Tears had begun to well around the rims of Ayla’s eyes. The tip of her nose and flesh about her eyes began to flush pink with the overwhelming guilt and sadness she felt for her prolonged concealment of truth. The heat of her shame brought color to her cheeks and she busied her fingers in untangling the strands of her freshly-fallen hair. She took the indicated seat gracefully, but her focus remained downcast and crestfallen.

“I am truly ashamed of myself. As I said, I am gifted in healing arts. And I am merely looking for a better life. I am not, by birth, Hazel Brooks. I have no last name. I was given a simple identifier by the human family under which my ancestors have served for the past three or four generations.” She rocked slightly in her seat as she spoke, self-soothing like an infant and always keeping her face inclined in a downward direction. 

“My family has a natural affinity for herbs and their medicinal uses. I received training from my mother and grandmother in the arts of elven healing. The Blackthorne family benefits from our skill by means of financial gain; they manage a clinic in which we tend the patients. In return, we do not live in abject squalor or among the outcasts of society.”

Hair finally disentangled from itself, she eased her nerves by reapplying fresh plaits to the waves over her shoulder. The tears that threatened to slide from her lashes disappeared, brushed aside with the back of her wrist as she continued her confession.

“I want more. I do not want to be a servant. They call it a partnership between families. I call it slavery. I have lived too long under the reign of those who do not respect me yet cannot thrive without me. They hate me though they keep me.” She choked back a sob and raised her brimming eyes just enough to glance across the desk.

“I want to be free.”