Parlanta moves through the palace halls with the grace of someone who has long acclimated to a world foreign to her. She is no longer the girl who was taken from her native Valtania — the frightened child ripped from her home and identity; now she wears her role as a servant with a quiet, dignified air. Though her head is bowed demurely as befits her station, her dark eyes take in the opulence and decadence of Bazartiz, watching the comings and goings of the royal court with a keen, almost hidden intensity.

Her life is one of unremitting routine, waking well before the sun to attend to the needs of her mistress, the Valtanian woman who purchased her. They speak in their natural language — a solace of sorts, reminding her of the home she can never return to. Her days are filled with tasks ranging from attending her mistress's toilette, to maintaining the lavish quarters in the harem, to running the most mundane errands.

Parlanta lives in an almost perpetual state of silent vigilance, forever watchful of her surroundings, yet always careful to maintain a facade of obedience and submission.

Her only moments of peace come in the quiet hours before dawn, when she sits alone on the balcony of the harem, listening to the whispers of the night, and staring up at the stars, wondering if her village and family back in Valtania still remember her name.