That night, she crept to her thin mat near the attic stairs, curling up tight, the ragged blanket pulled up to her chin.
But sleep didn't come.
Her eyes stared into the dark, wide and unblinking, her body stiff as a board.
For now, she still had tonight. She still had her cold corner, her thin mat, her exhausted, untouched body — for now.
But soon, they'd take even that away.
She couldn't stop the images creeping into her mind — rough sweaty hands grabbing her wrist, shoving her down, the weight of a man pressing her into the bed, his breath hot and sour against her skin, her own voice strangled tight in her throat.
Her stomach twisted. She gripped the blanket harder, knuckles white.
She bit her lip, willing the images away, anger and disgust at herself rising hot in her chest for even letting her mind picture such helplessness — she was stronger than that.
But the fear sat cold and sharp in her chest, heavy as a stone.
The next morning, as she hauled water, Mei brushed past her roughly, making her stumble.
"Careful, half-blood," Mei taunted. "Wouldn't want to mess up that precious pale skin with a scar. Mistress says there's a buyer looking."
The mistress didn't even bothered to deny or hide her plan — wether the girl knew or wanted it made no difference, she would be sold either way.
Her jaw clenched, fists curling at her sides.
She didn't answer. She just stared hard at Mei, eyes flashing with barely contained anger.
Mei smirked, satisfied. "That's what I thought. We all know what's coming."
Heat surged through the girl's chest — a fierce, pulsing urge to strike, to shut that smug mouth. But she forced her fists to stay at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
The others giggled, their smiles cruel with satisfaction — at last, she would be dragged down to join them.
"I have work to do."
"Yeah, yeah. Go scurry off while you still can, mutt."
She turned, shoulders stiff, forcing herself to keep walking — even though all she wanted was to smash their noses, make them so ugly no man would ever spend a coin on them, so the mistress would throw them out into the street like garbage.
She hauled the heavy bucket outside, her breath puffing white in the frigid air. Frost crunched under her feet as she hurried across the yard. Her thin robe clung damp against her legs, doing nothing to stop the cold.
She dumped the water with a sharp motion, then dragged the bucket back toward the kitchen door.
Inside the main hall, laughter roared up again, followed by the sound of a chair scraping hard against the floor. A girl high, fake giggle. Barked orders:
"Pour faster, you dumb wench!"
"Y-yes, sir!"
The girl could hear it even from the back room. She knew that voice — Lian, one of the younger ones. Always laughing too hard, smiling too wide. Always trembling when the doors closed.
The girl squeezed her eyes shut. She could imagine it too well — the heavy stink of wine, the greasy hands, the eyes that stripped you bare before they even touched you. She felt a wave of nausea crawl up her throat.
She'd seen it all her life.
She'd seen girls forced to sit on laps, forced to whisper and giggle, forced to smile through cracked lips and red eyes. She'd seen them stumble out later, skirts torn, fingers shaking, faces blank. Some cried behind closed doors. Some drank themselves numb. Some just stared, empty, waiting for the next time.
And soon, she knew, they expected she'd be one of them — but deep inside, with a quiet, burning rage, she swore to herself she would never be.
Her heart pounded hard in her chest.
Not yet. Not yet. I'm still here.
She clung to the thought like a lifeline.
Inside, a girl's soft sobs drifted behind a paper screen. A man's gruff voice barked, "Quiet!" followed by a sharp slap.
The girl's hands trembled as she gripped her broom. She wanted to slam it down, wanted to scream, wanted to run — but her feet stayed rooted, heavy.
Later, crouched by the low kitchen fire, she huddled her arms around her knees, trying to warm her frozen fingers. The old servant bustled past, throwing her a sharp glance.
"Hmph. Don't laze around. You're not fed to sit."
The girl said nothing, quickly shoving herself upright. She moved to the corner, sorting cracked bowls, wiping down the table.
Her head was pounding. Her legs ached. She hadn't eaten properly in two days. But she kept moving.
The younger girls avoided her now — uneasy, wary. Not out of pity, but because they sensed it too. The half-blood's turn was coming.
She'd told herself, over and over, that when the day came, she would run.That she'd slip away in the night, vanish into the alleys, disappear before they could push her into one of those rooms.
But now that it was here — now that the whispers were real, the merchant had come, the price had been discussed — her legs felt heavy. Her chest was tight, her breath too shallow.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, curling into the cold corner where she slept. Her thin blanket smelled faintly of mold.
Her eyes drifted closed for just a moment.
Tomorrow.
She would run tomorrow.
"I'll wait until the hall quiets. When the last drunk collapses and the mistress goes to count the coin. I'll slip through the back — no shoes, no sound. Take the alley past the butcher's, cut through the narrow lane behind the old teahouse. Keep my head down. If I make it to the city gates before dawn, maybe… maybe I can slip through with the morning carts. As for the money,I can cut my hair, bind my chest, pass as a boy. If I cover my eyes, no one will see I'm mixed blood and I'll be able to find work as a stablehand, a courier, a rice paddy boy, anything they'll let me. And maybe with this disguise they won't recognize me." she was thinking fast, vivid and calculating, every step drawn sharp in her mind, the feeling of urgency making her head spin.