Spark of Hope - I

The morning sun spilled across the Valkart mansion, golden light brushing against polished stone walls and wide gardens. Workers had already filled the halls and grounds, their footsteps rushing as the day’s endless chores began.

Ark was in the garden, crouched near the rows of flower pots lined along the walkway. His hands moved steadily, cloth in one and a small brush in the other, wiping the soil off the edges of ceramic pots, removing dirt that clung stubbornly. His face was calm, blank as ever. The smell of flowers and damp soil filled the air.

He did not mind the silence. It was easier to clean pots than listen to Leon’s voice. Easier to scrub soil than to hear the chains rattle around beast-human necks.

The faint crunch of shoes on gravel reached his ears. Ark didn’t turn immediately, but his eyes flicked sideways.

Lisa Valkart approached, her blonde hair catching the sun, her dress embroidered with delicate lace that shone brighter than the garden flowers themselves. Two beast-human girls trailed behind her, heads bowed, hands trembling as they carried small baskets. Both looked young, barely adults, their faces tired though the day had only begun.

Lisa’s steps were slow, deliberate. She stopped near a bed of bright roses and tilted her head with a smile that never reached her eyes.

“You,” Lisa said, pointing lazily at the first beast-human girl, a timid fox-eared girl clutching her basket. “Go. Fertilizer. My flowers must never lose their shine.”

The girl quickly fumbled in her basket, pulling out a bag. But before she could open it, Lisa’s lips curved into a sharp smirk.

“No. Not like that,” she said coldly. “Use your head. Tilt it down. Pour with your head.”

The girl froze, her wide ears trembling. “M-my head…?”

Lisa’s eyes hardened. “Are you deaf? Or perhaps just stupid? I said, use your head.”

Fear overtook hesitation. The beast-girl lowered herself to her knees, poured fertilizer into her palms, and leaned forward. With trembling motions, she tilted her head and awkwardly scattered the fertilizer at the roots. Soil stuck to her hair, dust clung to her face. She forced herself to keep moving, even as her cheeks burned red from shame.

Lisa’s laugh was light, cruel. “Good. Even a beast can be trained, it seems.”

Her gaze shifted to the second beast-human girl, a rabbit-eared girl carrying nothing, only following orders. Lisa tapped her folded fan against her hand.

“You. Kneel. Right here.”

The rabbit girl’s eyes widened. She glanced at the ground—gravel, dirt, sharp pebbles. Slowly, her knees lowered, and she pressed them into the ground, flinching at the pain.

Lisa sat down gracefully on the girl’s back, crossing her legs as if on a cushioned chair. She waved her fan slowly, eyes closed, enjoying the breeze.

The garden was silent except for the muffled breaths of the beast-human girls. Ark continued wiping pots, his hands steady, though his eyes had narrowed ever so slightly.

Time passed slowly. The sun rose higher, heat sinking into the garden. Sweat poured down the beast-girls’ faces. The fox-eared girl’s arms shook as she kept scattering fertilizer with her head. The rabbit girl’s body trembled beneath Lisa’s weight, her knees cut and bleeding from the gravel.

Hours crawled by until finally Lisa rose. She dusted her dress delicately, as if dirt had dared to touch her. She glanced back at the two exhausted girls—one collapsed beside the flowerbed, the other clutching her knees, blood soaking her skin.

“You are truly useless,” Lisa said, her voice sharp and mocking. “All of you. You should be thankful I even allow you to serve me. Without me, you wouldn’t even have the chance to work. But still, you don’t deserve it.”

Her fan snapped shut with a sharp sound.

“You were born to live insect lives. Nothing more.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her steps light and elegant, leaving the two beast-girls trembling in the dirt.

Ark set aside the last cleaned flower pot. He stood slowly, brushing soil off his hands, and walked toward them.

The fox-girl raised her head weakly, fear in her eyes as if expecting another order, another punishment. The rabbit girl stared blankly at the ground, her ears drooping lifelessly.

Ark crouched down in front of them. His face was still calm, still that unreadable mask, but his voice cut through the silence like cold steel.

“No matter how much you try,” Ark said, his tone flat but heavy, “they will never thank you.”

The two beast-girls froze. Their trembling eyes lifted toward him.

“It doesn’t matter if you work until your bones break. To them, you’re nothing. They will only laugh while you kneel. They will only find new ways to crush you.”

His gaze shifted, piercing, unreadable.

“It’s your choice,” he continued, his voice quieter, almost like a whisper of judgment. “Do… or die. Keep obeying, or stand. No one will choose for you.”

He stood, turning away, and walked back toward the flower pots without another word. His steps were steady, his shoulders straight, his back giving them nothing but a single truth: he would not decide for them.

The two girls sat frozen in silence, their breaths uneven.

The fox-girl clutched her hands tightly, staring at the soil beneath her nails. She had always known pain. Always bowed her head. Always obeyed. Yet those words…

Do or die.

The rabbit-girl’s ears twitched. Her body still shook, her knees bleeding, but her eyes—once hollow—now flickered faintly. Like a tiny spark in the ashes, a small fire ignited inside.

Ark, without turning back, returned to his work. His hands moved as before, cleaning soil from the pots. His face betrayed no change, as if he hadn’t just dropped a weight heavier than chains onto their hearts.

But in that quiet garden, beneath the cruel sunlight and the fading scent of flowers, something fragile had begun.

A thought.
A spark.
A possibility.

And for the first time in a long while, the beast-human girls felt something stir within them.

Not gratitude. Not submission.

Something far more dangerous.

Hope.