The Final Strife

“I certainly did, if this headache is anything to go by.”

“That is not proper for a servant.”

“Why? I saw at least a dozen servants had entered the Aktibar, any Ember can enter…”

“You are not a competitor, you are Miss Elsari’s personal servant.”

“Exactly, her personal servant. She wanted me there, so if you have a problem with it, take it up with her.”

“Oh, I assure you, I will. And if you continue to be a nuisance, I will raise the issue with the warden. I’m sure she’ll be extremely interested in how you are bringing down the Elsaris’ reputation.”

Sylah sat up so suddenly, her brain took a while to catch up. Uka was not good news. If she believed Sylah posed a threat to her reputation, Sylah would be out. That meant Jond would be out.

Sylah couldn’t let down the Sandstorm again.

“Every day at ninth strike you will report to me. Now that Anoor’s classes have been paused for the Aktibar, I will be here to monitor you. You will work for me until first strike, then for the rest of the day Anoor can use you as she wishes. This is the deal we must agree upon.”

Sylah nodded, there was nothing else she could do.

“First you need to cut your hair; it has grown too long for a servant.”

Sylah’s hand reached for her phantom plaits but caught on the uneven tufts of curls that had grown over the last four weeks. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her status ambiguous.

“Shave and then meet me in my room. I have a list of errands for you.”

Sylah scrubbed her face with cold water. Her eyes were red-rimmed but clear, her cheeks still a little too hollow but getting there. The food in the Keep was certainly helping.

She rummaged in Anoor’s cabinet for a razor and lathered her head with soap. Then she carefully began to run the blade against the direction of the hair.

“Need some help?” Anoor appeared in the corner of the mirror, making Sylah jump and nick herself.

“Maiden’s tits, you’ve only gone and stopped my bloody heart.”

“Sorry.”

“Where’ve you been?”

Anoor waved a stack of zines at her in response.

“How’s your head?”

“Bleeding,” Sylah answered, knowing that wasn’t what she meant.

“Here, let me.” Anoor took the blade from Sylah’s hand and guided her to the edge of the marble bathtub.

With soft, delicate fingers Anoor’s hands worked the lather into Sylah’s scalp. Sylah felt her back arching into her touch. With sure, even strokes Anoor ran the blade through her short curls. A soft hum slipped out of Sylah, and she covered it with a cough.

When she was done, Anoor circled Sylah, her eyes assessing her handiwork.

“There, all done.”

Her breath smelled of sandalwood too.

“Thank you,” Sylah said. She regretted it as Anoor beamed at her. Over the last few weeks Sylah had found herself warming to Anoor no matter how hard she tried to resist it.

Sylah pushed past her and went to get changed into her uniform.

Gorn was true to her word and kept Sylah scrubbing, mopping, scraping for four strikes of the clock. When dinnertime tolled, Sylah went down to the kitchens to sup with the other servants for the first time.