I wake before Frazier, morning light filtering through the curtain. My body is still warm against his sleeping form. In the pale dawn, he looks younger without his usual tension. More like the boy who taught me to read. Less like the man who owns me.
I trace the air above his features without touching. He can be gentle one moment, commanding the next. He held absolute power over me. Yet now he promises to help me break free. The contradictions fascinate me.
His eyes open and find mine watching him. Neither of us speaks. Something fundamental shifted between us last night. We both feel it.
"We need to go to Myrtus City today," he says finally, his voice still rough from sleep. "We need supplies." He pauses, meeting my eyes directly. "And information."
My stomach clenches. The city where I was sold. Branded. Humiliated.
"About the contract?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"About the contract."
As I dress, my hands shake. I catch myself touching the slave brand at my neck. A nervous habit when anxiety overwhelms me.
Frazier notices. "We'll get what we need and leave quickly."
We both know this won't be a simple supply run.
The walk to Myrtus City takes nearly two hours. We move in comfortable silence at first. Then the city walls come into view.
My anxiety becomes impossible to hide. Those stone barriers bring back memories. Being transported here in chains. Half-dead and terrified.
"I never thought I'd come back here," I whisper. "Not like this."
Frazier notices how I've drawn into myself. Shoulders hunched defensively. "You're not the same person who was brought here in chains," he says. "You're stronger now. Armed. Trained."
"But still branded." I touch the mark at my neck. The magical symbol throbs with familiar heat. A reminder that I remain property in the eyes of the law.
He has no answer for that truth. We continue in silence.
Our first stop is a clothing merchant's shop. Frazier had only bought me two sets of basic clothing before. Practical but minimal. Now he purchases more with methodical attention. A warm traveling cloak lined with soft fur. Sturdy boots for rough terrain. Several changes of clothes that actually fit.
The merchant eyes my brand with casual indifference. "Good quality materials," he tells Frazier while handling the coins. "Should last her a long time, assuming she doesn't run off."
I flinch at the casual cruelty. Frazier's sharp look silences the merchant. But the damage is done. To most people, I'm not a person. I'm property that might require replacement.
As we move through the bustling city streets, I observe with new eyes. I'm no longer the terrified, half-dead captive from months ago. I notice details that escaped me before.
Free people move with casual confidence. Families walk together without fear. They choose where to go and when. Such simple luxury.
Children run past us, laughing as they chase each other through the crowd. Their joy strikes me like a physical blow. I remember being that carefree once. In the forest canopy of my childhood home. The memory feels impossibly distant now.
For lunch, we stop at a modest tavern called "The Copper Coin." Frazier chooses a corner table where we can observe the room. The position keeps me partially hidden from casual view. I'm grateful for his consideration. The brand on my neck draws stares. Not all of them sympathetic.
The tavern is warm. Filled with comfortable noise of conversation and clinking dishes. For a brief moment, I can almost pretend we're normal travelers. Just sharing a meal. Not master and slave on a dangerous mission.
A young man in military colors approaches our table. He's perhaps twenty. Earnest bearing of someone new to his duties but eager to prove himself. The Zorian insignia on his uniform catches the lamplight.
"Sir Frazier?" the soldier says, his voice carrying both recognition and respect. "I'm Marcuss, Third Company, Zorian Guard. I served under Captain Aldric at the northern border."
Frazier's reaction is immediate and uncomfortable. His jaw tightens, and I see him struggle with being recognized in public. The careful anonymity he maintains in his isolated house doesn't protect him here.
"Marcuss," he acknowledges curtly. "You're far from your post."
"Carrying dispatches, sir. But I wanted to report—the situation in the south has worsened considerably." Marcuss glances at me, noting my brand but choosing to ignore it out of respect for Frazier. "Orrakhan's fall is expected within the month. The refugees from Shadrazel Forest..."
My heart stops. The words hit me like a physical blow. Drive the air from my lungs. My homeland. My forest. The places I dreamed of returning to. All being consumed by war and demonic forces.
"Sir, the reports are grim," Marcuss continues, unaware of the devastation his words cause. "Entire villages gone. The survivors speak of horrors that..." He shakes his head. "I've never heard veterans talk like that before."
My hand goes to the slave brand at my throat. Not from nervous habit this time. The magical mark burns against my skin. A reminder of how far I've fallen from the life I once knew.
"My brother," I whisper, forgetting discretion in my fear. "Kyo—he might still be there."
Marcuss looks at me with surprise, then growing sympathy as he recognizes the pain in my voice. "I'm sorry, miss. The forest settlements... most have been evacuated or..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air like smoke.
Destroyed. Gone. Wiped from existence.
Frazier places a warning hand on my arm. A reminder to maintain composure in public. "Thank you for the report, Marcuss. Dismissed."
The young soldier salutes and leaves. His news settles over our table like a shroud. I stare at my barely touched food. Appetite gone. Everything I'd hoped to return to might already be ash and memory.
The forest paths where I learned to fight. The river where we fished together. The treehouses where families raised their children in safety. All of it potentially consumed by the same demonic forces that destroyed my village. And Kyo. My sweet brother with his twisted ankle and stubborn loyalty. Somewhere in the middle of that chaos.
"He's smart," Frazier says quietly. "He escaped the original attack. He knows how to survive."
"But for how long?" The words come out rougher than intended. "And even if we manage to break the contract, even if I'm somehow free—what if there's nothing left to return to?"
What use is freedom if it only means the liberty to wander among graves?
After lunch, we make our way toward the slave market. With each step, my dread intensifies. A physical weight settling on my chest.
The familiar sounds reach us first. The crack of whips. Shouted commands. The rattle of chains. Then comes the smell. Unwashed bodies. Fear-sweat. The particular stench of despair that clings to places where human dignity goes to die.
The market square opens before us. I stop dead.
The sight of the cages. The auction block where I once stood naked while strangers bid on my flesh. The casual cruelty being displayed. It all triggers a flood of traumatic memories that threaten to drag me under.
I remember being dragged here in chains. Stripped and examined like livestock. The burning pain of the branding iron searing the magical mark into my neck. My vision starts to blur around the edges. I'm hyperventilating.
"I can't," I whisper, my breathing becoming shallow and rapid. "I can't go in there."
Frazier immediately moves to block my view of the worst sights. Positioning himself between me and the auction platform. "You don't have to go in," he tells me firmly. "Wait here. I'll handle Eagor."
"But the contract—if I disobey your direct order to accompany you—"
"I'm ordering you to wait here and stay safe," he interrupts. His voice gentle but commanding. "If you're following my direct command, the contract shouldn't punish you for staying behind." His eyes meet mine. I see something there I rarely witness. Vulnerability. "Trust me."
I nod, not trusting my voice. He squeezes my shoulder once. A brief contact that somehow steadies me. Then walks toward the market entrance with determined purpose.
I wait in the shadow of a building across the square. Trying not to look directly at the horrors being conducted in the open air. But even from this distance, I can hear enough to make my stomach churn.
The auctioneer's practiced patter as he describes human beings like prize livestock. The casual discussion of breeding potential and work capacity. The laughter of buyers evaluating their investments.
A part of me wonders if I should feel grateful that Frazier bought me when he did. Sparing me from standing on that block again. But gratitude feels like a betrayal of everyone still trapped in those cages. Still being reduced to their monetary value.
Minutes stretch like hours as I wait for Frazier to emerge. What if Eagor refuses to help? What if there truly is no way to break the contracts? What if this desperate hope proves to be just another cruelty? Dangling freedom in front of me only to snatch it away?
Frazier's perspective:
The slave market hasn't changed since my last visit. The same stench of despair. The same casual cruelty. The same systematic dehumanization dressed up as commerce. I move through the crowd with purpose. Ignoring the calls of vendors trying to interest me in their "merchandise."
Eagor's office sits on a raised platform overlooking the main trading floor. Giving him a clear view of his kingdom of suffering. The man himself is exactly as I remember. Corpulent. Soft-handed. With the pale complexion of someone who profits from others' labor without ever engaging in it himself.
He looks up from his ledgers as I approach. His expression shifts from mild interest to recognition to something approaching wariness.
"Well, well," he says, his voice carrying false friendliness. "The mysterious buyer returns. Come to add to your collection?"
"I need information," I state bluntly, not bothering with pleasantries.
Eagor leans back in his chair, his calculating eyes studying me with renewed interest. "Information costs extra. What sort of information?"
"Breaking slave contracts."
The words hang in the air like a challenge. Eagor's expression shifts through several emotions—amusement, suspicion, and finally outright mockery.
"Breaking contracts?" He laughs, a sound like grinding glass. "Why would any master want to do that? The whole point is permanent ownership."
"Answer the question."
His smile turns cruel, and I can see him savoring what he perceives as my weakness. "Theoretical curiosity, is it? Or has your little beast-girl been filling your head with romantic notions about freedom?"
My jaw tightens, but I maintain control. "Just answer the question."
"The contracts are unbreakable by design," he says with obvious satisfaction. "Death of the master, transfer of ownership—those are the only ways a slave changes hands. As for actual freedom?" He shrugs elaborately. "Impossible."
"There are always exceptions. Counter-rituals. Ways around any magic."
"Even if there were," Eagor says, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "why would I tell you? Bad for business, you understand. Can't have customers thinking their investments might develop free will."
My patience finally snaps. Already strained by watching Leiko's distress and hearing about the destruction of her homeland. I move faster than his soft reflexes can track. My hand closes around his throat while magical energy crackles along my fingers.
The temperature in the room drops noticeably. Eagor's eyes widen with sudden, genuine fear. Several guards start forward. I freeze them in place with a look that promises death.
"I'm not asking politely anymore," I say, my voice deadly quiet. "Tell me what you know about breaking slave contracts, or I'll light you up from the inside out."
Eagor struggles against my grip. His face reddening. But even in his fear, he manages a wheezing laugh. "Kill me," he gasps, "and every slave in this market dies with me. The binding rituals... they're tied to my life force. Murder me, and you'll have... hundreds of deaths... on your conscience."
The words hit me like cold water. I search his eyes for signs of deception but find only confident malice. He's not bluffing. The magical protection he's describing is real. And he knows it.
Slowly, reluctantly, I release my grip. Eagor falls back into his chair. Rubbing his throat while his guards remain frozen by my lingering magical threat.
"That's better," he wheezes, straightening his clothes with shaking hands. "Now, since you've shown your teeth, I'll throw you a bone." He clears his throat, his voice still hoarse. "If you truly want to break a slave contract—and I can't imagine why any sane man would—your only hope lies where this magic originated."
"Which is where?"
"Seroven. Northern Seroven, to be specific. The old kingdom of Vaelthorne, before it fell to the demons centuries ago." His voice takes on a lecturer's tone. As if discussing academic theory rather than Leiko's fate. "That's where the binding rituals were first developed."
"And?"
"There are rumors—just rumors, mind you—of counter-rituals. Ancient knowledge held by practitioners of the old ways." He fixes me with a calculating stare. "Necromancers. Dark mages. The sort of people who traffic in soul magic and blood rituals."
The implications settle over me like a shroud. Even if such practitioners exist, even if they possess the knowledge I seek, the price of their assistance would likely be staggering.
"How do I find these practitioners?"
Eagor's smile returns. Cruel and mocking. "You don't find them. They find you. But if you're foolish enough to go looking, start in the port cities. Azumar, specifically. Information flows through ports like wine through a drunk." He pauses, savoring my desperation. "Someone there will know someone who knows someone."
I nod curtly, having gotten what I came for. As I turn to leave, Eagor calls after me with mock concern.
"One more thing, mysterious buyer. If you do find a way to break that contract, and if you somehow survive the attempt—what makes you think she'll stay with you afterward? Freedom has a way of changing people's perspectives."
The question follows me out of the market like a curse. But I don't let it show on my face. Whatever Leiko chooses to do with her freedom, she deserves the right to choose.
Leiko's perspective:
When Frazier emerges from the market, his expression is grim but determined. I search his face for clues about what he learned, hope and fear warring in my chest.
"Did you learn anything?" I ask as soon as he's within speaking distance.
"Yes," he says simply, but there's weight in that single word. "We need to go to Seroven."
"Seroven?" The name of the northern continent sends a chill through me. I've read about it in Frazier's books—a land of ancient magic and endless conflicts between demons, elves, dwarves, and humans. "That's... that's across the ocean."
"It is." He takes my arm gently and begins walking away from the market. "Let's get away from here, and I'll explain what I learned."
As we move through the city streets toward the main gate, Frazier shares his conversation with Eagor. The slave contracts originated in northern Seroven, in the ancient kingdom of Vaelthorne before it fell to demons centuries ago. There are rumors—only rumors—of counter-rituals, ancient knowledge held by practitioners of dark magic.
"Necromancers," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "Dark mages. The kind of people who traffic in soul magic and blood rituals."
"The kind of people who might know how to break what others created," Frazier confirms.
The journey he describes sounds impossibly dangerous. We'd need to cross the Vast Ocean to reach Azumar port in the Calren Kingdom, then travel north through desert regions to Aurelith, the capital. From there, somehow make our way through contested northern territories to reach the ancient sites where the original magic was practiced.
"The journey alone could take months," he explains. "Assuming we survive the ocean crossing, the desert, and the various kingdoms that might see a branded slave as free property to claim."
"But there's a chance?" I ask, hearing the desperate hope in my own voice.
Frazier meets my eyes, and I see something there that makes my chest tighten with emotion—not desire or possession, but genuine commitment to my freedom.
"There's a chance."
The walk back to the house passes in contemplative silence. Both of us are processing not just the practical challenges ahead, but the emotional weight of what we're considering. This journey would take us far from anything familiar, into dangers we can barely imagine, all for a possibility that might prove to be nothing more than wishful thinking.
But as we walk, I find myself thinking not just about the risks, but about what Frazier is offering to sacrifice. His comfortable life, his safety, his resources—all for the freedom of someone he legally owns and could keep forever if he chose.
"Why?" I ask suddenly, stopping in the middle of the road. "Why would you risk so much? You could keep me as I am, keep the house, keep your quiet life. Why throw it all away for a chance that might not even exist?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice carries a weight I've rarely heard from him.
"Because you're not property," he says simply. "You never were, despite what the law says, despite what the contract enforces."
The words hit me harder than any declaration of love could have.
"And because," he continues, "somewhere along the way, your freedom became more important to me than keeping you."
We stand there in the afternoon sunlight. Whatever began as ownership has transformed into something I don't have words for.
"The journey will be dangerous," I say finally.
"Very dangerous."
"We might not survive it."
"We might not."
"But the alternative is accepting that I'll never be free."
"And I can't accept that," he says. "Not anymore."
Back at the house, everything feels different. No longer a permanent refuge but a temporary base before an uncertain journey.
"When would we leave?" I ask as we prepare dinner.
"Soon," Frazier replies. "We'll need time to prepare—supplies, weapons, money for passage. But not too long. The longer we wait, the more time we have to lose our nerve."
After dinner, I stand at the window looking out at the peaceful landscape. Somewhere beyond the horizon lies Seroven. A continent of ancient magic and deadly conflicts. Between here and there stretches the vast ocean. Foreign kingdoms. Dangers I can't even imagine.
"Eagor asked you something, didn't he?" I say. "Something that's been bothering you."
Frazier's jaw tightens. "He asked what makes me think you'll stay with me if we succeed in breaking the contract. If freedom would change your perspective on... us."
The question hangs in the air between us. Honest and vulnerable. What our relationship might become if the magical compulsion no longer exists.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I don't know what I'll want or who I'll be when I'm truly free to choose."
"That's all I can ask for," he says quietly.
As we prepare for sleep, the weight of our decision settles over us. Tomorrow, we begin preparations for the most dangerous journey of our lives.
But tonight, for the first time since my capture, I dare to imagine the slave brand gone. Not just hidden. Truly removed. Leaving me free to choose my own path.
The journey to Seroven awaits. With all its dangers and possibilities.
And the question that haunts us both: what happens if we actually succeed?