Date: The Night of the 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Southern Gate (Servants' Exit), Imperial Palace.
The descent from Heaven to Hell was a short walk.
Ten minutes ago, Aanya had been standing on a marble balcony, draped in violet silk, waving to a cheering city. Now, she was being dragged through the labyrinthine stone corridors of the palace underbelly.
The air here didn't smell of jasmine or Golden Lotus. It smelled of wet dogs, unwashed armor, and kitchen refuse.
"In here," the lead guard grunted, shoving Aanya into a small, damp guardhouse near the outer wall.
Aanya stumbled, her bare feet slipping on the cold stone. She hugged her wet bathing shift to her chest, shivering violently.
"The King said strip her," the guard said to a matron sitting by a brazier. "Royal property stays in the palace."
The matron, a woman with arms like tree trunks and a face devoid of pity, stood up. She looked at Aanya—at the smeared makeup, the red scar, the trembling limbs.
"Turn around," the matron barked.
Aanya stood frozen. "Please... it's cold..."
"I said turn around!"
The matron grabbed Aanya's shoulder and spun her. She didn't unclasp the delicate gold chain around Aanya's neck; she snapped it.
Snap.
The necklace, a gift from the Emperor just hours ago, fell into the matron's hand.
Next came the earrings. The matron yanked them out. Aanya cried out as her earlobes stung, but the pain was distant, muffled by the shock.
"The shift," the matron ordered.
"I... I have nothing else," Aanya whispered.
"That silk is worth more than your life," the guard sneered from the doorway. "Take it off."
Aanya's hands shook so badly she couldn't work the wet fabric. Impatient, the matron grabbed the neckline and pulled. The silk tore with a sound like a scream.
Aanya was left standing in her undergarments, shivering in the drafty room. She felt less than human. She was a doll being disassembled.
The matron reached into a pile of rags in the corner. She pulled out a tunic. It was made of rough, scratchy burlap, the kind used for potato sacks. It was stained with grease and smelled of mildew.
She threw it at Aanya.
"Put it on. It's more than you deserve, fraud."
Aanya pulled the rough fabric over her head. It scratched her skin, chafing against her neck. It was huge, hanging off her frame like a tent, but it offered no warmth.
"Boots?" Aanya asked, looking at her bare feet.
The guard laughed. "Boots? You're walking on mud, girl. You don't need leather."
He grabbed her arm again. "Let's go. The garbage wagon is leaving."
They dragged her outside.
The storm had broken over the city. The sky was a churning bruise of black and purple. Rain fell in sheets, cold and punishing. It wasn't a spring shower; it was a deluge designed to wash away sins.
They walked her to the Southern Gate. This was not the golden gate she had entered through. This was the service exit. The gate for dead bodies, broken furniture, and kitchen slop.
The heavy wooden doors were open just a crack. Beyond lay the darkness of the outer city.
"Move," the guard shoved her.
Aanya stumbled into the rain. The cold water hit her like a hammer. It soaked the burlap instantly, making it heavy and sodden.
She walked forward. The mud oozed between her toes. It was freezing.
"And stay out!"
A heavy boot kicked her from behind.
Aanya flew forward. She couldn't catch her balance in the slick mud. She landed hard, face-first, into a pile of something soft and rotting.
The smell hit her instantly. Rotten cabbage. Fish guts. Ash.
She had landed in the palace midden heap—the pile of trash that accumulated outside the walls before being carted away to the slums.
CLANG.
Behind her, the heavy iron bolt of the Southern Gate slammed home.
Aanya lay in the trash. The rain beat down on her back.
She pushed herself up on her hands. Her fingers sank into the mud. She spat out dirt.
She was alone.
She looked up at the wall. It towered fifty feet above her, sheer and unclimbable. On the other side were fire-pits, roast duck, warm beds, and her parents.
Her parents who had just sold her sister to keep those warm beds.
Aanya let out a sound. It wasn't a scream. It was a low, keening wail that was lost in the thunder.
She reached up to touch her face.
The rain was finishing what the oil had started. The last remnants of the resin were washing away. She felt the cool water hitting the raw, sensitive skin of her scar. It burned. It throbbed.
She clawed at her cheek, scraping off the last of the gray sludge. She wanted it off. She wanted the lie off.
"I am Aanya," she whispered to the rain. "I am Aanya."
But the wind snatched the name away.
She had no name. She had no house. She had no face.
She tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She crawled toward the shelter of a dripping overhang near the moat. She curled into a ball, pulling the rough burlap over her knees.
She remembered the feeling of the silk dress. She remembered the cheers of the crowd.
It was all a dream, she realized. The last seven years... the Alchemist... the hope... it was all a dream.
This, she thought, feeling the cold mud seeping into her bones, this is real.
She closed her eyes, listening to the rain. She waited for the tears to come, but she had none left.
She was just trash, discarded by the palace, waiting for the sweepers to clear her away in the morning.
And somewhere in the dark city behind her, a thief was drinking himself into a stupor, thinking she was sleeping on a bed of feathers.
He didn't know she was less than a mile away, sleeping in the mud.