the laws of the Mating bond.
Didn't matter that the branding was an old practice, and was outlawed before I was born. None of the slaves my age had the branding. And neither were there slaves older who had the branding. It was a fate I would have to accept. I had been branded and I was destined to be a slave all my life.

I kept my head lowered in shame as everyone got to talking about the festivities. Though breakfast ended the talk did not. It was everywhere, all the staff, the royal guards and even the head slave driver could be heard marveling at the famous orchestras and vocalists coming for entertainment. There was also said to be a mage coming to preform magic and a water nymph trained in prophecy hired for small fortunes.
This all meant more work for everyone though. I wouldn't be surprised if I was directed to other cleaning than just the fire places like windows and dusting.

Right now though I had to focus on getting to the spring and filling my bucket. I often made several trips to the stream in a day to get new, clean water. I wasn't allowed to use the water pump by the kitchens nor the well by the stables. I'd been punished before for trying both options. I didn't want to be punished if I could avoid it.

But the creek was far and though I didn't like to admit it my legs suffered from the walk. My left leg looked worse than my right, there were lumps up and down my calf, and on my foot. All a combination of small fractures that never healed correctly and knots of tissue where the skin had been torn and regrown. But the worst part of my left leg was the bulge at the inside of my ankle. The bone had snapped and I had walked on it with only a thin splint. That had been when I was six. My right had become useless when I was nine, an admittedly similarly traumatic experience. It was mostly useless, dragging limp most of the time, though it looked almost normal except for a thick scar at the bottom of my calf.
I hadn't always been a slave. I'd had a loving mother and father once. But father had died when I was five and mother had remarried when I was six, but only months into the new marriage she had also passed.
I didn't remember them much. But my step father, and his two sons, I remembered them well.