She knows

"The rest of you, return to the castle manor. Not you, Murmer. You stay."

Artam paused as he was about to leave as the others left, oblivious to the looks they gave him, the silent promises.

His arm was throbbing.

"There should be no infighting among tribesmen, child." Ilda said when they were alone.

Jon's anger flared. "He called me a bloody—"

"I heard what he called you, Child. What of it?"

"They said the slimy bastard fucked me, and Pale face stuffed his cock in my mouth," Artam said, burning rage. "I would never—"

The aged woman cut him off. "Words don't change what you did or what you didn't do. Do they, Child?"

Artam was cold with rage. "Can I go?"

"You'll go when I tell you to go."

Artam stared sullenly at the dull colors of the mats, until Ilda took him under the chin, thin fingers turned his head.

Softly she spoke.

 "Look at me when I'm talking to you, child."

Artam looked at her.

She had a frame that had grown slender with age; her shoulders hunched slightly.

Her face was a common one, mildly attractive despite the wear of time, was marked by deep lines and tired eyes. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back loosely, wisps escaping to frame her face.

Her hands were calloused and steady from years of care, and there was a hint of kinship in her brown eyes.

"Words won't change what you are, child."

"You think you have it hard, being the steward for the bastard?" The Naldean woman continued. "That boy Caman had the stool two days ago. He couldn't work properly, but he was beaten because of it, and Crag was beaten and sold by his former master for killing a dog that tried to maul him to death."

"I don't care," Artam said, but the guilt was seeping in. "I don't care about them and I don't care about you or anyone else. I hate them because they bully me. They hate me because I'm better than they are. Why am I the only one at fault? Everyone else is unfair, hard, and mean."

"Yes. Unfair and hard and mean—that's the way of us. This is the way it is, and all you'll know for life, same as the rest of us." The woman went on. "They are your tribesmen, the only kin, friends, and brothers you'll ever know, child. So take care not to destroy the only chance you have at friendship."

"They'–" Artam snapped.

"No. They won't. Not yet, why?" She brought her face to Artam. "They hate you because you act like you're better than they are. They look at you and see a slave boy who thinks he's a lordling."

"You're no lordling. Remember that. You're a Naldean, not anything else."

Her next sentence made Artam's heart sink.

"I saw what you did; I knew what you were long before even you did." She said, "A warg who almost committed a taboo. Almost became a cursed child."

"Don't call me that!" Artam said sharply, but the force had gone out of his anger.

"You were given a gift." Her face twisted into a light scowl. "Your gift will bring you ruin with the way you keep using it."

Suddenly Artam felt fear. "I never..."

"Best you never did," Ilda warned him. "That, or sleep with a dagger by your bed. Because sooner or later one of them will find out what you are. Now go, child. We'll talk later, and I'll have to talk to the other boys."

By the time Artan left the temple, he was already running late. The bastard would have his head if he didn't quicken his pace.

But his mind was in turmoil: "She knows, she knows, she knows!"

Suddenly Artam was scared and his blood cold.

She knows. How long had she been watching him? How long had she kept silent? The fear clawed at his throat, and with it, the rising instinct to flee.

I could run! I could escape and find another master!, but somehow his feet still guided him back to the manor.

Artam's breath quickened as he weaved through the narrow alleys.

The wild beating of his heart echoed in his ears, drowning out the muted sounds of the bustling streets. Every shadow, every passerby seemed like an enemy in waiting.

He paused just before the gates.

"I could run," he whispered again to himself, but this time, there was no conviction in his words.

He took a deep breath and stepped inside. Passing the guards and the walls.

Foreboding shadows danced across the stone walls. Then he reached the yard.

His eyes darted toward the bastard's quarters, where he was sure to be, waiting, possibly already furious at his lateness. He could almost feel the sharp sting of reprimand.

He quickened his pace and reached the well, but the pail was gone.

His heart sank a second time, and his feet made their way to the bastard's quarters.

What would I say?

Before he could answer his own questions and formulate a lie, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway.

He flattened himself against the wall, his heart pounding. A figure emerged from the room—a serving girl, one of the newer ones.

Cara

She stopped short, staring at Artam with wide eyes.

"Artam…?" she whispered. "They've been looking for you. You're late. He's furious."

He swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the shadows further down the hall.

"I know," he whispered back.

"I had to take care of something first." His mind raced, trying to find an excuse.

But Cara, with her trembling hands and worried eyes, "You don't understand," she said, her voice shaking. "He's not just angry this time—he's out for blood."

Artam felt his heart drop again, for the third time today.

He saw the way Cara was trembling, and he knew he was in deep waters. Sometimes he'd forget she was just a girl; the small little girl cared for him like a brother.

He steadied himself, groping for a mask. Murmer wouldn't suffice now; he needed someone strong and brave.

"Alright, I've heard." He placed an arm on her head. "I'll meet the bastard. Now go."

She said nothing but nodded and then trotted off, disappearing down the hallway. With no other choice, he pushed off the wall and made his way to the bastard's quarters.

It didn't take long for Artam to reach the bastard's quarters.

He knocked and received a reply to open the door. To which of course he did.

The bastard had just finished donning his clothes, velvet silken doublets with obsidian trews, and a beautiful scarf around his neck.

Artam bowed in submission and greeted

"Good morning, my lord." His voice was shaky, "Myself is terribly sorry for my tardiness, what punishment is befitting of me?"

The bastard pretended not to have seen him or heard him. Instead, he spoke as if speaking to himself.

"So what if you're late? So what if I wasn't able to bathe on time? So what if I was made late by your incompetence?"

Then he scowled and turned to Artam. The scowl turned to a horrifying smile.

"I say let bygones be bygones. We all make mistakes." He straightened up and stood looking down at Artam with a haughty expression, "But a mistake is once! Coincidence is twice, and negligence is thrice. This is your second offense. I beat you for the first. The second I won't. But the third?"

He gave an eerie, haunting smile. "Let there be no third. Now get out!"

"Yes, milord." And Artam left, thanking the bastard for his 'benevolence.'

He breathed a sigh of relief, but he wasn't in the clear yet.

There was still one more thing he needed to address... Ilda