Marian Hawke stopped breathing. She gave her thumb and forefinger a quick lick before smothering the flame of a small candle with them. The room settled into darkness just as heavy footsteps in the hall neared. The patrolling guard stopped. Marian continued to hold her breath while she slowly shimmied into a lying down position in her child-sized bed. She was twenty years old and had long outgrown the bed; her legs draped over the sides or over the frame, but never found a comfortable position. Her dangerously forbidden contraband was slipped under her too-flat pillow carefully, slowly, but the guard had stepped into the room at just the precise moment to see the slight movement Marian had made. Light flooded the room as the other slaves in their tiny beds hastily lit their matches and then their candles when the guard began yelling. Marian was torn from her bed by her arm. The too-thin sheets were stripped from the battered mattress. The too-flat pillow flew off with them. The book was found.

Each time the whip struck Marian's back she thought of a word.

As. Hand. Time. Cat. Cup. Foot.

Each time Marian felt the blood pour from the open scars she would count as high as she could until the pain covered her conscience in red ink.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight -

Sick. Wood. Tree. Dog.

Marian spelled the words in her head. She had to, or she would forget. The pain was a tool they used to make you forget, to make you scared, to make you quiet. It never worked on Marian. A guard had caught her trying to read six times. Each time, the whipping was lengthened. Now Marian cannot see. She cannot feel. She is the red ink covering her own conscience, retreated so far into herself that she cannot be roused for hours. She is punished when she wakes up for being asleep so long. Doesn't she know she has duties to attend to? Doesn't she know the Magister requires his bodyguard today? How dare she think to shirk her duties. No food. No water. Not until she crawls into the kitchens, pale-faced, and starving, and apologizes for her existence. Maybe then she will be allowed to eat with the hounds.

Marian entered her Master's quarters. These rooms were the private living quarters of the Magister, accessible only by those with a key to the entrance and explicit permission granted to them. The entire area was more like a second mansion than just the Magister's personal suites. Unlike the main areas of the mansion (the formal entrance, the sitting room, the kitchens, the dining hall, the ballroom, and all other public rooms), there were no slaves past this point. Officials and personal acquaintances of the Magister's were the only people allowed to freely walk these halls. If a slave was made to enter it was restricted to specific rooms, and only to tidy them up and then leave. Marian, as the Magister's personal bodyguard, was the only person of slave-status allowed in to this branch of the mansion frequently.

Meetings with the Master were unpredictable; his face never betrayed his thoughts, and his hands could strangle as quickly as they could caress. Marian detested him. Oh yes, she wished she could tell him how she knew that whippings had been outlawed two years ago as punishment for minor misdemeanors, how she knew that what was done to her last night was cruel and unusual punishment for reading and was borderline illegal. She knew how he was one of the only Magisters to use the whip freely to keep slaves in line. Scars made slaves less valuable and made their masters look like tyrants, but in his twisted mind, Master Leto wanted to be seen as tyrannical, Marian was convinced of that. The ugly scars on her back gave him a sense of pride, she was sure, a belief that her flesh was his to warp as he pleased. And wasn't it? She belonged to him. Questioning this unquestionable fact could be seen as dangerously rebellious.

Perhaps Marian was rebellious. Master Leto allowed her free range of the mansion and grounds. Still allowed her to carry a weapon on her person whenever she wished. This taste, this tiny freedom – for any other it may have been near torturous. She could have so much more, if she wished! What was stopping her? The want for autonomy was there, faintly, as it was in all slaves as they gazed upon their glorious Master, with all his freedoms and power, but an urge, a force that would drive her to seek liberty was not there. Marian was not rebellious. She had been conditioned to not be rebellious.

Marian lowered her head and slumped when Leto entered the room. This change of posture was expected, almost courteous, of a human belonging to an elf. Marian matched Leto's height, but she was inferior to him, so she made herself smaller.

Leto tore into the room, eyes dead set on Marian. Instead of a haughty smirk, his lips were a poisonous scowl. In his hand was a thin, square paper. He shoved it into Marian's face and she stumbled backwards as his palm smashed into her nose.

"What the fuck is this?" Leto demanded. Marian couldn't possibly reply in time, nor could she get out of the way of his hand as he shoved her further backwards.

"Kneel, dog," the Magister spat, and Marian dropped to her knees instantly. "Explain this to me. Now." Marian reached out to take the piece of paper, which was not, in fact, a piece of paper but was an envelope, but her hand was smacked down.

"Slaves don't receive mail, bitch." Leto strode past her, furiously re-reading the address on the envelope. Marian dared not move. "You will tell me who you have been conspiring with."

"No one, Master." Swore Marian. The evidence clearly outweighed her, but there was one obvious flaw in it. "I would not be able to exchange letters with anyone. I cannot read nor write."

The Magister had circled back around and now stood beside Marian. He gripped her chin and forced her head to turn towards him. "You would lie to my face?" He growled. "You were caught reading last night. I will not tolerate you trying to make a fool of me." Marian's neck was twisted in an extremely uncomfortable way, and Leto's hold on her face made it difficult to speak. She mumbled something incoherent and was met with a knee in her side.

"Not reading!" She said through gritted teeth, rolling her neck to the other side because it felt like it was stuck in the position it had been forced into. Leto prepared to hit her again, but she held up a hand. "I confess, I was trying to read. It was a children's book, Master, one of the ones used to entertain Mistress Ni's children when they visit, but I only knew three of the words. Please, Master, that letter is not for me."

Leto smirked, grabbing the hand she had foolishly raised and twisting it viciously. A sharp exclamation of pain escaped Marian, and his lips parted and stretched into a cruel smile. "Imagine if the Mistress's children touched one of those books and were infected with your stupidity," Leto twisted her wrist further and Marian bit down on her tongue. "I shall have to buy new ones." He released Marian and turned towards the fireplace. Marian tasted blood in her mouth.

"It is not unlikely you would attempt something so obviously idiotic," he mused. "Being such as you are." He looked at the envelope once more before tossing it onto the floor. "However, I have decided to believe that you are a loyal dog to you Master. This is addressed to you, so you may have it."

The envelope was too far away for Marian to reach it without making her curiosity obvious. She sat obediently on her knees but her eyes cast themselves greedily onto the small prize she had won. Leto terrified and disgusted her, but his unpredictability had actually played out in her favor. She was sure the gesture was a mocking one. Give an illiterate slave something requires literacy to unlock. Her want of it must have been apparent because the Magister scoffed.

"A most pathetic mystery, truly. You may try to lick it or rub it about your face or whatever it is dogs do with toys when you are out of my company. Right now you are to accompany me to Danarius's mansion. Come."

Marian was sure to conceal the envelope within her clothes. Throughout the day she placed her hand over its hiding place obsessively to reassure herself it was still there.

Marian sat in front of a rectangular, cracked mirror propped against a wall in the slave quarters. In her hand she held, unsteadily, a pair of scissors. All of her black hair, from the tied twine at the top of her ponytail to the end, was charred and gnarled. It had been extremely embarrassing returning to the mansion in this state.

Marian had gently wrapped her torso with clean bandages. Her outfit had several metal buckles that had dug into her sides all day and irritated the broken skin there. Her shirt was heavy, coarse leather, and it had rubbed against the bloody, cracked skin mercilessly. The fresh, white bandages were a welcome relief.

Marian had accompanied Leto to a dinner gathering at Magister Danarius's estate. There were several Masters and Mistresses gathered, each with an accompanying slave or two. Master Leto had Marian kneel next to his chair, as was usual, and she held his wine glass. Mistress Hadrianna was among the guests present and she babbled her nonsense all night long. Hadrianna was a prodigious Lyrium expert, but all the hours spent being so close to the raw ore had done something to her mind. She had never been a pleasant woman; now she was a right terror. It was Mistress Hadrianna who brought the worst slaves. They groped the female slaves who got within range of their hands, and when Marian had risen to refill Leto's wineglass one of Hadrianna's elves grabbed her ass. Marian's mood had been souring all night. She had grabbed the elf's hand, twisted it, and then slammed it onto the table. Hadrianna gave a wild shriek, leapt out of her seat, and pointed a bony finger at Marian. Between the screams of the Magister and the string of cuss words from the elf with the broken hand, she could hear Leto's mocking laughter. Then she smelled fire.

Hadrianna finally calmed down and stopped screaming long enough to join the chorus of people who were laughing at Marian. Luckily, the conversation fluidly moved away from the "idiot slave girl" and back to the main discussion of the night.

Magister Hadrianna had brought up an interesting topic – using lyrium implanted directly into the skin of a mage to permanently augment magical powers. Magister Leto listened to her describe the process hungrily.

"Would it effectively enhance," he inquired. "The magical abilities of one such as myself?"

Hadrianna cracked a smile. She had been waiting for him to join the conversation. "You are referring to your Arcane Warrior abilities?" The rest of the assembled Magisters were then fully focused on Leto. He reveled in the attention; the art of Arcane Warriors had been completely forgotten… until him. And the secret stayed with him. Many had tried and failed to pry the knowledge of funneling magic into strength from him.

"I am glad you asked, Leto," Hadrianna continued, "in fact, I believe someone possessing your skills would be able to benefit the most from lyrium… markings, we'll call them. Lyrium possesses many strange properties, and by placing it on your skin I believe your physical, as well as your magical, prowess would improve greatly."

"But would the lyrium not kill him?" A voice from a Magister Marian did not recognize asked. "To have something as potent as lyrium permanently under the skin is unthinkable! If it does not kill him right away, would it not soon poison him?"

"Ah, but you underestimate the time I have put into researching this, Julia." Hadrianna cleared her throat, and Marian knew she was about to launch into a spiel about her extensive knowledge of lyrium, her dedication to safety… Marian ignored most of it and began mentally fretting about her burned hair. When she did tune back in, Hadrianna was ending her speech.

"… and so, the lyrium has been diluted to a point where it is completely harmless but is still able to greatly enhance magical potency. I assure all of you in this room that it is completely safe."

Leto was obviously very interested. He was so focused on the idea that he could become ever more powerful that he forgot to reprimand Marian for breaking the other slave's hand.

Marian cut off her ponytail. One snip of the scissors and twelve inches of hair fell to the floor. She felt a pang of emotion – sadness? It was only hair. Yet it was a definite part of her. And just like so much, it was lost in an instant. Marian rolled her eyes at her reflection. It was only hair. She combed the remaining hair forwards to inspect it for any remaining charred ends. Having bangs was new to her; she had always stuck with parting her hair down the middle for convenience sake. They were rather long, but Marian didn't feel like cutting any more hair off than necessary. She pushed them to one side and inspected herself. Her new haircut was a bit blocky in the back and layered strangely, but Marian wasn't sure how to fix that; she had never cut her hair beyond a simple trim before. This would have to do.

A/N: This story is a big WIP that will probably have large gaps between updates. I'm sorry for any errors in spelling or grammar, and if they are pointed out to me I'lll fix them. Other characters (Anders, Aveline, Isbella, etc.) may show up in this story briefly later on for little cameos.