The Lycan Prince Maid

I looked at the brown mahogany door she stopped at. There was a label on it: The Internal Affairs.

The place looked creepy. I shivered, unable to shake the sudden feeling of dread running down my spine.

She opened the door to a long, narrow chamber lined with reinforced glass panels and metal fixtures.

The room was modern but sterile, built for easy cleaning and clearly meant for discipline and questioning. Three people were waiting inside. They were waiting for me.

The lady maid, Madam Istrell, the one who welcomed me on my first night and laid down the rules the following morning, stands at the center. She had a tablet in her hand. There were two wolf guards flanking her with their arms crossed akimbo and their faces unreadable.

"Gina Hane," she says without looking up. "Human, a scullery maid, was assigned to the kitchens three days ago." It was as if she were reading my stats, like a robot and not a living being.

"Yes, Madam," I reply.

"You have been accused of impropriety," she continued, looking up and now staring at me with a fierce glint in her eyes, "you disrupted the palace order and encouraged inappropriate attention from a royal."

My chest tightened. Shit! I think I am truly in trouble now. Mary did warn me, but I never took it seriously. The prince and I hardly spoke; it was just a few words with tons of tension packed in them.

"I did not-" trying to protest my innocence.

She raises one finger.

"Silence."

The word carried weight, authority, magic, possibly, maybe, or just centuries of obedience drilled into these walls because the whole space went mute, and breathing seemed to seize for a millisecond.

"You will listen," she says. "You will accept correction, and you will learn your place."

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

In my world, you don't accuse without evidence, that will be slander punishable in the court of law, but here it is obvious that there are no human rights. They simply don't exist. This world doesn't care. I don't even get a chance for self-defense.

"As a low-ranking human without a wolf," Madam Istrell continues, "you are not entitled to defense."

There it is, the truth, laid bare.

She starts tapping her tablet once again, "For your action of disrespect, there is an approved punishment for it."

She looks at me once more and says sharply, "This should warn you about keeping your place and accepting not to cross any lines here. This is the royal palace, and ultimate obedience is required."

One of the guards steps forward and gestures toward a metal post fixed onto the floor.

My stomach drops.

"So, am I getting a physical correction?" I ask quietly in horror.

"Yes," she replies. "You have been sanctioned and found guilty; you will receive the necessary flogging as a reminder."

I had no means or power to escape this cruelty, so I walked to the post on my own.

I had faced tough times and seasons in my short life as an orphan, and I had been strong all my life, lifting my head high to face each challenge. Even in this unfair situation, I will not be dragged or caught begging for something I am not guilty of.

The guard lifts my wrists and snaps shut the restraint bands, pulling my arms over my head. The position stretches my shoulders and forces my spine straight.

I close my eyes, control my breathing to bear the oncoming pain, and start to meditate.

The pain is temporary; you control your emotions, they don't control you.

The first strike lands across my back, white-hot.

I gasped before I could stop myself.

It was not a whip; it was something flat and heavy, designed to hurt without breaking the skin. To leave marks that fade just in time to avoid questions.

The second strike followed before I could recover, and by the third strike, my legs were trembling.

Madam Istrell's voice is calm as she recites, I am guessing that's the protocol. "This is for forgetting your station."

Another strike.

"For allowing attention you did not earn."

Strike.

"For threatening palace stability and challenging hierarchy."

Strike.

My vision blurs.

I grit my teeth, refusing to scream.

I will not give them that.

By the sixth strike, something inside me cracks, not my bone or muscle; something deeper in me, and the room tilts as if I were being turned upside down.

The scent of ozone suddenly fills the air.

I heard it before I felt it. It was a low sound, it did not sound human, it vibrated through my ribs, and my blood surged, pressing against the back of my skull.

Enough.

The word wasn't spoken; it was a strong persuasion.

Heat floods my veins, and my heart slams once, twice, then changes rhythm entirely, beating heavier, slower, but more powerful.

The guards hesitated and stopped striking me.

Madam Istrell frowns. "What is that noise?"

I don't know what it was, either, but I feel it now.

Something curled tight inside my chest, like a sleeping animal stirring for the first time.

You are not prey, Gina.

My knees buckle, the restraints snap open as I collapse forward, hitting the stone floor hard. Pain explodes through my body, and then vanishes; it is replaced by strength.

But the strength was not much, just a spark that was enough to keep me breathing and stay awake.

I opened my eyes briefly. I was kneeling on the floor, and my sight was blurred, but I could sense the breathing of everyone in the room.

The guards seemed to exchange uneasy glances at the odd reaction from me.

"She's overheating," one of them mutters. "I am not sure humans can take this much beating."

Madam Istrell stiffens. "Then end it."

They unhook me and step back as if I'm suddenly dangerous.

I lie there on the floor, gasping, sweat soaking through my uniform, my skin burning like I have been struck by lightning.

Inside my head, I heard a strange voice. "I am awake," it said.

The voice is small, it sounded new and curious, but I didn't understand it myself, but I had a feeling that it understood me more than I could hope for.