Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 13: Chapter 8: Letters and Lies

Location: Freehold Estate Upper Levels & Private Study, Arvia Province

Time: Early summer, Year 2853 of the Lower Realm

Twelve years old, and Jade had learned that knowledge was the cruelest gift of all.

Six months since becoming Edvard’s personal slave. Six months of discovering that literacy was both liberation and torment—reading words that revealed exactly how little her life was worth to the people who owned it.

”Can’t you write any faster than that?” Edvard snapped from behind his desk, not bothering to look up from the scroll he was reading. ”A trained shadowbeast could copy correspondence quicker.”

Jade kept her head down, quill moving steadily across the parchment as she transcribed his latest letter to some academy friend. Her handwriting had improved dramatically over the months—necessity was an excellent teacher when mistakes meant beatings.

Muscle memory improving, the voice in her head observed with clinical satisfaction. Hand-eye coordination is developing nicely. Soon you’ll be writing as quickly as you think.

The voice had grown stronger since she’d started learning to read. Sometimes it felt less like guidance and more like... companionship. Like having someone who actually understood what the words meant, even when they hurt.

”—and tell Marcus I expect better results from the new training regimen,” Edvard continued dictating. ”These slaves won’t break themselves, and I refuse to accept substandard conditioning.”

(Substandard conditioning.) Jade’s stomach turned as she wrote the words. He was discussing human beings like they were livestock. Which, she supposed, was exactly how he saw them.

Record everything, the voice advised quietly. Names, dates, methods. Information is power, even when it’s painful to acquire.

Especially when it was painful. Over the months, she’d learned that Edvard’s correspondence contained a wealth of information about the estate’s operations. Guard rotations, slave assignments, punishment schedules, even hints about the family’s business dealings.

”Next letter,” Edvard said, tossing aside the scroll. ”Lord Vectis of House Shadowmere. You know the formal address by now.”

She did. Lord Vectis was one of Edvard’s most frequent correspondents—a man who seemed to share his interests in what he called ”behavioral modification techniques.” Their letters made her skin crawl.

”My lord,” she began writing as Edvard dictated, ”I trust this finds you well and your recent experiments proving... fruitful.”

Note the language, the voice commented. ’Experiments’ on what? Or whom?

(I don’t want to know,) Jade thought, but her hand kept writing.

”The techniques you described in your last letter have proven most effective,” Edvard continued. ”The psychological pressure combined with physical conditioning creates remarkable results. I’ve documented a thirty percent improvement in compliance rates.”

Compliance rates. Like they were discussing crop yields instead of human suffering.

”—however, I believe we could achieve even better outcomes with more... intensive methods. Perhaps we could arrange a demonstration when you visit next month?”

The quill trembled slightly in Jade’s hand. She’d heard whispers about Lord Vectis’s visits—slaves who were selected for his entertainment and never quite the same afterward.

Steady, the voice warned. Don’t let emotion compromise your penmanship. He’s watching.

She was right. Edvard’s pale eyes were fixed on her with predatory interest, looking for any sign of reaction.

”Something wrong, cousin?” he asked with mock concern. ”You seem... distracted.”

”No, young master,” Jade replied quietly. ”Just concentrating on the letter formation.”

”Good,” he said with satisfaction. ”Precision is important in correspondence. Every letter must be perfect, every word exactly as I dictate it. No personal interpretation, no editorial commentary. You’re simply a tool for transferring my thoughts to parchment.”

A tool. That’s all she was to him—a living quill that could be trained to write his cruelties with elegant penmanship.

”Speaking of which,” Edvard continued, rising from his chair, ”I have business with Father. You’ll continue practicing your letters while I’m gone.” He gestured toward a stack of books on the side table. ”Copy the first Chapter of ’Advanced Torrent Manipulation’ three times. I want perfect handwriting.”

Advanced magical theory. Far beyond what a slave should be reading, let alone copying. But Edvard seemed to take perverse pleasure in forcing her to transcribe knowledge she could never use.

Or so he thinks, the voice murmured with something that might have been amusement.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Jade alone in his private study. Tall windows let in afternoon sunlight that illuminated shelves lined with books, scrolls, and various magical artifacts. A fortune in knowledge surrounding her, most of it forbidden.

She opened the magical theory text and began copying as instructed, her hand moving automatically while her mind absorbed the contents. Torrent essence manipulation—the magical school that controlled water, ice, and moisture. The principles were fascinating, even if she could never apply them.

Interesting, the voice commented as she worked. Note the theoretical frameworks. Energy conversion, molecular manipulation, and thermodynamic principles.

(You understand this?) Jade thought, surprised.

Some of it. The underlying physics are... familiar. Different application methods, but similar theoretical foundations.

Physics. Another word that felt borrowed from someone else’s knowledge. But as she continued reading, certain concepts did seem to make sense in ways they shouldn’t. Energy conservation. Molecular behavior. Mathematical relationships that felt almost... obvious.

Keep reading, the voice encouraged. And not just the assigned material. Look around. When will you have another opportunity like this?

Jade glanced toward the door, listening carefully for footsteps. The hallway beyond was quiet—Edvard’s meetings with his father often lasted an hour or more.

Do it, the voice urged. Knowledge is the only weapon they can’t take away from you once you have it.

She moved to the nearest bookshelf, running her finger along the spine titles. ”History of the Lower Realm.” ”Genealogies of the Great Houses.” ”Economic Theory and Resource Management.” ”Military Tactics of the Eastern Campaigns.”

That last one made her pause. Military tactics. Why did that feel important?

Trust your instincts, the voice said. Some knowledge calls to us for reasons we don’t yet understand.

She pulled the book from the shelf and opened it to a random page. Diagrams of troop formations, supply line management, and siege techniques. The information seemed to flow into her mind like water finding its level.

Flanking maneuvers, the voice commented as she studied a battlefield diagram. Classic pincer movement. Effective against static defensive positions but vulnerable to mobile reserve forces.

(How do you know that?) Jade thought, startled by the detailed analysis.

I... I’m not sure. The knowledge feels familiar, like remembering something rather than learning it.

She turned more pages, absorbing information about logistics, communications, and leadership principles. With each paragraph, the voice’s commentary became more detailed, more confident.

Unit cohesion is critical, it observed. Morale affects combat effectiveness more than raw numbers. A disciplined, smaller force can defeat a larger, undisciplined one through superior coordination.

(This is military knowledge. Real military knowledge. How could I possibly know this?)

Perhaps the better question is: why does it feel so natural?

The sound of approaching footsteps made her quickly close the book and return it to the shelf. By the time Edvard entered the study, she was back at the desk, diligently copying magical theory with perfect penmanship.

”Progress report,” he commanded, not bothering with pleasantries.

”First Chapter, second copy completed, young master,” Jade replied, showing him the pages. ”Beginning the third transcription now.”

He examined her work with critical attention, looking for any flaw that would justify punishment. Finding none, he seemed almost disappointed.

”Adequate,” he said finally. ”Your handwriting has improved significantly. Soon you’ll be ready for more... complex assignments.”

Complex assignments. The phrase carried implications that made her stomach twist.

”Tomorrow,” Edvard continued, settling back into his chair, ”you’ll be accompanying me to the family library. I have research to conduct, and I’ll need someone to handle the mundane copying work.”

The family library. Jade had heard whispers about it—a vast repository of knowledge accumulated over generations. Books on magic, history, politics, and subjects she couldn’t even imagine.

Opportunity, the voice said with sudden intensity. More knowledge, more access. This could be exactly what we need.

”Yes, young master,” she said aloud.

”The library contains some of our most precious texts,” Edvard warned. ”Ancient scrolls, rare tomes, irreplaceable documents. You will touch nothing unless specifically instructed. You will read nothing except what I assign for copying. And you will remember that damaging any library material is punishable by death.”

Death. The ultimate consequence for slaves who overstepped their bounds.

”I understand, young master.”

”Good,” he replied with satisfaction. ”Because tomorrow’s work will determine whether you’re ready for even greater responsibilities. I have... plans for you, cousin. Long-term plans that could prove quite educational.”

The threat in his words was unmistakable. Whatever he had in mind would be worse than correspondence copying and magical theory transcription.

Let him plan, the voice said grimly. While he’s planning your destruction, we’ll be planning your education. And eventually... perhaps your escape.

The rest of the afternoon passed with more correspondence, each letter revealing another layer of the family’s cruelty. A message to the estate manager about ”optimizing labor efficiency through selective discipline.” A note to the captain of guards regarding ”enhanced interrogation protocols for uncooperative assets.”

Assets. That’s what they called the slaves—human beings reduced to entries in a ledger.

Document everything, the voice reminded her as she wrote. Names, dates, methods. This information could be valuable someday.

(Valuable how?) she wondered, but the voice didn’t answer.

When evening finally arrived, Edvard dismissed her with his usual casual cruelty. ”Same time tomorrow. And practice your penmanship—I won’t have sloppy writing representing my correspondence.”

Back in the kitchen, Mama Dee took one look at her expression and ladled an extra portion of stew into her bowl. ”Long day with the young master?”

”Learning new skills,” Jade replied carefully.

”Hmm.” Mama Dee’s weathered face showed understanding. She’d been a slave long enough to know that ”learning new skills” often meant enduring fresh torments. ”Knowledge is a double-edged blade, child. Can cut the hand that holds it.”

The warning was gentle but clear. Too much education, too much awareness, could be dangerous for a slave.

She’s not wrong, the voice agreed grimly. But ignorance is a different kind of death. Keep learning, but be careful who you trust.

That night, alone in her cell, Jade practiced writing letters on scraps of parchment by candlelight. The movements were becoming automatic now—curves and lines flowing together to form words that carried meaning, power, possibility.

But it was the military treatise that haunted her thoughts. Those tactical diagrams that had seemed so familiar. The voice’s confident commentary on strategies and formations.

Why do I know these things? she wondered.

I don’t know, the voice admitted with unusual uncertainty. But the knowledge feels... old. Like remembering something from long ago rather than learning something new.

Long ago. But she was only twelve years old. How could she remember military knowledge from long ago?

Sleep now, the voice advised, sensing her growing confusion. Tomorrow brings the library. Perhaps we’ll find answers there.

Dreams came fitfully that night—fragments of images that felt like memories but couldn’t possibly be real. Corridors lined with metal and glass. People in strange uniforms moving with military precision. The hum of machinery she’d never seen but somehow recognized.

And through it all, a woman’s voice speaking words in a language she didn’t understand but somehow knew meant ”freedom” and ”sacrifice” and ”never again.”

She woke before dawn with tears on her cheeks and the taste of recycled air in her mouth—though she’d never breathed anything but the natural atmosphere of Doha.

Soon, the voice whispered as she prepared for another day. Soon we’ll understand what these fragments mean.

The morning brought fresh correspondence to copy and new horrors to document with perfect penmanship. But underneath it all was the growing anticipation of afternoon library access.

Knowledge was waiting. Answers were waiting.

And somehow, Jade knew that whatever she discovered there would change everything.

Outside her cell, the slave pits settled into their usual nighttime rhythm. But for Jade, sleep would be elusive. Tomorrow would bring new opportunities and new dangers in equal measure.

Tomorrow, she would enter the library where the family’s most precious secrets waited behind locked doors and forbidden warnings.

Tomorrow, her real education would begin.