THE FORSAKEN LUNA

A TASTE OF THE TROJAN GIFT

CHAPTER TWO

That night, I lay awake, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I needed to escape. But where? Where could I go?

Morning came too soon.

I was outside, sweeping, when Mr. Grimson returned—this time with two men built like executioners and another man draped in a fine robe. He looked nothing like the others. His features were sharp but kind, his posture composed.

A woman from the neighboring hut rushed forward and knelt before him. “Good morning, Teacher.”

He inclined his head. “Good morning. Peace be with you.”

Mr. Grimson sneered at me. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.” His lips curled in satisfaction. “Teacher, this one is young and hardworking. I don’t even want her back. You can sell her, gift her, or take her with you when you leave.”

The robed man sighed. “I don’t want a slave. I need a house help.”

In an instant, my fate was decided.

One of Grimson’s men tossed a small sack at my feet—my meager belongings bundled inside.

“You belong to him now,” Grimson said, grinning.

Shock numbed my limbs, but deep inside, I felt the stirrings of relief. Anywhere—anywhere—was better than staying here.

The robed man led me to a waiting motorcycle. He nodded toward the seat. “Get on.”

I hesitated for only a moment before climbing behind him.

The ride was long. I kept my arms wrapped around myself, trying to understand what had just happened. I had been sold. Again.

When we finally arrived, the air smelled different—cleaner. The buildings were made of stone, elegant and strong. Guards stood at the entrance.

“Follow me,” the man instructed.

I obeyed, each step feeling like I was walking into the unknown.

“My name is Sir John c**k,” he said. “I specialize in weapons production. The Alpha invited me here to train some of his young warriors.” He glanced at me. “What is your name?”

I swallowed hard. “Flora.”

He gave a curt nod. “Your master said you are stubborn and dishonest. I will not tolerate either.”

His voice was firm, but there was no malice in it.

He led me inside, showing me around the house. “You will clean the house and kitchen regularly. I don’t like dirt.”

I nodded, my mind spinning. The house was massive, far beyond anything I had ever seen. And then, he took me to a small room—built with bricks.

“This will be yours.”

I stood frozen. A room. A real room. My room.

Tears stung my eyes. Was this a dream?

That night, I cleaned, swept, and washed Sir John’s clothes. He gave me the leftovers from his breakfast—bread and sauce.

I ate it like a starving animal.

And for the first time in my life, I thought, maybe this is what heaven feels like.

But then, a bitter thought crept in.

If heaven was real, my parents should be here too.

And yet, they had died without ever tasting a piece of it.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and curled up on my small bed.

A slave in a new house.

But for how long would this peace last?

After Sir John c**k had finished breakfast, he called me over and informed me that I would be going to the technical school. A part of me was excited, but the other part was filled with uncertainty.

I didn't fully understand what attending technical school meant, but from his explanation, I gathered that it involved learning a craft or skill, something usually associated with the elites. Since it was Sir John c**k’s idea, I decided to trust him and go along with it.

The next day, I followed him to the designated school. As soon as I entered, the other students ran to one side, whispering among themselves. One of the bolder ones stepped forward and said, "Sir, she is a slave. We cannot associate with her."

Sir John c**k's expression hardened. "Are all wolves not equal in this pack?" he questioned.

"She is not a wolf of this pack; she’s an alien," the student replied. Sir John c**k looked at me in astonishment but said nothing.

The following day, when we arrived at school, the classroom was empty. The absence of students weighed heavily in the silence. Sir John c**k sighed and then motioned for me to sit. "Since the others have chosen not to attend, we will continue alone," he said.

He began teaching me strange symbols that he called alphabets—the building blocks of words. I was to recite them just as he did. At first, the process was difficult, but the fact that Sir John c**k was teaching me made it both manageable and enjoyable. I repeated each letter after him, trying my best to keep up.

As we practiced, a messenger from the Alpha’s pack house arrived and called Sir John c**k away. He returned after some time, his face clouded with worry.

Without explanation, he took one of the chairs and placed it at a distance from the others. "This will be your seat from now on," he said quietly.

I wanted to ask why, but something in his demeanor told me not to press. What if he became angry? What if I upset him? So, I kept my questions to myself.

The next day, the classroom was full again, and even more students had joined. However, they all sat together on one side of the room, leaving me alone at my separate seat. At first, I convinced myself it didn’t matter, but as time went on, the isolation gnawed at me.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and eventually, years passed. Despite my initial struggles, I slowly improved in my studies.

After four years, I had developed a strong ability to calculate the movement of triggers and the speed of bullets—though I still couldn’t match Sir John c**k’s effortless mastery of reading.

Nevertheless, I had something to be proud of: my exceptional skill in mathematics. There was no equation or calculation I couldn't solve.

Sir John c**k continued to teach me how to read and write in the evenings, and over time, I caught up with the rest of the class. As my academic abilities grew, some of the students who had once shunned me began to approach me for help with their assignments.

One of them was a young man who introduced himself as Beta Marcel. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Sir John c**k—calm, polite, and composed.

His presence was strangely comforting, and I found myself drawn to him almost instantly. However, there was something peculiar about him that I couldn’t quite place.

He had a habit of forming quick friendships with different girls, but after a short while, those same girls would turn into his sworn enemies. The pattern repeated itself over and over, but the reason behind it remained a mystery.

I didn’t know what it was about Beta Marcel that left such a trail of bitterness in his wake—but I intended to find out.

"Flora, my name is Marcel. Can we be friends?" he asked. "Could you please help me with my classwork? I will pay you a penny each time."

Who pays a penny for classwork? I wondered.