The next morning, the sun had barely touched the courtyard when we were called. Our hands were raw from scrubbing, our backs stiff from hauling water, yet there was no pause. The palace did not allow pause. Work came first, meals came second, and sleep came only when the body surrendered entirely.
I followed the other girls into the northern hall, where long tables were stacked with bundles of cloth to be sorted and repaired. Some were silk, some cotton, all needing attention. My fingers went numb quickly from the chill of the morning, but I did not stop. Observation had taught me that the girls who hesitated, who complained, or who paused too long were the first to be called out. And once called out, few returned to their places unscathed.
A small group of girls huddled near the far wall, whispering about one of their companions who had not returned from yesterday's chores. She had vanished during the night, some whispered. Others said she had been found slumped over in the courtyard, too weak to move, and had been carried away silently. No one explained what had become of her. We all knew, without words: the palace could be fatal to those who failed.
Our tasks grew heavier as the morning wore on. Water had to be drawn from the distant wells, barrels rolled across courtyards, floors scrubbed until they gleamed, and linen mended thread by thread. The attendants walked among us constantly, their eyes cutting through the haze of sweat and steam. One wrong move—dropping a barrel, breaking a thread, misplacing a tile—was met with a slap of the hand, a sharp word, or a whip. The crack of leather against flesh rang through the hall like a bell, sending shivers through everyone.
I learned quickly where to place myself: near the center, where the attendants could see clearly, but not so close that every minor slip would be noticed. My hands ached, my knees throbbed, and my stomach growled, but I ate only what was allowed, when it was allowed. Hunger was a constant companion, reminding me of the streets. Here, the rules were enforced by authority rather than by circumstance, but the effect was the same: a body that begged for mercy and a mind that learned to obey.
The boys assigned to palace service fared differently, but no less harshly. I watched them from behind a column during a break, their bodies tense and eyes wide, carrying supplies and tending fires. I had heard whispers from the girls: boys who failed or showed defiance were made eunuchs, their manhood taken to ensure obedience. The fear in their movements was unmistakable. Even at thirteen, I understood the lesson: the palace did not simply demand work; it demanded submission, absolute and final.
By mid-afternoon, the work had not lessened. We were assigned to clean the inner gardens, sweeping paths, clearing fallen leaves, and tending fountains. The heat from the sun pressed down on our backs, making each movement heavier. My fingers blistered from repeated scrubbing, my arms ached from lifting pails of water, but I reminded myself: pain was not the enemy, only a signal of endurance.
Some girls collapsed along the stone paths, exhausted and pale. The attendants barely spared them a glance, snapping orders to continue. One girl, weaker than the rest, was carried away by two eunuchs after she had fallen while hauling a bucket. No one spoke of her again. Death, it seemed, was part of the rhythm here, just as it had been on the streets. Hunger, overwork, and weakness took their toll, and the palace accepted it silently.
I worked beside the others, moving swiftly, not daring to slow. Observation was my shield. I noticed who faltered, who cried silently, who whispered to themselves. I cataloged faces, endurance, and the small gestures that might mark one for favor or punishment later. Every detail mattered. Every movement, every glance, every sigh could be a key to survival.
By the time we were allowed to eat, the sun was low, casting long shadows across the courtyard. A simple meal awaited us: rice, a few vegetables, and water. There was no talking. We ate quickly, swallowing our hunger in measured bites. The palace had taught me that waiting, even for the smallest pleasure, could be dangerous. One girl hesitated too long over her bowl yesterday, and the attendant had struck her hand until she finished, her sobs swallowed beneath the courtyard's echoing walls.
Afterward, we were given permission to bathe. Water was lukewarm, rationed, and the attendants' eyes were never far. We scrubbed quickly, washing away sweat, dust, and the residue of labor, and yet the weariness remained. Even in clean robes and with wet hair, the day's labor had etched itself into our bodies and minds.
As night fell, we returned to our narrow mats, bodies stiff, hands sore, and minds alert. I lay awake, feeling the ache and the fatigue, but also the sense of purpose. The palace had not softened the world, nor had it removed the struggle. The harshness was simply cloaked in gilded walls, silk banners, and strict rules.
And still, I realized: it was not so different from the streets. Hunger, labor, fear, observation, and endurance had shaped me before, and they continued to shape me here. The palace might shine, the floors might gleam, the meals might arrive in order, but life demanded the same qualities it always had: patience, attention, and the ability to survive.
I closed my eyes and felt the rhythm of the palace seep into me. Work, observation, endurance, sleep, repeat. Pain was a teacher. Hunger was a teacher. Obedience was a teacher. And in every task, every punishment, every glance from an attendant or eunuch, I learned what survival here required.
Tomorrow, the work would be heavier. The punishments, sharper. Some girls might not survive. Some boys might lose more than their freedom. But I would survive. I had survived the streets. And here, amid marble floors and gilded walls, I would learn to survive again.