Micah Lavoric was not prepared to reap the consequences of what he had asked. There is little doubt that he expected his noble status to transfer, and to gradually become a treasured member of the Jenwise court. He did not anticipate the way they brought him to his knees and rendered him helpless. The way they made him to beg. It was not for the sake of cruelty you see, but rather for a purpose he did not understand and could not make comprehension of.

-Sage and Sane Page 387

“Why is it so dark in here?” Sheena asked, blindly reaching for the railing of the spiral staircase that she and Kayla now descended. It had been several hours since Jenise had managed to convince Kayla to return, and it had taken quite a bit more to convince her to stay. Sheena had been given a rudimentary tour of the Vice, and now they’d walked through a hidden door directly to the left of Sheena’s new desk; Kayla had simply placed her hand upon one of the wooden panels and stood by as a rectangular opening had appeared, and they’d descended into the darkness.

“How would you like that then?” Kayla called up to her in the darkness. “The long of it, or the short? I can do both but we could be in here for a time.”

“I should far rather not,” Sheena admitted. “This place unnerves me.”

“Then we shall say that the the gas lines are in disrepair,” Kayla suggested, leaving it at that. Sheena shivered and continued her descent. The treads of the stairwell were metal as far as she could tell, perhaps a grate, and the center column as a pole of brass; she wondered what this downward passage might look like if it were fully lit, but her wonderings didn’t last long as she bumped directly into Kayla.

“Watch yourself,” Kayla snapped. “you propose to take my job, but you can’t even use a stair. The High Lady’s judgement is a comedy of errors.”

“I disagree,” Sheena placed her left foot on the tread behind her, stepping back and upward to pull herself away from Kayla. “She has done much for my family-”

“That much I can see,” Kayla snapped. “much that you didn’t deserve, much that others have worked for and deserve.”

“Are we to tarry in the darkness all day?” Sheena demanded. “What is our purpose here?”

“We entered from my office, or your office now, I suppose,” Sheena could hear the sneer in Kayla’s voice as she spoke the words in the darkness. “The steps land at two floors. The first is that of the night shift workers who slumber in the day, we don’t oft see them. The bottom floor, outside which we now tarry, is split into two dorms. One for males, one for females, with a locked passage in between them. You control the female dorm while Elric is in charge of the male side. Do you follow thus far?”

“I would offer you a correction,” Sheena said; watching as the silhouette of Kayla became visible in the growing light; emanated from a slit beneath the door that apparently stood just behind her. “We control this side. I have no wish to do this on my own.”

“Then you ought have though of such before strolling into my position,” Kayla offered. “do you find yourself perplexed? Adrift?”

“You know very well the reason I am here,” Sheena said evenly, doing her best to control the anger that was rising up within her. “I had no intention of removing you from your position.”

“Then take your leave,” Kayla suggested. “Quit this place, and leave it to those who are better equipped.” 

Sheena rolled her eyes; a meaningless gesture in the darkened stairwell as she pushed past Kayla, gripping the brass door handle and pushing though, emerging into a brief hallway that opened up into a long hallway with frosted rectangular windows. 

“This is the rear of the servant’s quarters,” Sheena observed, turning and walking past the windows until they reached a door. “A secret passage?”

“Obviously,” Kayla was less than impressed with the observation. “Did you think you’d walk in the front every single time?”

“I suppose not,” Sheena admitted. “What is it then, that we aim to do here?”

“You ask odd questions,” Kayla said. “The servants await you.”

“Await me?”

“Aye, you know as much, or so you claim,” Kayla gestured to the door in front of them and Sheena gave it a nervous glance. It was true, at least so far as she’d gleaned from her studies. When she’d chosen to enter service as part of the Rossi’s philanthropy duty, she’d spent countless nights pouring over tomes, pamphlets, and booklets, trying to glean any and all information on the position that she was about to find herself in. Of course, she’d assumed that she would be in the service position rather than the supervisory, but it wasn’t all that bad. 

Service itself was a complicated affair to say the least; it was chock full of protocol, exceptions, executions, mandates, with each section having dozens or even hundreds of subsections. Her nights had been filled with numbered lists, fine print, and existential horror as she’d tried to contemplate just how she was expected to be good at this position. Still, she’d made her decision, and she’d chosen to stick through it through the good and the bad. Of course, Kayla’s disposition had not been something that she was anticipating. Her stance was understandable, given that the High Lady had been more than happy to give away her position to a stranger and an inexperienced stranger at that. Nevertheless, Sheena straightened her back and shot a look of near derision in Kayla’s direction before turning back to the door and stepping through. The determination she’d summoned in those few precious seconds was sucked out of her, as quickly as air punched from one’s lungs as she beheld at least one hundred servants in gray, standing perfectly still and upright at attention next to their bunks in a room that could only be described as massive. She maintained her composure as she stepped from the door and through the first row of servants, feeling their eyes upon her even as their faces remained expressionless. She kept her teeth gritted as she drew in another deep breath and allowed her eyes only to move and take stock of the situation. Finally, she spoke, walking between the rows with an even gait. 

“My name is Sheena Rossi,” She began, and as she spoke, her voice began to steady. “Some of you may know my name, or you may know the Rossi name. It is to be understood that while I am here, I am as you, and you are as me. My social status is to be of no consequence, and the respect afforded to me will pertain to my position here.”

“The High Lady, in her Wisdom, has seen fit to give Sheena Rossi the position of housekeeper! The Rossi’s are of course well known for their domestic skills-”

“While I do hold the title of Housekeeper,” Sheena spoke loudly, bringing Kayla to silence. “Kayla, who has served as your housekeeper for some time, will work closely with me to help address your issues, and to ensure that the operation continues to run smoothly!”

Sheena stopped dead center of the room, shooting a fast, yet disdainful glance to Kayla before surveying the seemingly endless rows of servants before and behind. They stood there, hands at their sides, faces expressionless, uniforms perfectly pressed; the sheer volume of discipline these girls were capable of immediately astounded her. She opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind her. She and Kayla turned to see Jenise walking down the center aisle, quickly stopping and standing before Kayla and Sheena, hands folded in front of her.

“First Girl, Kaya,” She said quickly. “The High Lady would speak to the First Girl.”

“Have her ear already, then?” Kayla sneered. “Be on your way then, I’ll tend to ‘your’ duties.”

“A word, Kayla?” Sheena gestured to the door from which Jenise had come. Kayla pursed her lips, her expression rigid as Sheena held her gesture; she fell in step behind Sheena. They passed through the door and into the darkness once more; Sheena closed the door behind them, waiting until the latch clicked into place. They stood there, bathed in the ominous black, illuminated only by a line of light at the base of the entrance. “Might you not undermine my authority?”

“Might you leave?” Kayla snapped back.

“Do I truly need to invoke the authority of my station?” Sheena demanded.

“Seems you already have.”

“Stay this path and I’ll have you taken to the cog,” Sheena snapped. “Now go take the servants in hand and set them about their tasks, I will return.”

Sheena followed Jenise up the narrow stair and into the office – her office.

“Need her as I do,” Sheena said to Jenise as they paused in the center of the room. “She does so rub me the wrong way.”

“She angers for her position, Lady,” Jenise shrugged.

“Do not call me Lady,” Sheena reminded her. “I’m not Highborn.”

“Apologies, first girl,” Jenise corrected herself immediately. “The difference between a Rossi and Highborn is muddled, at best.”

The trip back to the palace was a short one; truth be told, there was little to signal their transition from the campus to the palace save for a guarded checkpoint where they were both required to show an identification chit.

“I have little to do with her position,” Sheena said to Jenise as they crossed a glass-enclosed footbridge, supported every few meters by diagonal steel girders.

“I fail to see how,” Jenise said rather matter of factly; there was no malice in her voice.

“You too, then?” Sheena raised an eyebrow.

“Apologies, First Girl,” Jenise delivered the title without a hint of sarcasm, somehow. “And I mean no offense to you, but your position here is not permanent, and I know where my loyalties must lie when your tenure ends.”

“Very astute,” Sheena nodded with agreement. “I suppose I might think the same.”

“You’ll hold it against me, then?” Jenise cocked a brow and stopped in the midst of the entryway, just before the oversized double doors that led to to the High Lady’s sizeable office. She turned toward Sheena, who folded her arms, and studied Jenise, looking from her silver-black hair, to her pale complexion, and then settling on her deep red eyes. 

“Your mannerisms confuse me,” Sheena said finally, prompting an eyebrow-raise from Jenise. “I have met a few Zlitians. Their culture is primitive, unrefined. You, on the other hand…”

“Do you truly take this time to ask me why my skin is pale yet I do not worship rocks and chant to the sky?” Jenise seemed amused, but Sheena remained stoic. “My father sent me here, to Auglire so that I might expand my horizons, so it is said. And expand them I did. The High Lady was more than pleased to welcome a Zlitian, and she gifted me with a robust education.”

“Then why are you in service?”

“Why are you?”

“We oughtn’t keep the High Lady waiting,” Sheena said, unfolding her arms and turning abruptly toward the double doors. “Though what could be of such import?”

“We ought soon find out,” Jenise commented, falling in step beside Sheena. “and perhaps we ought find out why she needed me to accompany.”

“You are, after all, the only Zlitian in Auglire,” Sheena mused. “Why should she not summon you?”

Jenise said nothing else as Sheena stepped forward, facing two blue-uniformed guards, each with a wood and iron rifle shouldered, ready to bear at a moment’s notice. 

“Sheena Rossi to see the High Lady,” She announced clearly. 

The door was opened; she and Jenise ascended a marble stair to the landing. At the head of the office, seated at a robust wooden desk, the High Lady took pen to paper, the fountain tip scratching loudly against parchment as her brow furrowed and her concentration remained solely on the work in front of her. Sheena and Jenise crossed the room, standing a fair distance away from the desk. They waited patiently, hands folded in front of them until finally, the High Lady looked up and acknowledge them.

“Sheena, Jenise,” she said, motioning for them to sit. “Thank you for coming.”

“It is our pleasure, High Lady,” Sheena responded, resisting the urge to remark that had they not come, they could have faced severe consequences.

The High Lady spent a moment shuffling papers, frowning at the markings before her, and then, finally, pushed them aside. She folded her hands on the desk and met the eyes of Sheena and Jenise.

“Should you like tea?” The High Lady suggested. “Though I suspect once you’ve heard my words you’ll wish something stronger.”

“It is early for tea,” Sheena observed. The High Lady nodded. 

“Very well, then I shall get to it. Sheena, Jenise, I’ve called you both here because you both possess a set of skills unique to your position. Jenise, you are experienced in service by now, and you possess a higher education than most others in your position. Sheena, you are not of nobility but you possess the traits, and you know what it means to be a woman on all levels of society. Now, with that being said, a foreign noble of great import has requested asylum here, in Auglire.”

“I see, High Lady,” Sheena nodded. “But what has this to do with us?”

“The noble, a young man, has asked to be treated as a woman,” The High Lady paused, allowing realization to sink into Sheena and Jenise. “and I am inclined to grant the request.”

The pause that followed saw Sheena’s brow furrow, and a glance between she and Jenise that spoke volumes but said nothing all at the same time. Sheena’s eyes flicked to the tall window behind the High lady, observing the buildings of the palace grounds that stretched out to the Campus proper, and eventually the city of Auglire itself. Finally, she looked back to the High Lady, forgetting all manner of decorum.

“What?” Sheena asked, her voice slightly escalated but perfectly conveying the confusion she now felt.

“The boy has asked to live his life here as a woman,” the High Lady repeated. “I see no reason to refuse his request, but I would see him cast to the bottom rung of society. Which, is why I plan to place him in service.”

“Begging your pardon, lady,” Sheena interrupted. “but service is far from the bottom rung of society.”

“It is where he comes from,” The High Lady shrugged. “If you agree to this, then there are certain tasks I would lay out for you. The boy must be treated as a female of Klocby society, as befitting to his new station. He must be trained properly in female mannerisms, traditions, and speech. These things are easy, of course. What is not easy, is his identity and what it means to you.”

“Lady…High Lady,” Sheena frowned. “What would it mean to me?”

“I can speak no further, unless you agree to the terms, Sheena,” the High Lady said. “You as well, Jenise.”

“Lady I…” Sheena shook her head. “I don’t think…”

“Let me make this a simple matter for you,” The High Lady suggested. “You do this for me, and your family will be titled. Noble titles for all of you, your family will gain a voice in the assembly.”

Sheena paled at the prospect. Her family had never been much for politics, but was it within her right to refuse such an offer? Could she make that decision on behalf of her entire family? 

“I know what are thinking, Sheena, obviously,” The High Lady said with a wave of her hand. “You think it a high price for teaching a boy to wear a dress. Be advised, Sheena, that my reasons are my own.”

“I understand, High Lady,” Sheena nodded. “Might I take some time to confer with my family?”

“I need an answer now, Sheena,” The High Lady shook head. “Take it or leave it.”

“High Lady?”

“I have my reasons, Sheena,” The High Lady said. “and they are my own.”

“Then I have little choice but to accept, High Lady,” Sheena said reluctantly. “When do I start?”

“Jenise?” The High Lady looked to Jenise who had been listening intently.

“I adhere to the decision of the first girl,” Jenise said, the shrug evident in her tone, though her body remained rigid.

“Then,” The High Lady said. “With your agreements, I am free to reveal the identity of the noble in question. Sheena, it is with at least some regret that I tell you this will affect you negatively. The subject in question, is none other than Micah Lavoric, son of Lord Stephen Lavoric of Axock.”

Sheena paled, taking a glance at Jenise who seemed to be as amused as Sheena was shocked. She turned her gaze back to the High Lady, searching for any sign of jest but found none. 

“High Lady?” Sheena said, her voice empty and her words easily communicating her newly-stunned demeanor. 

“I am as shocked as you are,” The High Lady admitted. “But, let us be clear, this is an opportunity.”

“High Lady,” Sheena said, somehow managing to move past her shock as a hint of anger began to seep in. “Excuse my insolence, but an opportunity for what?”

“There are others who seek the same in Auglire and Klocby proper,” The High Lady shrugged. “certain procedures are experimental, possibly dangerous. We would do well to test them on one such as Micah Lavoric, would we not?”

“Other men…seek to be women?” Sheena asked, even more stunned.

“Very few, but it has happened,” The High Lady shrugged. “It goes without saying that what we discuss here is shared in the strictest of confidence, and the identity of Micah Lavoric must be kept in that same confidence.”

“My Lady,” Sheena frowned. “Will the others not know that it is Micah Lavoric they see?”

“Sheena, do you know what Micah Lavoric looks like?” The High Lady frowned. “No? The reason for that is simple.”

The High Lady opened the top left drawer of her desk and removed a mask, made from steel with an ornate design carved into the borders. She let it clatter to the desk. 

“Axock nobility wear masks,” She said simply. “To separate themselves from their atrocities no doubt, but until today, I had no idea what Micah Lavoric looked like behind the mask.”

Sheena’s eye twitched as she tried to comprehend how she’d been so stupid. Of course the Axock nobility wore masks. She’d seen their dignitaries, she’d seen the drawings and paintings. They all wore half-masks, forged from iron, terrifying and beautiful at the same time. A true mark of nobility, and a true symbol of tyranny.

“High Lady,” Sheena began; the High Lady held up her hand.

“Sheena, you agreed, and I will hold you to that agreement. I understand your reservations, I truly do, given your family’s history with the Lavorics and Axock in general, but this is a thing that must be done.”

Sheena nodded; there were things that she wanted to say. How was it that this must be done? What was the urgency? Why did they need to turn the son of a tyrant into a woman? Rather than ask these burning questions, she simply nodded.

“My Lady,” She said. “If I might send Jenise to meet with Micah Lavoric while I brief Kayla on the situation?”

“So be it,” The High Lady nodded. “Tell Kayla only that you have a male that wishes to declare himself a female. The identity of Micah Lavoric must remain a secret.”

“Of course, High Lady.”

***

 

Micah had finally succumbed to sleep, laying on his thin mattress with the blanket beneath him as his eyes closed and he dreamed of home; the fairly spacious cell fading out of existence for a moment. His dreams are abruptly interrupted by the sound of the cell door sliding open, two loud ‘bangs’ as it retracted into the wall and slammed into the frame. Micah shot straight up in the bed, rubbing his eyes and looking at the girl who had just entered.

She was equal to Micah in height and bore a pale white complexion against bright red eyes. A Zlitian, through and through, but here? In Auglire? Micah frowned. The girl strode in; she was dressed as a servant in a light gray dress with a white apron bound bout her waist.

“Wake up, girl,” The girl snapped, producing a switch in her right hand which she used to strike the surface of the bed. Micah, surprised, turned, setting his feet on the floor as he regarded the Zlitian girl.

“What’s this then?” He asked, amused. “My request was granted?”

His amusement disappeared as the switch struck the side of his face, pain radiating across his cheek and at the corner of his mouth as a yelp escaped his lips. In an instant, he glared at the girl and made a move to lunge from the bed, but he was quickly met with a strike to the neck and then the arm which sent him reeling and ultimately tumbling to the concrete floor.

“You do not speak out of turn, girl,” The girl held the switch in one hand and tapped it in the palm of her left as she glared down at Micah with her piercing red eyes. “You will speak when spoken to and you will do so only to acknowledge the commands of your Mistress, am I understood?”

Micah laid his right palm on the floor and worked to push his way into a sitting position, breathing heavily as the girl gripped the hilt of the switch and tensed her muscles for another swing.

“How dare you speak to me as if-” The switch came down again, this time catching him in the arm, then down to his hand in a swift motion. Two cries erupted from Micah, the second louder than the first as he dropped back to the floor. He breathed heavily, then, finally managed to look up at her. “I will not take orders from a filthy Zlitian!”

“I see,” The girl shrugged, giving her head a half-turn. “Guards!”

Two blue-uniformed guards emerged from the hallway, each one quickly unshouldering his rifle and taking aim at Micah who had now frozen in fear, trapped at the business end of two bolt-action firearms. 

“We will start simply,” The girl said, her tone flat, emotionless. “The High Lady advises that you signed a contract renouncing your title and your privileges of nobility. You are no one, you are nothing, so understand then that should I choose, I could but raise my hand and these men would take your life. The next words from your mouth will be a respectful acknowledgement, or you will die here.”

Micah froze in place, unsure of what to do, but the girl raised her hand, causing the guards to grasp the bolts of their rifles and prime their weapons. She looked to Micah again, more than ready to give the signal.

“Yes Mistress,” Micah said finally, lowering his head in shame. 

“Guards,” The girl’s voice boomed throughout the concrete and tile space. “Remove the furniture from this cell, and bring a pair of shackles for the girl.”

Micah watched in resigned horror, pain shooting through his arm and face as the guards removed the bed, the desk, the blanket, and even unbolted the wash basin from the floor, leaving the cell completely bare. He was then shackled by the wrists and tethered to an iron hook set in the ceiling of the cell, forced to stand upright, his arms stretched upward, his feet barely able to sit flat against the floor.

“Understand that I am not doing this out of spite, nor am I fueled by vendetta,” The girl explained as the guards left. “You have chosen an unusual path and one that requires you to change the way in which you think. How we proceed from here, will be your decision.”

“This is unacceptable!” Micah shrieked, his voice conveying the physical pain that he felt. “I demand to speak to the High Lady!”

“You demand nothing,” The girl said. “You would do well to remember your station. Now, as former nobility I should guess that this is your first time in manacles. You will likely find it to be more uncomfortable as time passes, and though your arms will tire, there will be no relief. I have no desire to strike you, but I do need you to understand and acknowledge your position.”

“My…position?” His voice was already strained as he worked to keep his feet flat and writhed within the manacles, vying for a position of comfort that was not to be found. 

“You have made a rather unusual request, girl. You have asked to be considered as a female under the auspices of Auglire and as such, you have chosen to give up your former identity. I do not intend to remake you girl, understand that. I believe that you have remade yourself already.”

“Wh…what are you talking about?” Micah demanded; his arms were beginning to ache and the pain was quickly radiating to his shoulders. 

“Let us see, you are clean shaven, which is not a mark of the Lavoric household. You have made yourself quite thin, and your hair is far longer than I might have expected. This decision of yours was not made yesterday, so tell us, what name have you chosen for yourself?” 

Micah froze in place, his writhing ceasing as he looked up at the girl who still held the switch, who still glared down at him. Her piercing red eyes stared into his very soul as he began to understand. She knew about him; she knew this wasn’t simply a game, she knew that at his very core, he was a woman, and he was shattered. Before he could answer, a rustling at the cell door followed by a set of footsteps belonging to another young woman, this one dressed in a black service uniform devoid of an apron, but with a white rounded collar, and white-tipped sleeves. She was black of hair, her long mane pulled into a loose bun. 

“Progress, Jenise?” The girl asked. So, the Zlitian was named Jenise. 

“A moment more, First Girl?” Jenise requested. The First Girl nodded; Jenise stepped forward and gave a small smile to the now-terrified Micah. “You have asked to be treated as a girl, Lavoric, and we have not only granted your request, but have thrown you the lowest rung of society. If your request was made in jest, then you will live to regret it with the very core of your being because you will be steeped in femininity and you will be taught to embrace your station. You will be made feminine, by your will or not, and by that I do not simply mean clothing. I refer to your mind, your body, and your soul. I do not do this for pity, or for the benefit of the feminine soul that may be buried deep inside you, I do it, Lavoric, because I am cruel. People like you have made me cruel and I will visit that cruelty upon you.”

The cell fell silent; Jenise’s words had echoed off the bricks and filled the space even more so than her very presence. The First Girl’s face was solemn, emotionless, and a silent rage emanated from Jenise’s eyes. Micah trembled, his feet beginning to slip as his arms grew tired and fear began to enrapture every muscle in his body. He swore he could see a sadistic grin tugging at the corner of Jenise’s mouth as the black haired woman looked on.

“Now, girl, tell us your name, and if you insist on keeping ‘Micah’, then I will extract it from you, soil it against the ground and leave you empty. Then, I will give you a name of my choosing. The choice is yours.”

Micah felt the burning in his muscles from the irons, but it barely held a candle to the apprehension and fear that was rising within him. When he’d come here, when he’d made this request, he had expected, fully, for it to be declined. He had expected to be laughed at, to be ridiculed. Even if they were to consider him a girl, he would have expected the process to move slowly and without such anger behind it. What had he done to provoke such a vile reaction? His identity and sense of self were at stake now, and he struggled to find something to hold onto, something that they couldn’t take.

“…Lyra,” Micah said, after a long pause. “My name…is Lyra.”

He felt a wave of dread wash over him the moment the name left his lips. A name that he had scarcely dared to whisper to himself since he’d discovered his identity deep within. A name that held special meaning for him, but one that he could never be called by. His greatest secret laid bare. There was now a grin on the lips of the Zlitian girl, Jenise; she paced in front of him, tapping the end of the switch into the palm of her left hand. The other woman was here too, still. The one with the black hair.

“A good first step, Lyra,” Jenise said approvingly. “Now, ask me if you can sleep on the floor tonight.”

“What?” Micah frowned, then groaned, still trying in vain to find a comfortable position. The chains clinked heavily with each futile movement. 

“Allow me to clarify,” Jenise said curtly. “You will ask to sleep on the floor tonight, or I will leave you there and you will learn the truth of pain. Before you object, know that you have condemned many others to much worse.”

“I have condemned no one!” Micah, now Lyra’s voice was strained; exhaustion was setting in fast as the muscles in her shoulders were stretched and torn. The beads of sweat dripping down her forehead, and her bloodshot eyes told the tale of her suffering, though she hadn’t been suspended long. “My father-”

“His commands still became your actions,” Jenise refused to allow her to continue. “Axock subjugates and tortures all those within its borders, and I need not tell you what happens to Zlitians who find themselves under his thumb.”

“The Zlitians,” Lyra began. “Your people-”

“Choose your next words carefully, Lyra,” A flash of anger briefly passed through Jenise’s eyes, causing Lyra to fall silent. “I would prefer that the first girl not have to explain to the service staff why your face is disfigured.” Jenise cast a glance back to Sheena who now stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “First Girl?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sheena unfolded her arms, brushed the creases from her dress and stepped forward. She regarded Lyra solemnly for a moment and gathered her strength to speak.

“I have three things to address, Lavoric,” She said, coldly. “The first is that, quite simply, I know who you are and I have some idea of what you were expecting. You came here, likely, with the expectation that you would at the very least be treated as a member of the nobility. As a condition that your request be granted, you were required to renounce your title and resign yourself to the life of a peasant. As I understand it, your declaration has been sent to your father and has been made known throughout the realm. So, Lyra, you will be treated as one of us. We are not cruel, but we will be harsh, do you follow me thus far?”

The newly-minted girl was shaking now; the chains rattled as she closed her eyes, her body convulsing with each choking sob. Sheena stood for a moment, watching her lips tremble as she tried to form words. 

“Lavoric,” Sheena said sternly. “The dungeons of Slose are filled with dozens, even hundreds suspended as you are now, some there on your orders, no doubt. You leave them to hang for days, even weeks, and you cannot take such for a few moments? I do not mean to mock you Lavoric, but there is something inherently wrong with this.”

“P…please…” Lyra choked, tears streaming down her face as the manacles dug into her wrists and the pain worsened. Her whimper was interrupted by the crack of Jenise’s switch across her arms. 

“Don’t interrupt the First Girl,” Jenise said, coldly. Lyra fell silent.

“Lavoric…Lyra,” Sheena said, looking the ‘girl’ over. “Why you did this to yourself, I have no idea. One could argue insanity, but that would be far too simple, wouldn’t it? No matter your reasoning, Lyra, no matter your convoluted machinations or preconceptions, you will find that this is the most difficult path you could have chosen. You will be tested, and should you fail, you will be put to the task again and again until you either pass or your body fails you. Now, Lyra, I believe your preceptor gave you an instruction.”

The speed of Lyra’s labored breathing had increased significantly now, her eyes were red and puffy with tears, and sweat had matted strands of hair to her face, obscuring her vision. Sheena’s eyes flicked downward to see the girl’s bare feet scraping lightly against the rough crete flooring as she tried with futility to hold her stance. It wouldn’t be long before her legs had failed her and she found herself simply hanging by the manacles; a fate she wouldn’t want to face into the night. 

“Wh…what?” Lyra barely managed to get the words out. Sheena shook her head.

“Ask me to allow you to sleep on the floor tonight, Lyra,” Jenise’s tone was a bit harsher this time; Lyra winced; she  wanted to resist, but the chains had forced her muscles into an unfamiliar position and the burning throughout their fibers was unlike anything she’d ever felt. “and do so politely.”

“P…please,” Lyra stammered, drawing upon all her strength to form the words; Jenise stood in front of her with an expression of expectation, her arms crossed. “Please let me sleep on the floor, Mistress.”

“She learns,” Jenise smirked to Sheena who watched her solemnly before turning her attention briefly to Lyra; red faced and wheezing as she struggled with the chains. “I shall grant your request, Lyra, just this once. What have you to say to me?”

“Thank you Mistress,” Lyra choked out; it was clear that she had trouble with the subservience, but she wasn’t afforded much of a choice.

“Good girl,” Jenise nodded, turning to Sheena. “Shall I call the guards to lower him, First Girl?”

“A moment,” Sheena said, unfolding her arms and taking a step forward into the cell. She moved toward Lyra as Jenise hurriedly stepped out of the way. No sooner had Sheena reached Lyra, than she laid a bare hand across her face; the impact echoed across the lacquered bricks and throughout the sizeable cell. Lyra’s head jerked accordingly; tears emerging from her eyes as she absorbed the blow. Sheena held her palm, the back of her hand parallel to Lyra’s face for a brief moment until finally, she lowered it and offered her a scowl. Then, she spoke, snapping her fingers to command Lyra’s attention. “You cast off a life of comfort and the company of lords and ladies, and have, in fact, thrown yourself a the mercy of scullery maids and servants. If you thought this would be easy, then you do not know the bite of the serpent you tempt. You will perform, or you will be punished. One or the other. Are we clear, Lyra?”

Lyra’s breathing intensified as the muscles in her shoulders began to ache and beg for relief. Devoid of breath for words, she nodded weakly, drawing a stony look from Sheena. Sheena whipped her head quickly in Jenise’s direction, her thin lips nearly curled in disgust.

“Let her down,” Sheena instructed. “But bind her close.”

“Yes, First Girl,” Jenise nodded in agreement.

Sheena exited the chamber; Lyra was lowered from the ceiling, and even as her shoulders ached with sweet relief, another set of manacles was brought in. Her legs were drawn up so that her knees touched her face; bound with chain and attached to a collar that was locked about her neck. Her hands were chained at her sides, stretched as closely as possible to the back of her thighs before she was deposited unceremoniously to the crete floor, cheek cold against it, limbs aching at the new position. 

“Join me in my chamber when you’re finished,” Sheena snapped to Jenise before striding from the cell.

“You have asked to be treated as a girl here,” Jenise said, lowering herself to speak quietly to Lyra, who now lay trembling on the floor of the cell. “How do you find it?”

“P…please,” Lyra said in a pathetically squeaky voice, barely able to form the words.

“Please, what?” Jenise asked calmly, though she already knew the answer.

“Please…p…pl…please don’t leave me like this…”

Jenise lowered her hand, placing it against Lyra’s still-red cheek and turned her head so that she could meet her glistening eyes. 

“It won’t be for long, little one,” Jenise reassured her softly in a mocking tone. “Your training begins on the morrow.”

 

***

 

Plum’s face was caked with grease and soot, her fingers were red and blistered, and her muscles screamed in agony as she stepped into what passed for a dining hall here. She was herded in behind a group of others her age and older, all outfitted in rags – the remnants of the clothing they had arrived here in, most likely. Careful to keep her head still, she used her eyes to wander the room. Thirty long benches, fifteen long tables, five to a row, all of them stained, faded, and splintered. The room was dark, lit only by gaslights affixed to the beams running parallel to the wall; the raftered ceiling devoid of windows. 

At the front, a long brass countertop ran the length of the room, manned by children, like Plum, dishing out single ladles of soup into dented tin bowls. Plum looked down at the bowl in her own hands, her eyes resting briefly on the bruises and cuts caused by the manacles just hours before. 

Ahead of them in line, a boy about her age stepped forward and struck one of those in line, warning him to be silent.

“Enforcers,” A voice behind her whispered.

“What?” Plum whispered back, neglecting to turn her head. 

“They trade integrity for better food,” The voice whispered back. “They turn on their own for the promise of comfort.”

“Traitors,” Plum hissed. 

“Aye,” The hushed voice responded. “But when your belly is empty and your tongue dry, you might think to do the same.”

Plum had nothing to say to that; she concentrated on the head of the girl in front of her; the line moved at a sickening slow place and the voices of the ‘enforcers’ grew louder as she approached. 

“Speak your name,” Plum said finally in a hushed tone.

“I go by Ben,” The voice behind her said. “And yourself?”

“Plum,” Plum said. 

“Well met, Plum,” Ben said; Plum nearly rolled her eyes at the use of pleasantries at a time like this. “You should make yourself less obvious.”

“What are you talking about?” Plum demanded; a girl behind Ben shushed them; Ben ignored it.

“You’re looking for a way out, I can see it,” Ben correctly observed. “No one escapes this place, and you do yourself a disservice by being so obvious. They will kill you.”

“You speak with such surety,” Plum whispered back, moving forward with the line. “But you have no idea of me.”

“Perhaps not,” There was a shrug evident in Ben’s voice. “But I have seen much, and I have seen it end the same, always.”

“And perhaps you will help me,” Plum suggested. “Surely there is more for you outside these walls.”

“No one escapes,” Ben reminded her. “But we can survive.”

“I find your proposition unacceptable,” Plum said coldly as the line moved forward again; their conversation was briefly muted by the shuffling of feet against hardcrete. 

“And if you deem yourself so capable,” Ben said snidely. “How is it you find yourself here?”

“I was betrayed,” Plum said after a moment’s hesitation. “I seek my sister now.”

“Her name?”

“Sage,” Plum replied.

Feet shuffled again, they moved forward, closer to the counter, but both she and Ben fell silent as they passed two enforcers. Sage neglected to look at them, but she felt a brush of wind as one of them tore past, down the line and shrieked at someone for some arbitrary infraction. Plum resisted the urge to flinch as the sound of rod against limb rang out through the hall. They move forward to the counter; Plum held her bowl out and was served a ladle of thin soup by a girl with dead eyes, and handed a loaf of stale bread by a boy with the same. She moved on without thanks, shuffling past the line and seating herself stiffly at one the nearest table. The boy, Ben, sat across from her. 

He was perhaps a year older than her with black hair beneath a rugged brown newsboy cap. A stained, cream collarless button-up was visible beneath a ragged jacket, and his face had seen better days. She quickly ate her soup, looking across the table at him; he returned the look. 

For the most part, the dining hall remained silent aside from some hushed conversation so quiet that the words were lost before they could reach Plum’s ears. The sound of tin spoons against tin bowls dominated the atmosphere around them, a fact that Plum was grateful for.

“How does one become an enforcer?” Plum flicked her eyes to one of the patrolling teenagers with batons as she spooned another bite of barely edible soup into her mouth.

“You wish to betray us already?” Ben asked, amused.

“I wish to escape,” Plum said simply. “Better a chance as a wolf than as a sheep.”

“You dream,” Ben said dismissively, eating his own soup.

“I plan,” Plum said simply. “As must you.”

“You’ll need to wrap your hands,” Ben responded.

“What?” Plum furrowed her brow at him, he gestured to her blistered fingers, wrapped about the handle of her spoon.

“Your fingers will bleed. If you cannot work, they will kill you, make no mistake. You should wrap your fingers.”

“Gloves?” Plum inquired, drawing a smirk from Ben.

“If you can trade for them,” He whispered. “But they’re dear.”

“Trade what?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Sage glared at him over her spoon; he fell silent and continued to shovel the putrid broth into his mouth. She did the same, dipping the stale bread into the liquid and allowing it to soak before taking a gnawing bite. The pathetic dinner passed in silence, but was broken by the sound of boots stomping through the front of the hall and the bellowing of one of the adults. 

“On your feet you lazy scum!” A middle-aged man screamed. Enforcers scrambled through the rows, dragging children to their feet if they weren’t quick enough to heed the order in time. The room was chaos for a few moments; Plum was already up, looking forward at the front of the room where two men and a woman stood. The man and the woman were dressed in the filthy clothing that marked this place; the other man was dressed in a white button-down with a green vest, a brown round-brimmed cap atop messy brown hair. Apart from his outfit, the second thing Plum noticed was the black dueling cane at his side. 

“Quinn Mallory,” Ben whispered from behind her. “He comes for his due.”

There was no way that Plum would be able to question it without making herself obvious, so she fell silent, content to settle for one-sided explanations of the scene that was unfolding in front of her. She did her best not to focus on the pain that was building in her wrists or the burning of her fingertips. 

Quinn made his way down the rows, carefully inspecting each child as he went. The woman beside him barked orders to stand straight, stop moving, or keep their eyes straight; enforcers swooped in to punish those who failed to comply in short enough order. 

Plum closed her eyes momentarily and then forced them open. 

Stay present, she reminded herself. Stay in the moment.

That’s what Sage would have told her. 

You have to stay grounded, you have to stay present. The moment you lose yourself, is the moment they win.

“Don’t make eye contact with him,” Ben warned. “He only needs three. Let him take his three and go.”

Plum lowered her eyes as the man, Quinn passed. She was aware of him stopping briefly, standing in front of her; she saw his shoes, shiny and black, brass tipped. She could feel him staring down at her, his breath on his neck, and then he moved on to the next, and the next, and the next. He would point slender finger, and the enforcers would come, grab the child by the arms and drag them from the line. 

Then it was over. Three were gone, the rest remained. Plum breathed a sigh of relief, feeling for certain as if she’d dodged the proverbial bullet but she held onto her anger; despite the fear, she held onto that bitter rage and directed it at the one responsible. He would pay. He would pay for all of this.

***

 

“Is this some manner of jest?” Kayla demanded, sitting across the desk from Sheena who had buried her head in her hands. “They send us a boy to train as a maid? What is the meaning of such?”

“The meaning is simple,” Sheena spoke into her hands, her voice barely a mutter against her skin. “Some boys want to be girls. The High Lady allows it. This boy invoked a clause of some sort and is allowed by law to have his wish. Do you follow, thus far?”

“This, is a respectable institution,” Kayla rose from her chair and gestured around the wood-paneled office, and toward a clearly annoyed Jenise who was slumped in her chair. Sheena raised her head slightly, looking through parted fingers at Kayla who was making a show of her gesture, and Jenise who appeared disconnected from the situation. Her internship here had gotten off to a fantastic start, indeed. “We cannot allow it to be transformed into a…circus!”

“I would speak, First Girl,” Jenise said, her voice a drawl as she rolled her eyes upward to meet Sheena’s.

“Why do you slouch so?” Kayla demanded, glaring at Jenise who immediately straightened herself. Sheena gestured for her to speak. 

“If the ‘girl’ wishes to be one of us,” Jenise said thoughtfully. “Then let her face the same trials. Let her face the ridicule of the other girls. The High Lady did not suggest making it a matter of ease for her.”

“Are you seriously suggesting we give into this depraved fantasy?” Kayla demanded. “That is a boy, and it belongs with the other boys.”

“Might I suggest,” Sheena interjected. “And by way of saying this I mean it is not a suggestion, that we simply follow the High Lady’s orders and commit to the task at hand?”

“I will have no part of this,” Kayla said firmly, anger tainting her otherwise calm demeanor as she rose from the chair abruptly enough to push it several inches away from her.

“I think you’ll find that you will,” Sheena called after her as she stormed from the room. After several long moments in the wake of Kayla’s slamming of the door, Sheena turned her attention to Jenise, who hadn’t moved from her seated position across the desk. “Tell me, what would be your take on the situation?”

“Why would I know more than you?” 

“In your home country, Zlitian, has this ever happened?” Sheena asked insistently. 

“A man becoming a woman?”

“In short terms…yes, I suppose that is my question,” Sheena nodded in confirmation. “Has it happened?”

“We keep our own affairs within our borders,” Jenise said simply, earning a hard stare from Sheena. 

“And you’ll truly leave it at that?”

“Truly.”

“Let us entertain, for a moment,” Sheena said. “That it is as Lavoric…Lyra claims. That she believes she is truly a woman, physical features aside. Would you believe her?”

“First Girl,” Jenise somehow resisted letting out a sigh. “If I may be so bold?”

Sheena studied her for a moment and then waved her hand in a circular motion, as if to say ‘out with it’. Jenise acknowledge the gesture.

“First Girl, this may seem callous but…I don’t care.”