The Weight of Expectations

As the cart rolled through the castle gates, Amaris felt a knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. The imposing stone walls rose high above her, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The castle loomed like a fortress, a stark reminder of the power that resided within. She peered through the wooden slats of the cart, taking in the bustling activity of the guards and servants who moved about with purpose, their faces devoid of the warmth found in the village below.

The cart came to a halt, and the gruff man who had driven them jumped down, barking orders at the girls to disembark. Amaris hesitated, her heart pounding as she took a deep breath and stepped into the cold air. The chill cut through her, intensifying her sense of foreboding.

"Welcome to the King's Castle," the driver grunted, his voice gravelly. "Now, move it!"

As they gathered their bearings, a stern-looking woman approached, her hair as grey as storm clouds, pulled back into a tight bun. Her presence was commanding, and the girls instinctively straightened. The Grey Woman surveyed them with sharp, discerning eyes that seemed to pierce through the facade of nobility.

"I am Mistress Elda," she announced, her voice a cold whisper that echoed in the air. "You will follow me and do as I say. Your lives here depend on your obedience."

Amaris's heart sank further. There was an authority in Mistress Elda's demeanor that left no room for dissent. Unlike Madam Sevine, there was no hint of warmth. She turned on her heel, motioning for the girls to follow her into the castle's dimly lit interior.

The corridor they traversed was adorned with lavish tapestries depicting heroic battles and illustrious ancestors, but Amaris felt none of their grandeur seep into her spirit. Instead, the walls felt like they were closing in, and the air grew heavy with her fears. She could hear the echo of her own footsteps, drowned out by the silence that enveloped them.

Finally, they reached a grand door that creaked ominously as Mistress Elda pushed it open, revealing an ornate bathhouse. Dark walls soaked in shadows enclosed the room, while steam rose in thick clouds, swirling around the intricately carved stone. The air was warm and humid, but the atmosphere was oppressive.

"Strip bare," Mistress Elda commanded, her voice slicing through the thick air. "I will examine you."

The noble girls gasped, their faces pale with shock. One of them, a girl with striking golden curls, opened her mouth to protest. "You can't expect us to—"

Before she could finish, Mistress Elda's hand shot out, striking the girl hard across the cheek. The sound echoed like thunder, and the girl stumbled back, clutching her face in disbelief.

"Do as you're told!" Mistress Elda barked, her voice low and menacing. "Now."

Fear clutched at Amaris's heart as she watched the other girls scramble to obey. They quickly shed their fine garments, the silks and jewels falling to the ground in a heap. The atmosphere shifted, the excitement of their potential future replaced by a palpable fear.

Amaris hesitated, then joined them, her heart pounding. They stood there, shivering in the steam-filled room, the reality of their situation dawning upon them. Mistress Elda eyed them critically, her gaze lingering on each girl as if assessing their worth.

"Pathetic," she muttered, her lips curling in disdain. "You're all used to luxury, yet here you stand, nothing more than a bunch of filthy children."

The noble girls shifted uncomfortably, their earlier bravado slipping away. "I—I don't know how to wash myself," one stammered, her voice trembling.

"Neither do I!" another whimpered, tears pooling in her eyes. "M-mother always did it for me!"

Mistress Elda regarded them coldly, her expression unwavering. "You stink of poverty," she declared, her voice chilling. "Scrub yourselves raw, and then scrub even more. You'll learn what it means to be clean."

Amaris felt a pang of sympathy for the girls, despite the pleasure she had initially felt at their misfortune. She wasn't a naturally petty woman. Fate had been cruel to her, and she did her best to remain humble and grateful for what she had. But who knows, perhaps she'd be snobby and spoiled if she were born into high society. Perhaps she would be no better. Amaris studied the noble girls once again; they were terrified, and their confidence shattered like glass. Swallowing her own anxiety, she stepped forward. "I can help them," she offered meekly, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

Mistress Elda's gaze flicked toward her, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You think you're in a position to help? You're no better than they are. But if you wish to play nursemaid, be my guest."

With a nod, Amaris moved closer to the girls, who were now huddled together, their fear palpable. "It's alright," she said softly, trying to reassure them. "Just follow my lead. We can do this together."

The girls looked at her, their expressions shifting from terror to gratitude. "Thank you," one murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they began to wash, Amaris guided them through the motions, scrubbing their bodies with the rough sponges provided. The steam enveloped them, mingling with their shared trepidation. Amaris worked methodically, her hands moving with purpose, while the noble girls clumsily imitated her, tears streaming down their faces.

"I'm Trista." the blonde said limply, sighing softly as water splashed against her rosy cheeks. "These are my sisters Genva and Vanja. Our...our parents said this would be...an honor." Her siblings nodded awkwardly in response. "And what is your name..?"

"Amaris." she replied, nose wrinkling as the overwhelming scent of lavender and thyme flooded her senses. At the Golden Peacock, the soaps they'd wash themselves with were nowhere near this fragrant. It gave her a headache.

Genva, the redhead, stared bleakly back at her. " He's going to eat us. He's going to torture us and crush our bones and drink it in his wine. It's true, my brother told me. We are going to die."

The words sent a chill down Amaris' spine; similar horror stories flowed freely through the brothel, from drunken customers and gossiping harlots alike. However, she was choosing to remain optimistic, as hope was all she had left to her name. "We'll get through this," she whispered, trying to inject a semblance of hope into their hearts. "Just focus on cleaning yourselves. You'll feel better once you do."

But the sobs of Vanja, the youngest soon echoed in the chamber, filling the air with despair. "I miss my mother," she cried, her voice cracking. "I don't want to be here!" Soon, her sisters joined in heady, desperate laments.

Amaris's heart ached for them, but she pushed her own feelings aside. She had grown accustomed to hardship, and she refused to let their fear overwhelm her. She scrubbed at her own skin, feeling the grit of poverty wash away, but the sight of the noble girls—once proud and confident—now brought a wave of compassion.

Just as Amaris began to feel a sense of camaraderie forming, a dark, booming voice shattered the fragile atmosphere. "Have they truly sent me girls who are so stupid they don't even know how to wash themselves?"

The words sent a shiver down her spine, and she turned her head to catch a glimpse of a figure shrouded by shadows and steam. It was none other than King Quellin, his silhouette striking and menacing. The girls instantly dropped to their hands and knees, their faces pressed to the floor, fear etched into their features.

Amaris felt a strange mix of dread and defiance rising within her. As his heavy footsteps approached, she caught a glimpse of his polished boots, each step resounding like a drumbeat against her heart.

"Pathetic!" he bellowed, his voice laced with contempt. "Is this what you call tribute? You weep and whine like children! Your mother isn't here to save you, nor is she here to coddle you."

The noble girls flinched at his words, trembling under his fierce gaze. "I-I'm sorry, my Lord," Vanja stuttered, her voice muffled against the floor.

"Shut up before I feed you to my dogs!" he snarled, annoyance creeping into his tone. There was a stifled yelp as he pressed the heel of his boot against her neck until there was the faintest pop. She whimpered, but did her best to remain silent. 

Amaris's heart raced, fear gripping her tightly. She hadn't intended to speak, but before she could stop herself, the words tumbled from her lips. "Please, my king!" she called out, her voice rising above the others. "They've never done it before. I can train them to fend for themselves. Just give us a chance!"

The room fell silent, the other girls glanced at their compatriot in shock. Quellin paused, his dark gaze burning down upon her, the weight of his scrutiny pressing deep like a physical force. Amaris held her breath, the silence stretching between them, her heart thundering in her chest.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and dangerous. "That's sufficient," he said, a hint of amusement dancing in his tone. "You think you can save them? How quaint."

Before he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression shifting into something colder, more calculated. "King Jezza would have lavished you all with the most beautiful frocks, emeralds, and whatever your hearts desired. But I am not my father."

As he walked away, the weight of his words settled over the girls like a shroud. The fear in the room transformed into a heavy silence, each girl lost in her thoughts. Amaris glanced at the noble girls, their faces pale and shaken, their earlier excitement extinguished. Trista had pissed herself.

The reality of their situation sank in deeper, and for the first time, Amaris felt the weight of expectation settle squarely on her shoulders. She had no idea what awaited them in this dark castle, but she knew one thing: she would fight to ensure they all survived.