I don’t know where I am or when I was brought here—all I know is that I’ve been here for a long time.

  The guards come and go—armed men who unlock the room I sleep in and allow me to wander the large townhouse during the day with the other “workers.” Before I leave the room, I wash in the basin of still water from the night before. I rinse and wring out my brown curls and allow them to fall wet to my shoulders before taking to the rest of my body with a rag.

  The best part of the day has always been when I wash—I wash in the morning, before working, between each patron, and before bed. After that I feel less foul. I love water—I love the coolness on the red, raw patches on my alabaster skin. Bathing is the only time I feel like myself—the sensation brings me back to reality in a peaceful place, able to see myself in the reflection of the water, gazing at a lithe body that belongs to me and no one else.

  Except there was a fact that my body did belong to someone—the Dowager. She summons me to her room every now and then, and that’s when the guards come back to escort me there. I know better than to refuse a summons from the Dowager, and guards stand at every door of the townhouse. I never understood the point of the guards watching me everywhere I go—even when I go to the bath, guards stand at every entry point. The townhouse itself is wrapped around the large garden, but they keep watch there, too.

  Even if there were a way to leave, I know better than to run away from the Dowager.

  There was another boy in the house at one time—a half-elf named Rune. He seemed to be the only other one in this place that didn’t belong here. When I’d arrived, Rune was kind and gentle. He showed me how to survive here—how to make the Dowager happy, which makes life around here a lot easier. Rune would even tell me about his plans to escape, almost all of them foiled by random changings of the guard as if the Dowager could hear us through the walls.

  Rune always wanted me to come with him, but I never wanted any part of his plans. I valued my life and what little freedom I had more than he did. I do have some freedoms. I sleep in my own bed in my own room. I wander the townhouse and the garden as much as I please if I’m not working. I can eat whatever I want as long as I don't eat too much of it. I read as many books as I have time for, losing myself in a different world. I’m the Dowager’s favorite and she made sure that everyone in the house knows it, including the guards. The girls hate me because they all try so hard to impress the Dowager and I did just that without even trying. I’ve always felt bad about it, but that never changes their feelings towards me.

  I’ve learned to be satisfied with the life that I have—I’ve given up any hope that I’ll ever be able to live a different one and I forced all thoughts of the life I had before out of my mind. I don’t even remember anything about my old life. But to Rune, there was much more to life than being a slave—even a comfortable one—and he was willing to risk everything for his freedom.

  We’d gotten into an argument the night that he left. He wanted me to escape with him, to start a new life together. He thought that I didn’t really care for him because I didn’t want to take the miniscule chance that we’d actually make it. That was the last time I ever saw him. In the early hours of the morning while I was sleeping, he succeeded in his plan to escape—almost. The next afternoon, the Dowager brought me a lock of Rune’s honey blond hair. She said, “This is what happens to boys who run away.”

  I think that the Dowager allowed Rune to escape that night only to kill him, just to prove a point to me. The Dowager valued my servitude far too much to let anything happen to me, and she wanted to quench even my tiniest thirst for real freedom that Rune had given back to me.

  Time got away from me like it always does and I watch the dimming evening sky turn to a dark dusk. The enchanted kerosine lamps light themselves, bathing the garden in their warm glow. I lay in the dew glistened grass with an open book across my chest and I am there as the sun extinguishes and the first star lights itself in the sky.

  “Vigil,” a voice calls from one of the garden doors. I lift my head to look at Magda, the most popular girl in the house. She was set to be the Dowager’s favorite before my arrival however long ago, so she hates me the most out of all of them.

  “A patron for you,” she said shortly. And with a flip of her red hair, she went back inside.

  ?? ??

  I have one of the nicest rooms in the house, so I take my patrons in there. The four girls share two small, minimally-furnished rooms, so they take their patrons in the guest rooms. My room is on the second floor—the whitewashed walls are accented with dark wooden ceilings and floors and there’s a dormer on the far side with a mullioned window. A stone corner fireplace is lit and crackles warmly at a safe distance from the carved wood frame of the double bed, fashioned with gray sheets and luxurious dark blue blankets.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I’m undoing the ties on my shirt as I hear heavy booted footsteps enter the room. A soldier was my first thought. We get a lot of soldiers, Gatewardens, and mercenaries here at the townhouse. Marshall folk tended to get lonely when their lives belonged to the call of duty, and mercenaries likely hadn’t laid in a soft bed with an “exotic” young man in ages—the Dowager put a pretty bit on my services because of that proclaimed quality of mine.

  I turn and let the shirt fall off of my shoulders as I see an orc. I try my best to hide my surprise—I’d never seen an orc in the townhouse before. I didn’t think that they would be welcome here. I morph my surprise into breathless wonder as a smile spreads across my face. “Wow…you look incredible.”

  The orc is pretty. She has long black hair and a handsomely attractive face, her nose straight rather than squashed like most orcs. She has a chiseled jawline and her arms are corded with muscle shown off by her white shirt. Her green skin is flawless except for a couple of battle scars. She smiles warmly, showing off her prominent lower fangs. “Why, aren’t you a piece of somethin’ sweet?”

  The look of breathless wonder is part of the act that any patron would be looking for—the act of a shy young man reuniting with their lover at long last was what a travel-weary mercenary or lonely Gatewarden wanted from a graceful half-fey. I find myself mimicking Rune in these moments—this was the act that he’d taught me and we’d spent weeks perfecting it.

  After months, I’d found that the act was engraved in the fiber of my being—it had become me. It had even made its way into my inner voice, the way that I speak to myself inside of my head when I’m alone. Sometimes a part of me even enjoys myself, while the other part of me that’s buried deep down screams for it to end. Mostly, during those moments, I just try not to think. I don’t really even have to think at all anymore.

  “Please come to bed,” I hear myself say as I shyly turn my back. “You must be exhausted.”

  “I heard from a friend that you give good rest to the weary,” says the orc, digging a fist into her lower spine. “I’ve been on the road for days—my back is achin’.”

  I kneel on the bed, half turning and smiling. “Would you like me to massage it for you?”

  The orc has a crooked grin. “Certainly.” Removing her boots and stripping down to her chest wraps and trousers, she crosses the room in a couple of long strides. Then she lays longways across the bed, moving her hair out of the way to expose her muscular upper back and neck.

  I lean over her to retrieve fragrant oil from my bedside table. Rubbing some of it into my palms, I spread it over her exposed skin. “Ohhhhhh…” she groans as I press the heels of my hands deep into the muscles of her lower back. “That’s the stuff.”

  “So, where have you been, traveler?” I ask. “Have you been off on some adventure?”

  “Been all over Talwar,” the orc grunts through her small sounds of satisfaction with my handiwork. “Andesite, Gull’s Nest, Hullbeck…headin’ to Cardin next.” She looks up at me with an inviting smile. “So, are you from around here?”

  “I’m from far east—from Feyrune.” I lie without hesitation. That was my practiced answer, and it probably isn’t the truth. It’s just part of my character. I’ve hardly ever had to use that answer—most of my patrons don’t make much conversation, since they’re only really there for one reason. But this patron is clearly in the mood for a connection. “So, you said that a friend told you all about me? I hope they were as satisfied as you’re about to be.” Breaking the shyness for just a moment is always a favorite of my patrons, leaving them hoping for more.

  The orc chuckles. “Yeah, a guy that I’ve run with a couple of times. Blond half-elf, young as seasoned archers come. Know him?”

  I feel a little stab in my chest—Rune. The person she was describing sounded exactly like him—Rune dreamed of being an archer. But he’s gone. “He sounds like a boy I knew a long time ago, but he’s no longer with us.”

  The orc frowns. “I’m sorry for your loss. Hey….” Slowly she sits up and gets to her feet, turning to look seriously at me. “Are you sure you wanna be doin’ this?”

  I feel confused. “What do you mean?”

  She flicks a finger back and forth between the two of us. “This.”

  I laugh incredulously. “Yes, of course I do! I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

  “You can drop the act.” The orc kneels beside the bed—she’s so tall that we’re face to face in this position. “I’m a friend. You’re safe with me.”

  I feel my brows knit together. “What…what is this?”

  Glancing over at the door, she lowers her voice to a murmur. “I can get you out of here.”

  My heart gives a jolt. A flood of emotions enters my body—the renewal of hope that I haven’t allowed myself to have in a long time. Looking at the orc’s sincere face, I want so badly to trust her, to collapse in her arms and cry knowing that it’s all over. But it can’t be over—it will never be over.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I lie again, this time coldly. “I want to be here, and any assumption otherwise is insulting. This is my job and my home. Even if I didn’t want to be here…” I lower my own voice, “I know better than to run away from the Dowager.”

  Not even affronted, the orc stands and shrugs her shirt back on. “My name’s Alvira. I’ll come to call on you again. You better have your head on straight then.” Picking up her boots, she walks out of the room and shuts the door behind her.

  I struggle to swallow my renewed hope as I bathe.