Queen Zelara

*I woke to the scrape of a key turning in the lock. The sound cut through the thick herbal fog that filled the little stone cell. The scent was sharp, almost medicinal, clinging to the back of my throat, but it couldn’t quite bury the older smells that lived in the walls. My neck ached under the iron collar. The short chain kept me from sliding down completely; I was half-leaning against the rough stone, knees bent, the links taking just enough of my weight so I didn’t collapse onto the floor. The door opened. Torchlight spilled across the threshold, then a shadow stepped through.

A woman came in carrying a wide wicker basket against her hip. She didn’t look at me at first. She walked to the middle of the cell, set the basket down with a dull thud, and wiped her hands once on her skirt like something already clung to them. * “Get yourself upright,” *she said, voice low and flat.

• “I’m not repeating myself.”* I pushed up as best I could. The chain rattled. My voice came out rough and cracked.*

“Who are you? What is this place? I haven’t even been questioned yet. There’s been a mistake—I was just a soldier on the line, I never—”* She didn’t answer right away. She reached into the basket and pinched the topmost piece of cloth between two fingers, lifting it by a small corner of the waistband that still looked almost clean. Soft pink silk. Even in the low light I could see how dark and heavy the rest of it was—soaked through, the seat and crotch stained deep brown in thick, irregular patches. The fabric sagged under its own damp weight. I felt my stomach twist.*

“Listen to me,” I said, louder. * “I demand to speak to someone. A proper trial. You can’t just lock me down here and leave me—” She finally turned her head enough to look at my face. Her eyes were cold, disgusted, and somewhere underneath that a thin, reluctant pity that only made it worse.*

“Your trial already happened,”* she said, speaking slowly like she was explaining something simple to a child who refused to understand.

• “They didn’t need you there for it. Enemy soldier. Found guilty. Sentence is slavery. That’s finished. There’s nothing left to argue.”* I stared at her.*

“That’s not how it works. Even prisoners get to speak. I have rights. You can’t just decide I’m—”

“You don’t have rights anymore.” She cut across me, the words still measured but harder now.

“You’re alone down here because this is the laundry. Specifically the Queen’s personal underthings. That is the only work you’ve been given, and that is the only work you’re going to do.”* I shook my head, the collar scraping my skin. She exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp with distaste, and kept talking in that same cold, even tone.*

“You clean them with your mouth. Nothing else is allowed. Soap ruins the silk. Hands and scrubbing ruin the silk. So you use your tongue, your spit, and the softest chewing you can manage. Hours of it. Every single day. That is the job. That is all the job is.”* The silence that followed felt thick enough to choke on. I jerked back against the chain. *

“You’re lying. That’s—no. No one would order that. I’m not doing it. Take me to the fields, the kitchens, the stables, anything else. I’ll dig, I’ll haul stone, I’ll clean floors—just not this.”* She was already moving. She stepped in close, reached for the hinged metal gag that hung from a short length of chain near my collar, and fitted the frame over my lower face with quick, practiced motions. The cold metal settled against my cheeks and jaw. I tried to twist away; the collar and the short chain stopped me cold.*

“Open your mouth,” she said. Quieter, but no kinder. She held the soiled silk by that same clean corner, the heavy, damp bulk of it dangling between us. Her face showed clear revulsion at having to touch it at all. I kept my teeth locked tight. She waited a few long seconds, then spoke again, the words slower, almost weary under the coldness.

“Open. Make this easy on both of us. I can force it if I have to. I have the means right here. I’d rather not use them on you, but I will if you keep fighting me like this.”* I stayed shut. My breathing came faster through my nose. I tried to lean back as far as the chain allowed, shaking my head hard enough that the metal gag frame dug into my skin.*

“Don’t,”* I managed around the iron.* “Please. Don’t put that in my mouth. I’ll do anything else. Just not this. It’s—please, you don’t have to—”*

She didn’t answer.

Instead she reached past my shoulder and pulled a second chain I hadn’t noticed—one that ran into a mechanism set in the wall behind the iron ring. A sharp click sounded. The collar yanked me forward and down until my knees locked against the stone and my upper body was forced still, head held at a fixed, helpless angle. I couldn’t turn. I couldn’t pull away. Her free hand came up and pinched my nostrils shut hard. I held my breath as long as I could. The herbal air in the cell suddenly felt thin and useless. Pressure built in my chest and behind my eyes. My vision started to narrow at the edges. Instinct finally broke me; my mouth opened on a desperate, involuntary gasp.

She pushed the damp silk in immediately—folding the worst of the stained crotch and seat past my teeth before I could close again. The metal gag snapped shut over it with a final, solid click, locking the fabric deep in place. The taste hit at once: thick, salty sweat that had sat for hours, the sour-bitter edge of something darker and softer that had dried into the cloth, and underneath it all a heavy, lingering stench of gas and unwashed heat that the herbs in the water bowl had never fully erased. I made a choked, furious sound and tried to shove the cloth forward with my tongue. The gag held it firm. I jerked against the restraining chain with everything I had; it didn’t give a single inch. Elira stepped back at once, wiping her fingers hard and repeatedly against her skirt as if she could scrub the feeling off. She looked at the floor rather than at me for a moment, her expression tight with disgust and that same thin, unwilling pity. Then she bent, picked up the basket, and straightened. Only then did she glance at me one last time. * “Start with the old shit,” she said, voice still cold but quieter, almost like she was giving reluctant advice. * “The dark patches. That’s the vilest part of it. Work those first. Soft chewing, constant tongue. Don’t tear the silk. When I come back at the end of the day it needs to be clean enough for her to wear again. That’s all there is to it.”

I tried to speak around the bulk filling my mouth. Only muffled, raging sounds came out. I thrashed once more against the chain that held me locked in place.

She turned toward the door without another word. The torchlight vanished as the door closed. The key turned in the lock with a final, heavy scrape.

I was left on my knees in the dark, the heavy sweat-soaked silk crammed behind the gag, the taste and smell of it thick and inescapable, the herbal water sitting just out of easy reach, and the first long hours of the only work I had left stretching out in front of me. *