With the Tyrant's dismissal, the crowd dispersed. Bidding Eliah farewell, Aramir went with the other hunters to deliver his deer to the designated butchers for this particular Feast, leaving the girl to deliver their forage baskets to the Clan Mothers assigned to cooking duty on her own. They eyed her as she presented the offerings to them, and with a wave of their hands, shooed her away.

'Put yourself somewhere where you won't be in the way, girl,' said the woman in charge of the duty. So back to her rock Eliah went, doing her best to look inconspicuous as the rest of the Clan prepared.

In a procession of well-practised routines, the fire pits that stood on the edge of the village centre were piled with dry wood and lit; the game collected by those who'd been sent to hunt and harvest was mounted onto spits; and the cooks set to work before their cauldrons, adding wild vegetables, herbs, mushrooms and the meat from smaller game with each bucket of water menials and helots brought in. The last vestiges of portal light dissipated into the night, and the air was filled with smoke and the mouth-watering scent of roasting meat and earthy stew instead.

Although her stomach growled, Eliah sat and waited. The food would be served to the Clan by the menials and helots, first to the Tyrants, then to the Titans, then to the soldiers and shieldmaidens, and continue to trickle down the line.

Strength was everything when you were Seren, and those perceived as weaklings were the last to be fed. The Feast may have been a celebration, but it was also a reminder to all of where in the Clan they stood. The food would not get to her for a long while.

Supposedly, the tradition had been born from the Godswar. The Seren and the three other Immortal Clans had united with the mortal Kyren to bring an end to the thousand year long reign of terror instigated by the Dark God's minions. After the war was ended, the Seren hero, Taiten, and the Mortal Commander, Kailen, had disappeared into the forest for three days. When the two of them returned, they had brought with them enough game to host a feast for the whole united army, and each had been served in the order of their contribution to the war.

Presumably the Seren had eaten first – if you believed the story.

Eliah never had. It sounded like complete and utter nonsense to her. After three days of being dragged around in the sun, surely the meat they had collected would be stinking and rancid. Not to mention that the Immortal and Mortal armies would have numbered tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of mouths to feed. Taiten and the Mortal commander may have been the best warriors in the Realms, but surely only a God could bless the people with that much food to eat.

Of course, these were thoughts she'd never voice aloud. The Feast was sacred, and Taiten was a paragon to all Seren – revered by some even more highly than their god himself. Anyone who spoke ill of either would be considered a traitor and a disgrace, and the Clan already had enough reasons to look upon her with shame.

Seated cross-legged on her rock, Eliah fiddled with the wraps that covered the flats of her hands and the bare skin of her her arms, double-checking the binds and ensuring they would stay in place.

A hand thrust a bowl of stew, laden with slices of roasted venison, in front of her face. She blinked, eyes instinctively darting upwards to check where the servers were up to. Aramir was surrounded by men and women his age, an easy smile on his face as he leaned against the wall of a stone-walled roundhouse and chatted. His hands were empty, which meant the older warrior-trainees had yet to be served.

'It's not my turn,' blurted Eliah, and turned to frown at the menial attempting to serve her.

A pale, pretty face looked up at her, dancing gold eyes speckled with flecks of silver as their owner treated her to an impish grin. 'That's for me to decide, isn't it?'

'I'm pretty sure that's not how the tradition works, Hal,' said Eliah, voice dry as she reluctantly accepted the food.

'Toss tradition,' said Hal with a scoff, and clambered onto the rock beside her, a second bowl of food in hand. 'My mere presence on this mountain is considered an affront to it.'

'As is mine, I suppose,' said Eliah.

'Nah, you're not a menial.'

Yet, thought the girl, and resisted the urge to fiddle with her arm wraps again. She picked up a slice of venison and grimaced. 'Won't the Marshal be upset with you if he finds out about this?' she asked. Anyone else who noticed that Eliah the runt and Hal the menial were helping themselves to food while older, stronger warrior-trainees like Aramir were still waiting certainly would be.

'Hmm, maybe. But it'll give him an excuse to give me extra duties in the Cages, and Ove loves giving menials extra duties in the Cages.'

'With that attitude, you must get them all the time...'

Hal just grinned and dug into the stew.

Eliah pursed her lips as she watched. Of all the menials in the village, Hal was the most carefree. The reality, however, was simply a deep-set resignation to fate – one that Eliah would likely have developed herself if she'd been left to the Clan Mothers instead of given to Regis to raise.

The two of them were startlingly similar: both had been cursed at birth with pale white skin that was prone to burn instead of tan; faces that were small and pointed and decorated with soft, delicate features; and fragile, petite builds that put them at a physical disadvantage when pitted against other Seren their age, or even those who were younger. But where Eliah's hair was golden-blonde and kept long like the other youths of the Clan, Hal's raggedy locks had a silvery sheen and had been cropped short with a knife to match the other menials in service.

Hal was also a boy – and a much older one at that, although he didn't look it. Based on appearances, Eliah would have thought him no more than two or three years older than herself. According to Aramir, however, Hal was actually many years older than he himself.

All of the above, combined with the fact that he was supposed to grow into a strong, burly, bear of a man instead of the effeminate, androgynous-looking youth he was now, would have been enough to ensure that he'd be kicked out of the ranks of warrior trainees by sixteen. But the thing that really set Hal apart were the two, uneven bony nubs that protruded from his back. The deformities grew from between his shoulder blades and were impossible to hide, unlike the defects that Eliah kept hidden beneath her clothes and arm wraps.

Hal's mother had known from the moment of his birth that her son would never be accepted as a true member of the Clan, let alone make it amongst the ranks of the warriors, and she'd made sure that he knew it too. The moment he'd started his warrior training, she'd begun to drill into him that he was inevitably destined for life as one of the helots – the unseen and unheard caste of labourers, made up of the weak, the crippled and deformed.

Then he'd showed signs of the dishonourable filth that was magic.

In the eyes of the Teachings those who wielded magic were worse than weaklings; they were cheats. To use magic in combat was dishonourable. It was an easy way out of battle, which was unforgivable injustice to your opponent, particularly in a duel.

That revelation was enough to have him expelled from the ranks of the warrior-trainees and made a menial, and ever since then, he'd spent his life under the Marshal's command. Whether that fate was better than the one he'd been raised to expect was questionable, but Hal didn't seem to mind.

Eliah, on the other hand, still had five years of training left to go – and until she passed either the Initiation or the Rite, the Tyrants could still sentence her to a helot or menial's fate.

Her mouth went dry at the very thought. Swallowing, she did her best to cure the sensation with a mouthful of stew.

The silence was broken by a musing from Hal as he stared at the Gate. 'Ever wonder if life would be different for people like us on the other side?'

'What do you mean?'

Hal shrugged. 'I've opened it so many times for the Tyrants and the Titans, but I've never seen what lies on the other side myself. So...' He put his bowl down and turned to her. 'What do you think it's like on the other side? Where do you think it leads?'

The answer was automatic. 'To the Mortal Realms. That's what the Teachings say.'

The boy laughed. 'Yes, that is what the Teachings say. But the Teachings were written centuries ago. Don't you ever wonder if they could be wrong?'

'No?'

'So if the Teachings said you had to wear a helmet from the day you came of age and could never remove it in front of another person, would you blindly follow it?'

Eliah coughed. That was a question best avoided. She deflected his question with one of her own. 'If you're so curious, can't you just open it and see for yourself?'

'Unfortunately, no. The Gate requires a constant flow of power to keep it open, and even if I could, there are too many unknowns. What if the place it leads to in the Mortal Realms is dangerous? There could be Fal'mor. Or a horde of angry Mortals ready to make me a pincushion on the other side! If either of those were true, I'd definitely die. And what if the portal only opens from one side? I'd end up stranded with no way back. We open it from this side for when the Titans return, after all...'

'So why not ask a Titan? I'm sure Aramir would be willing to tell you about it when he becomes one.'

'Titans don't tell,' said Hal, shaking his head. Then he blinked and did a double-take. 'Wait, Aramir wants to take the Rite?'

Eliah turned red. 'Ah... he, um... said that Tyrant Einar had approved it.'

Hal snickered. 'Oh, Regis is going to kill someone when he finds out.' He paused. 'Hopefully, it'll be Ove or Einar.'

Eliah grimaced. 'You shouldn't talk about the Marshal and the Tyrant like that.'

'What they don't know won't hurt them,' said Hal with a shrug. He glanced sidelong at her. 'How about you? Do you want to be a Titan?'

'I'm not even sure if I'll get to be a shieldmaiden.' Staring at the statue behind the Gate, Eliah rubbed her wrists and swallowed. 'For all I know, I could be destined to become a menial.'

'That's not the question I asked. Do you want to be one?'

'Doesn't everyone?' asked Eliah, tilting her head.

Hal flashed her a wry smile. 'Not everyone would dare to face a Fal'mor.' He clapped her gently on the shoulder. 'Don't worry. I'm sure you'll make it.'

'What makes you say that?'

He paused, lips tightening for a moment as he considered the answer. Then his eyes drifted beyond her face and widened in alarm. He hurried to his feet. 'Quick, Eliah, gimme your bowl.'

'Huh? But I – '

Hal snatched it from her fingers and ran, leaping deftly from the rock and sprinting off behind a nearby roundhouse with speed and agility that wouldn't be expected from someone of his stature. He didn't even say goodbye.

As Eliah stared after him in bewilderment, Ylva Alveschild, the tall, elegant Tyrant of Shieldmaidens, approached the rock and cleared her throat. Startled, Eliah sat up to attention and saluted, bowing her head with a flat palm over her heart. 'Lady Tyrant,' she said, as calmly as she could.

The Tyrant had probably noticed that she and Hal had cut the line. Silently, Eliah braced herself for a tongue lashing.

Ylva just frowned instead. 'Did I not see Hal here just a moment ago?'

'Oh... Um, he was. He said that he had... uh, other duties to attend to.'

A disappointed look flitted across the Tyrant's perfect, heart-shaped face. 'I see. I suppose I'll have to speak to Ove about this then.' Ylva sighed and tossed her ash-blonde braids over her shoulder. 'Well, no matter. If you see Hal return, please tell him to report to me.'

'Yes, Lady Tyrant.'

The word "why" lingered on the tip of Eliah's tongue as the Shieldmaiden turned heel and walked back the way she came. Fortunately, noise from the other side of the square distracted her before impulse could pull the word from tongue. She watched as Aramir's sun rank cheered and thumped him on the back. The word "Rite" travelled through the crowd as clear as day, drawing heads and spreading through the gathered clan like an epidemic.

Eliah bit her lip, one hand squeezing down on her other wrist. If Aramir became a Titan, then she'd become a shieldmaiden. Something as trivial as possessing magic wouldn't stop her. She would prove to all of them, especially the Tyrants, that she was just as worthy as any of the others.

She was Taitenschild after all.

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Hal the Menial

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All content and illustrations ©Jax L. P. (@JaxCreation) on 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒑𝒂𝒅. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you are reading this on another site or under a different account name.