I am trying my best to keep their pace, but the distance between us keeps widening.
I struggle to balance the bulky bundles in my arms, my muscles start trembling as I navigate the uneven jungle floor.
They walk far ahead, their voices low and steady as they discuss their business, and here I am struggling to the weight I am carrying.
A sharp, throbbing pain emerges in my shoulders and radiates down my arms. Every step is an uphill battle.
Should I just throw them here and run? The thought flashes through my mind, desperate and wild. But they aren't far enough ahead and with his speed , he would catch me in a heartbeat, and then—
"Walk fast!"
His voice echoes through the forest like a crack of a whip. My feet rush forward in a blind second of panic, but the burst of energy fades as quickly as it came. My legs grow heavy again, and I fall back into my slow crawl.
I am already doing more than I thought possible. They are warriors; strength and hard work are their habits, their muscles hardened by years of training. But I , I have never done this before. My body is not built for this.
"Richard, what kind of kingdom has such weak people?" Arthur mocks.
They both turn to look at me. Richard's eyes are soft with that familiar, stinging pity, but Arthur... he is different.
He is enjoying every second of my struggle, his gaze lingering on my shaking arms as if it were a performance.
The way he spits the word Kingdom makes my blood boil. Amira, ignore him. I took a deep breath to calm me down .
"What do you think?" he adds, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "I bet the Prince of that kingdom is just as weak as she is."
I clench my fists at that. He is truly testing the last of my patience. I take a deep breath, adjusting the bulky bundles in my aching arms, and fix my gaze firmly on the ground.
Amira, don't listen to him. Think of something else.
I try to pull my attention away from his taunts and toward the dangerous but beautiful nature surrounding me.
I focus on the towering trees, their trunks wrapped in thick climbers that burst with hidden flowers.
I listen to the birds singing as they fly between the high branches. My eyes trace the soft grass and the tiny, vibrant flowers that seem pasted onto the forest floor.
Slowly, the sound of their voices begins to fade into the background.
I keep my head down, watching the beautiful, small petals and flowers and the butterflies that dance over them in rhythmic loops.
With every step, the sound of the water stream grows louder and louder, its rushing melody finally drowning out the bitterness of his words.
Suddenly, his voice cuts through the air, louder and sharper than before. "What can we even expect from that Ravensford kid?"
I try my best to stay silent, but his words are like a blade twisting in a fresh wound. This poking—this constant, cruel testing of my limits—is finally too much.
I throw the bulky bundles from my arms, watching them thud onto the grass floor, and I scream, "THIS IS ENOUGH!" This makes them both spin around.
My voice echoes through the trees, trembling with all the rage I've been burying. "You are the weak one! You kidnapped me and brought me here. If you are truly as strong as you claim, then GO and fight them face-to-face! Instead, you take me—the 'weak' one—and throw your power around just to see me struggle. Does that make you feel strong? Does it make you feel like a man?"
I took a step toward him, my chest heaving with every ragged breath. "And my father... no matter, what you say about him, at least he isn't a monster. At least he is not as cruel as you are!"
Richard looks at me with a worried, frantic expression before glancing at Arthur, but before he can even open his mouth to intervene, Arthur speaks.
"CRUEL?" he repeats, the word dripping with a dark, dangerous amusement.
He heaves his axe upward, resting the heavy, glinting blade casually against his shoulder.
He begins to walk toward me, his steps slow and predatory. Instinctively, my feet begin to stutter backward, my heart hammering against my ribs. The sight of him—towering, cold, and armed with axe—is enough to steal the air from my lungs.
"You haven't even seen , what cruelty is," he says, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "Let me, show—"
Suddenly, Richard grabs his arm, stepping between us. "Let's go," Richard says urgently, his voice strained. "We have enough to do today. Don't waste your time."
He tries to steady Arthur, his eyes darting to mine in a silent, desperate plea. Shut up, his gaze screams at me. Just shut up and pick up the bundles.
I am shaking with a silent, burning anger, but as my gaze shifts from Arthur's cold eyes to the heavy axe resting on his shoulder, the fire in me dies into a cold knot of dread. I swallow my pride, bending down to grab the scattered bundles once more.
Richard quickly turns Arthur around, physically pushing him to keep walking, and I start walking behind them.
That was too close, I think, my heart still hammering against my ribs. But the bitterness remains. What does he think of himself? Using his strength, to bully someone he calls weak just to make himself feel powerful?
I trudge forward, clenching my jaw to hold back the frustration. I am so lost in my fury that I don't notice the jagged, moss-covered root snaking across the path. My left foot catches on it, the sudden snag jerking my body forward.
I gasp as I trip, the weight of the bundles pulling me toward the dirt.
Agh—the ground rushes up to meet me. I slam into the dirt, landing hard on top of the bulky bundles still clutched in my arms. The impact jars my teeth, and for a moment, the world spins.
Before I can even attempt to lift my head, the sound of Richard's laughter cuts through the air.
I don't look up. Instead I bury my face into the rough fabric of the bedsheets, the scent of dust and stale laundry filling my nose.
My cheeks burn with a heat that has nothing to do with the sun. In this moment, I wish the earth would simply open up and let me disappear.
Slowly, I force myself to look up. They are both staring. Arthur stands there with that same dead, blank face, his expression as cold as the steel on his shoulder. When my eyes flicker to Richard, his laughter dies out quickly.
He coughs and clear his throat and starts moving toward me, his hand outstretched to help me up, but I scramble to my feet on my own before he can reach me.
Frustrated and shaking, I begin aggressively brushing the dirt from my clothes, my movements sharp and jagged.
"Are you fine?" Richard asks, his voice hesitant.
I keep my eyes fixed on my dusty sleeves. I don't look at him, because I know if I do, I will scream. I'll shout at him, asking if I look fine?—covered in dirt, humiliated, and treated like a SLAVE !
I struggle to my feet, my gaze locked on the dirt as I brush the dust from my dress with shaky hands. My face burns with humiliation. I bend down, reaching for the heavy bundles once more, my muscles already protesting.
"Wait." Richard's voice stops me just as my fingers catch the knot of the second sheet.
He reaches down, sweeping up the second and third bundles before I can reach. "You only carry one, okay?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He marches toward Arthur and through one of the bundles directly at him.
Arthur catches it with effortless, predatory grace, but immediately tosses it back at Richard's chest. "You want to help her so badly?" he sneers, his voice cold as he turns to walk away.
Richard, already weighted down by the other bundle, can't catch the one Arthur threw back. It thuds into his chest and drops to the ground. He grunts, scoops it up, and catches up to Arthur, shoving the bundle back toward him.
Arthur steps back away from Richard, a mocking glint in his dark eyes. "What? Surely it isn't too heavy for a warrior like you. Since you're such a nice, helpful guy—do it yourself."
Richard doesn't back down. He holds the bundle out firmly. "And since you're my nice, helpful friend, you're going to carry one with me."
For a long, tense moment, their eyes lock. Arthur gives him a sharp, warning look—the kind that usually makes people flee—but Richard matches it with a steady, stubborn stare.
Finally, with a sharp exhale of annoyance, Arthur snatches the bundle.
He stalks ahead, carrying the laundry as if it were a weapon, leaving me standing there in the sudden silence of the forest.
They start walking ahead, and this time, following them is finally easy. It feels as though a physical weight has been lifted from my soul, not just my shoulders. I take long, steady strides, easily maintaining their pace now that I am no longer stumbling under the mountain of fabric.
I walk just a few steps behind them, my breath finally evening out. The sound of the flowing water grows clearer with every step—no longer a distant hum, but a powerful, rushing song that echoes through the trees.
We finally reach the bank, and the view, is breathtaking. The stream is wide and crystalline, the water churning white as it crashes against smooth, grey stones that curve the path of the river.
Dragonflies with shimmering wings fly across the surface, hovering like tiny jewels in the mist.
For a fleeting second, my tiredness fades. The beauty of the place almost makes me forget where I am—but the moment is shattered as Arthur carelessly hurls the bundle he is carrying at my feet.
The heavy thud against the dirt brings me crashing back to reality.
"Hurry. Finish washing all of them while we chop wood," he commands. He doesn't even look at me as he turns and stalks toward the right.
Richard places his bundles down more gently. He looks at me for a moment, a small, pitying smile on his lips, before he turns to follow Arthur. He stops abruptly, as if remembering something, and pivots back toward me.
"Oh, I forgot. Here." He reaches into the bag he is carrying and hands me a small pouch.
Without another word, he turns and start walking towards Arthur.
I set my bundle down and carefully open the pouch. Inside, I find a hemp rope for a clothesline, a scrubbing brush, and a small sack of lye soap—harsh and smelling of wood ash, the kind used for the heaviest stains.
A few meters away, two men stand among the trees. They move with a quiet, practiced focus, eyes scanning the trunks as they decide which one to kill first.
I bend down and gather the bundles once more. My muscles groan as I make the final trek toward the water's edge.
The water is clear but looks bitingly cold. When I reach the bank, I scan the shoreline for a flat stone to wash clothes. I drop the laundry with a heavy thud. The sound is swallowed by the rushing stream.
Than I start looking for something to use as a stool so I don't have to kneel in the damp mud. I spot a small, smooth rock wedged near the bank.
With a grunt, I drag it into position .
I reach for the first bundle and begin picking at the tight knots. The spray from the stream is already dampening my skin.
Suddenly, the heavy thwack of axes echoes through the jungle. The sound is so sharp it scares the birds, sending them exploding from the trees in a sudden cloud of wings.
I look over and see them—the blades are already biting into the first trunk.
The noise bounces off the trees, filling the entire forest. Are my soldiers still nearby? I hope they are. I wish they could hear this sound and follow it to find me.
But for now, I sigh , I have a mountain of dirty, stinky clothes to deal with. I have never done this in my life, yet here I am.
I pick up a towel and soak it in the water. The cold bites at my skin, making my fingers tingle and go numb.
I start to wash. I sprinkle the powder onto the brush and rub the fabric against the stone. Scrub, rinse, repeat.
The rhythm of their axes matches the rhythm of my hands. They keep cutting the wood, and I keep scrubbing the clothes, the freezing water turning my skin raw and red.
I grab the shirt he was wearing yesterday. I look at the fabric in my hands and then glance over at him.
He stands there with his sleeves rolled up, his grip tight around the axe as he swings with massive strength.
I look back at the shirt. My lips press together in a line of pure, hot anger. I grab it by the collar and shove it deep into the water, holding it down as if I am drowning him.
I keep it under the water , imagining him struggling for air, his hands splashing wildly as he tries to reach the top.
When I finally pull it up, a small, dark smile curves my lips. I drown it again. And again.
I look at him one more time and begin to twist the shirt with every bit of strength I have. My arms burn with the tension.
Then, I slam the shirt against the flat stone with a loud crack. I brush the stray hairs away from my face and bang the shirt against the rock again. In my mind, it isn't a shirt I am hitting—it's him. I imagine him crying out for help, and I , don't stop.
Soon, I realize the fabric is thin and delicate. The smile vanishes from my face, replaced by deep lines of worry across my forehead.
I quickly hold the shirt up straight and inspect the seams.
The fabric has started to pull apart at the stitches, the threads stretching until the cloth begins to fray and gap.
Oh no. What have I done? I swollow hard. He will kill me if he sees this.
The sharp crack of the axe hitting the tree jerks me out of my thoughts. I look at him ,He swings the axe through the air toward the tree trunk, but in that moment, I don't see the tree—I see myself standing there, right in front of the blade. My heart races. I lay the dress down on the stone with shaking hands and begin to rub the fabric as gently as I can.
I wash the rest of the clothes with careful, soft movements now. But the stains , do not move. No matter how hard I try, the dirt is trapped in the fibers, clinging there as if it belongs. Even with all my strength, the marks stay pinned to the cloth, permanent and mocking.
But I keep washing, and they keep hitting the wood. I finish the first bundle.
I should hang these first and wash the rest later. At least they will start to dry. If I have to carry them all back while they are soaking wet, the weight will be too much to bear.
I pull a rope out of the pouch and stretch it between the branches of two nearby trees. I carry the wet clothes over and hang them one by one. By now, I am dripping. I am wetter than the clothes hanging on the line.
Once they are all up, I return to the water and start on the remaining pile.
The sound of a tree crashing to the ground echoes through the air. I look up. Both men are standing there, their chests heaving as they take deep breaths. Richard sinks to the ground, resting his axe beside him. He leans back, his arms braced against the dirt to hold himself up.
Arthur is still standing. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He glances my way. I quickly lower my gaze and go back to the clothes, scrubbing harder as if I hadn't been watching at all.
Within a few minutes, the sharp ring of the axe hitting wood echoes through the forest once more.
They must be cutting the trunk into smaller logs so they can carry them back more easily.
I finish the second bundle. My entire body feels like it is on fire except my hands which are ice cold and hurting . I look at my hands who had turned red . The dull ache in my back and shoulders has turned into a sharp, throbbing pain.
I have no choice. I gather my strength and force myself to stand, my legs shaking as I walk toward the rope to hang the next load. I finish hanging them and now there is no room left for rest of the clothes. Every inch of the line is already heavy with wet fabric.
I walk back to the final bundle and sink onto the stone, staring at the remaining clothes.
I am exhausted. My breath is shallow and my energy is gone. Should I even bother washing these? There is nowhere for them to dry anyway. I look over at the men, watching them work. Should I tell them?
Just then, they stop to take a break. Richard looks over at me and shouts, "Let's rest for a while. Come here!"
I don't understand why I have to go over there just to sit down. I can rest right here on my stone. But I don't argue. I simply stand up and follow his command.
I walk over, and Arthur glances at me before looking past me at the rope heavy with wet clothes.
I sit a short distance away from Richard. I am exhausted to the point where even sitting and standing feels like a massive chore.
Richard reaches into his bag and pulls out a small bundle. He opens it to reveal several pieces of fruit. Immediately, my mind flashes to the bananas still hidden under my mattress back at the camp. I should get rid of them soon.
"Here." He hands me an apple.
I take it, and he tosses another one to Arthur, who catches it with ease.
They both begin to eat, their teeth crunching loudly into the fruit. My thoughts are still stuck on those hidden bananas.
"Eat it. You must be hungry," Richard says. He looks at me and then at the clothes hanging in the breeze. "Oh, you have already washed them."
I hesitate for a second before speaking. "There are some left... but there is no more room on the rope—"
"Hang them on the bushes and the clean stones," Arthur interrupts.
He munches on his apple, his eyes fixed on me with a look that says this. is . only . the beginning.