Chapter 5 – The Mule

The next morning, Minthara gave Shadowheart a task: carry both packs. Hers and Minthara's.

Shadowheart froze. "You're perfectly capable of—"

Minthara raised one brow. "And yet, I wish to see your strength. A test. Or another lesson, if you like."

"I'm not your servant."

"No," Minthara said, stepping close. "But you belong to me now. And I will direct you. This is not your domain. This is not your world. It is mine."

Shadowheart stared at the packs. Then at Minthara. Her pride flared again—this time sharper than before.

But beneath it all, something else had taken root: uncertainty. The fear of being turned over to the Drow was real. She'd seen what they did to prisoners. And as much as she hated to admit it, part of her wanted to see where this led.

She shouldered the packs. Her steps were heavier, but her head stayed high.

Minthara felt something twist in her chest. Not pity. Not yet. But something close to respect.

It was good. Respect was a tolerable place.

She could be cruel. She had been, in fact. Minthara accepted that at times, Shadowheart would need cruelty. She couldn't train the girl without it. It was just like how Minthara had been trained. Cruelty and structure.

Drow society was built upon the subjugation of the masses. The great houses dominated the lesser nobility. The nobility dominated the commoners. A great matron ruled each house. Powerful priestess, who could control vast swaths of territory and interpret Lolth's will.

Minthara was not from a great house. She was from a lesser house, Baenre of Menzoberranzan. After her family lost station and suffered defeat, she was sent – gifted – to House Lynhorn in Maerimydra.

It was not a glorious promotion.

She had been forced to rise—through humiliation, training, and domination

That had been a long time ago.

Now, Minthara was the one dominating. She was the strong one.

A smile crept across her face, Shadowheart would learn well. This journey to the Tomb will be a rebirth for both of them. Minthara will find truth, power, perhaps more. Shadowheart would find submission. She would find her place.

They diverted around a series of fissures which blasted poisonous air and then had to pick their way through sweltering vents with pools of bubbling green plasma.

At one point, a pale and withered worm with fins hovered past them, parting clouds of noxious gas. Slits down its side groaned some unknowable dirge. Minthara watched with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.

According to one set of maps, they were in the Caustic Graves. Few Drow she knew of would venture here. But that wouldn't mean the area was abandoned. There could be Derro. Predators like Ropers would also dwell in such places.

Hours had passed and Shadowheart slowed to a stop. She examined the ground. They had seen several unknown pools of bubbling liquid. But it had been a few hours since they'd last seen a vent or a cloud of swirling haze.

She tossed a grim look to Minthara.

It said, 'can we stop now?'

"We will continue." Minthara said.

The girl did not argue but her expression was pained with exhaustion.

It took nearly another hour before Minthara was satisfied they wouldn't asphyxiate in their sleep if they camped. But it was another hour after that before Minthara made ready to stop. She selected a small promontory rock that leaned over a dry crater. There was suitable cover from passing eyes and an easily defendable position.

As she directed Shadowheart to stop and prepare, the girl nearly toppled over, sweat dripping from her brow. But there was no rest for the weary. Minthara had Shadowheart do all the work of building a fire, concealing tracks, unrolling the packs and warming the food.

Prior to eating, they partook in the humiliation ritual. Shadowheart removed the boots and kissed Minthara's feet.

She told herself she hated this. And yet, part of her feared it might not be hate anymore. Not entirely.

Shadowheart chewed the warmed rations without tasting them. Salt and iron clung to her lips. Her arms ached from the weight she'd carried, and now the flickering firelight only emphasized her state—drenched hair, dust-streaked face, hands that trembled despite herself.

Minthara sat across the fire, cross-legged, leisurely eating her portion. Her eyes never left Shadowheart. There was a hunger in her—not for food, but something quieter, more patient.

"You didn't collapse," Minthara said. "That is something."

Shadowheart met her gaze with hollow defiance. She said nothing.

Minthara took her time finishing, then reached into one of the packs and withdrew a small cloth bundle. She unfolded it carefully. A piece of blackroot. Drow trail medicine. It soothed muscle strain, though it burned going down.

She held it out.

Shadowheart hesitated. It could be poisoned. It could be a test. Of course, it was a test.

But her shoulders throbbed and her thighs twitched with strain. She took the root, chewed it slowly. The bitterness drew tears to her eyes.

It burned like shame going down.

Minthara watched the tears without comment. "Tomorrow, you will carry only one pack. You have proven what I needed."

A breath escaped Shadowheart before she could stop it. Not quite relief—but something near it.

Minthara stood, walked to her, and crouched beside her. The shift in presence was immense. Shadowheart stiffened, unsure if this would be a blow, a command, another foot pressing into her.

Instead, Minthara reached out and touched her jaw—not gently, but not harshly either. She turned Shadowheart's face toward the firelight and examined it like a sculptor inspecting their work.

"You are not broken," Minthara murmured. "Not yet. But you bend. That is how we begin… shaping you."

Shadowheart's mouth parted. Not to speak—only to breathe.

Minthara's thumb dragged over her cheek. It left a trace of dirt, or ash, or maybe a brand. Then she stood and walked away.

Shadowheart sat motionless for a long time, unsure if she'd passed the test—or just entered the next one.