Ever since Steward Gregor announced Elara's selection to accompany the Baron to the Royal Autumn Hunt, the atmosphere among the lower servants of the manor had grown somewhat strange.
The usual numb calm was broken. Rumors and speculations about the hunting festival became the main topic of hushed whispers. Some envied the chosen male servants, seeing it as a chance to climb higher; others feared the unknown dangers, relieved they weren't selected. But towards Elara, the only female, and one of the lowest status, the glances were far more complex—jealousy, pity, malicious pleasure, a mix of everything.
Elara overheard many dreadful rumors about past hunting festivals: a servant beaten to death for slowing down and startling a noble's horse; a young serving girl dragged away by drunken lower knights, never to be seen again; others accidentally injured by wild beasts or stray arrows, left permanently disabled... Each story was like an icy needle piercing Elara's heart, filling her with a bone-deep dread for the upcoming journey.
Steward Gregor didn't miss any opportunity to browbeat her either. He assigned her increasingly heavy and error-prone tasks related to the hunt preparations, seemingly with malicious intent.
"Elara! Is the Lord Baron's saddle cleaned? If his lordship sees a speck of dust, watch your hide!"
"Elara! Check these arrows, one by one! If one is missing or the arrowhead is dull, you can go be the target in the woods yourself!"
"Elara! Move faster! Can't even carry this little bit? And you expect to serve nobles? Useless trash!"
Sharp curses and threats became as common as daily bread. Elara could only bow her head lower, enduring silently, focusing all her energy on completing the tasks without error.
She knew she was like a cornered beast about to be thrown into an arena; any resistance could lead to a quicker demise. Her only option was to prepare as best she could.
At night, after the others were asleep, Elara used the faint moonlight filtering through the door crack. She secretly took out the relatively clean, old headscarf Gregor had thrown at her, and her only somewhat presentable tunic—a coarse linen garment covered in several patches. Using a worn-down bone needle she kept hidden and thread pulled from scraps, she carefully mended the most obvious holes in the tunic. She even tried to recall the long-forgotten etiquette Lan had learned attending various banquets in her past life—how to curtsy (though her movements were stiff and awkward), how to present items without drawing attention, the importance of avoiding direct eye contact with nobles...
Each practice session filled her with deep humiliation and unease. The Lan of her past life never needed to grovel like this. But now, these might be the straws she clung to for survival.
However, trouble found her even when she tried to remain unnoticed.
One day, Elara finally found a chance by the river behind the laundry house. Using the icy river water and a tiny bit of harsh lye soap she'd secretly scraped together, she was scrubbing her worn tunic, hoping to remove some of the sweat stains and grime. But Martha, the servant woman who held a grudge against her, appeared behind her like a phantom.
"Well, well, isn't it Elara, off to see the world?" Martha's voice was sharp and cruel. "What's this? You actually know to wash yourself? Don't think cleaning up a bit will turn you into a phoenix! You're nothing but dirt-born scum!"
Elara ignored her, quickening her scrubbing motion.
Seeing Elara disregard her, Martha grew angrier. She stepped forward, deliberately stomped on the hem of the tunic Elara had just placed on a riverside rock to dry, grinding her foot into it!
"You!" Elara snapped her head up, flames of fury instantly igniting in her eyes! This tunic was the only thing she had to wear to the hunting grounds!
"What about me?" Martha puffed out her chest defiantly, looking provocatively at Elara. "So I dirtied your precious clothes? Go on, run and tell the Steward! See if he believes you or me!"
Elara clenched her fists tightly, nails digging deep into her palms. She knew Martha spoke the truth; Gregor would never side with a serf. She could even feel other servants secretly watching nearby, waiting to see her humiliated.
Direct confrontation would only hurt her.
Elara took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the rage in her heart. She slowly unclenched her fists, lowered her head again, her voice flat, almost numb: "Aunt Martha, I meant no harm. I just wanted to wash my clothes clean, so I don't offend the nobles and cause trouble for everyone."
She deliberately raised her voice slightly, ensuring anyone potentially eavesdropping nearby could hear.
Martha likely hadn't expected this reaction and was momentarily speechless. Seeing Elara's submissive posture, she lost interest, shot her another hateful glare, spat on the ground, and walked away disgruntled.
Elara stared at her tunic, clean moments ago, now marked with a dirty footprint, her heart turning to ice.
Martha's harassment was just the beginning. She had a premonition that this hunting trip would be anything but peaceful.
She had to be more careful, more vigilant.
That hunting ground felt like a vast cage, slowly closing in, and she had nowhere to run.