Chapter 11: Rumors Are Flying—The Slave Girl Wants to Rebel?!
641words
The air was thick—not with the scent of Firewood’s grilled meat or the blood we dragged back from the hunting ground, but with something far more volatile:
Gossip.
As soon as we stepped into the slave zone, a sharp-eared girl dashed over.
“You guys really came back alive?! And with three frenzied wolves?!”
Raccoon puffed up with pride. “Not just alive—we ate them too.”
She stared. “Are you guys trying to start a rebellion?!”
Me: “...?”
She spoke solemnly. “They say you formed a private training group in the hunting ground. That you’re planning a slave escape. That you’re—the rebellion’s ringleader.”
I slapped a hand over her mouth. “Stop! We don’t even have enough pots to piss in—what rebellion?”
She wriggled free. “But everyone’s saying you’re the master’s secret daughter, back for revenge!”
Firewood mumbled, “...Not entirely wrong.”
I glared at him. “You’re vice-captain now. Speak responsibly!”
Amy nibbled her bread. “So… do we clarify?”
I shook my head as I bit into my own crust. “Clarify what? Rumors end with the wise—and luckily, we don’t have many of those around here.”
Still, I figured a little PR wouldn’t hurt.
So, by dusk, I hauled Firewood and Raccoon to the clearing in the slave quarters, stacked up some busted crates, climbed on top, and began:
“Hey everyone. I’m Daphne—currently acting leader of the Gray Tower squad.”
The crowd surged in.
I cleared my throat. “I hear there’s been some misunderstanding—about me leading a rebellion, planning an escape, trying to be some kind of… girlboss.”
“I’d like to formally clarify—”
“I’m not capable of all that. Yet. But I might consider it in the future.”
The crowd burst into laughter.
“We’re just a small team. No resources, no power. But we have one goal: to make us ‘lowborns’ at least look a little more like people.”
“What does that mean? Eat till full, live a little longer, get treated when we’re sick—and choose to leave when we want.”
From the back, Firewood raised a hand. “Boss, we can’t exactly escape yet.”
I turned and said, “That’s why we take it slow. Not today—maybe tomorrow.”
Raccoon called out, “What about the day after tomorrow?”
I answered seriously, “That’s too far ahead. I haven’t planned that far.”
Laughter again, but I knew—it had sunk in.
That night, while we wrapped up our little “mini-promise rally,” a sealed letter made its way to my mother’s quarters in the master’s zone.
She read the message by candlelight. Just a few lines.
Her eyes narrowed.
“She’s alive…”
“And she’s made herself the ‘queen’ of the slave pit?”
Her lips curled into a chilling smile. She folded the letter, fed it into the flame, and watched it burn to ash.
“Good. Then I’ll be the one… to bury you again.”
Back in the warehouse of the Gray Tower, I squatted beside a half-empty box of salty biscuits, muttering:
“Should we organize a camp-wide spring outing tomorrow? Mushroom-picking plus combat drills?”
Cold-Faced Pretty Boy leaned against the doorframe, not even looking up. “If you’re hoping for a more interesting death, sure. Take them out.”
I grunted. “You really are our technical advisor. Your sarcasm’s sharper than mine.”
“I just… see further than most.”
“What do you see?”
He went quiet, then said softly:
“A storm.”
I was silent for a moment.
Then I stood and clapped his shoulder. “Then let’s build a ship.”
“I won’t let them scatter in the wind.”
Late at night, the wind rustled the trees beyond the camp. Distant stars flickered through the branches like whispered promises.
I sat at the threshold of the shed, chewing on a bit of dried gluten, staring at the night sky.
One thought anchored in my heart:
If there’s going to be a storm this time—let it start with me.
