Three days have passed since my breakdown by the river and Frazier's absolute promise to find a way to free me. The atmosphere in the house has changed completely. No longer the settled feeling of a permanent home, but the anticipatory tension of impending departure. Books are being sorted into "essential" and "leave behind" piles. Belongings evaluated for their utility in an uncertain future.
I wake to find Frazier already up, making lists and checking our limited supplies. Precise calculations cover a sheet of parchment. Estimated travel costs. Passage fees. Equipment expenses. The methodical nature of his planning provides some comfort against the magnitude of what we're attempting.
"How long do we have?" I ask, settling beside him at the table.
"I want to leave within the week," he says without looking up from his calculations. "The longer we delay, the more time we have to talk ourselves out of this madness."
I nod, understanding perfectly. The research has shown us exactly how dangerous our quest will be. Delay will only allow fear to grow stronger than determination.
Our first major task is converting Frazier's possessions into travel funds. The house contains remnants of his previous life. Expensive books. Quality furniture. Magical implements. Personal items that hint at wealth and status he once enjoyed.
Frazier approaches this task with methodical efficiency, but I notice the emotional weight it carries for him. He's not just selling possessions. He's dismantling the life he built after whatever catastrophe drove him to this isolated existence.
"This desk," I say, running my hand over the smooth wood where we've spent so many hours studying together. "It's beautiful. Are you sure you want to sell it?"
"It's just wood," he replies, but I hear the slight tightness in his voice. "We need the money more than I need furniture."
Among the items he's willing to part with are several magical texts (keeping only the most essential), a set of silver candlesticks that speak of former luxury, and various magical implements he deems non-essential for our journey. Each sale represents a piece of his past being sacrificed for our uncertain future.
I watch him wrap a particularly beautiful crystal orb in soft cloth, preparing it for sale. "What does that one do?"
"It enhances scrying abilities—useful for long-distance communication or observation." He pauses, holding the orb for a moment. "It was a gift, years ago. From someone who meant a great deal to me."
The careful way he says it tells me this is connected to Alicia, the name he calls out in his nightmares. But he doesn't elaborate, and I don't press. Some wounds are too deep for casual probing.
Our most important stop in Myrtus City is Master Henrik's forge, tucked away in one of the older districts. Henrik is a man in his sixties. Arms still strong from decades of working metal. Eyes that can assess both blade quality and the person wielding it.
"Looking for something specific?" Henrik asks as we enter his shop. His gaze takes in Frazier's obvious competence and my slave brand with equal professionalism.
"A sword for her," Frazier says simply. "Something well-balanced, suitable for someone of her size and strength, but capable of serious work."
Henrik studies me with a craftsman's eye. Noting my posture. The way I stand. The calluses on my hands from training. "You've had instruction?"
"Some," I reply, instinctively straightening under his assessment.
"Show me your stance."
What follows is an impromptu evaluation as Henrik has me demonstrate my grip, balance, and basic forms using one of his practice blades. He nods approvingly at what he sees—not a master, but someone with solid fundamentals and natural aptitude.
"I have something," he says finally, disappearing into the back of his shop.
He returns with a sword that makes my breath catch. It's not ornate or decorative, but it's clearly a weapon made by a master craftsman. The blade is perfectly balanced, the steel bright and true, the grip wrapped in leather worn smooth by use.
"This was made for a young knight who died before he could claim it," Henrik explains. "Good steel, honest work, sized for someone of your build."
When I take the sword, the weight feels completely different from the wooden practice blade I've grown accustomed to. This is a tool of war. Capable of taking life. The responsibility of that settles on my shoulders like a heavy mantle.
"It's beautiful," I whisper, testing the balance.
"It's deadly," Henrik corrects firmly. "Beauty is secondary. But yes, it's well-made."
The sword feels alive in my hands. Responsive to the slightest movement. Perfectly weighted for my strength. When I execute a simple form, the blade moves as if it's an extension of my arm.
Frazier also purchases matching daggers for both of us. Not decorative pieces, but practical backup weapons designed for close combat. The total cost is significant, but he pays without hesitation.
As we leave the shop, I'm acutely aware of the sword at my side. Its weight is a constant reminder that our journey will likely involve violence. That I may need to use this beautiful, deadly thing to kill another living being.
Our next stop is for travel gear. The merchant we visit specializes in equipment for long journeys—sturdy packs, weather-resistant clothing, preserved foods, and camping supplies. Everything must be carefully chosen for utility and durability.
I find myself overwhelmed by the choices and the reality they represent. "I've never been more than a day's walk from home," I admit as we examine different types of traveling cloaks. "I don't know what we'll need."
"Neither do I, entirely," Frazier admits with surprising honesty. "We're preparing for unknowns. But better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it."
We purchase well-made traveling packs with multiple compartments, weather-resistant cloaks and clothing, sturdy boots that have been broken in enough to be comfortable, preserved rations and water containers, basic camping gear including bedrolls and a small tent, medical supplies and basic remedies, rope, flint, and other survival essentials.
Each purchase makes our journey more real, more imminent. The growing pile of equipment represents our transformation from residents to travelers, from people with a home to people seeking one.
Finding transportation to Seroven proves more complex than simply booking passage on a ship. Most merchant vessels are reluctant to take passengers who can't pay premium prices, and while Frazier's funds are sufficient, they aren't unlimited. Direct passage to Seroven is expensive and dangerous—the Vast Ocean crossing takes nine days in good weather, and ships are vulnerable to both natural storms and the demon raiders that have been reported in the northern sea lanes.
The solution comes through the caravan network. Master Jorik, a weather-beaten trader who runs goods between Okeon and Seroven, is preparing a caravan for the northern port of Maristell. From there, his goods will be loaded onto ships bound for Azumar, the main port city of the Calren Kingdom in southern Seroven.
"Azumar's your best bet for landing," Jorik explains when we find him at the merchant's guild hall. "Friendly to foreign merchants, less likely to ask too many questions about... irregular passengers. From there, you can work your way north to Aurelith if you need scholars and libraries, or push further into Keldoran territory if you're looking for the old places."
He's a practical man with the steady gaze of someone who's seen enough of the world to be surprised by very little. His clothes are well-made but weathered, his hands scarred from years of handling cargo and weapons in equal measure.
"I can use another guard," Jorik tells us after Frazier approaches him about passage. "The roads have been dangerous lately—bandits, deserters, worse things. You handle yourself in a fight?"
"I can manage," Frazier replies with characteristic understatement.
Jorik's eyes move to me, taking in my sword and the way I carry myself. "What about her?"
"She's trained."
"Slave, though," Jorik observes, noting my brand without judgment or particular interest. "That could complicate things in some places."
"She's under my protection," Frazier says, his voice carrying a subtle warning that makes Jorik's eyebrows rise slightly.
The caravan master shrugs, unbothered by whatever tension he's sensing. "Your business. Long as she can pull her weight and follow orders, I don't care about the rest. We leave in four days. Meet at the north gate at dawn. Bring your own weapons and bedding—everything else gets shared equally."
As we walk away from the guild hall, I feel a mixture of excitement and terror. We have passage, we have a plan, we have a specific departure date. The abstract idea of journeying to Seroven has become a concrete reality scheduled for four days hence.
Back at the house, I spend time familiarizing myself with my new sword. The difference between practice and reality weighs heavily on my mind. This isn't a wooden blade for sparring—it's a weapon designed to kill, and I may need to use it for exactly that purpose.
I practice my forms in the small yard behind the house, adjusting to the weapon's balance and weight. The blade sings through the air with each movement, the sound different from wood—sharper, more final. Frazier watches from the doorway, occasionally offering corrections, but mostly just observing my adaptation to the reality of being truly armed.
"It feels different," I say during a break, examining the blade in the afternoon light. The steel is bright and clean, unmarked by combat, but I can feel its potential for violence humming in my hands.
"It should. That's not a tool for practice anymore—it's a tool for survival."
The weight of his words settles over me like a chill. "Have you ever killed anyone?" The question comes out before I can stop myself.
Frazier is quiet for a long moment, his expression growing distant. "Yes," he says finally. "In war, and once or twice since. It's not something you ever get used to, and it's not something you should want to get used to."
"But if I have to..."
"If you have to, you will," he says with quiet certainty. "And I'll help you live with it afterward."
The promise is both comforting and sobering. He's not telling me I won't have to take a life—he's acknowledging that I might, and promising to help me bear the weight of that necessity.
The final days before departure are spent in careful packing and selection. Frazier's extensive library must be reduced to only the most essential texts. The Arcana Originis is a given, along with a few other books on magical theory and one journal of maps and geographical information.
I watch him make these choices, understanding that each book left behind represents knowledge that might prove crucial later. "Are you sure you don't need more?" I ask as he sets aside a particularly thick tome on elemental magic.
"I'm sure I can't carry more," he replies pragmatically. "We'll have to trust that we're taking what we need most."
Personal items are even more ruthlessly culled. I have little to pack beyond my new clothes and weapons. The worn copy of "The Small Lantern" that first taught me to read goes carefully into my pack, wrapped in soft cloth—it's one of the few pieces of my old life I'm carrying forward.
Frazier's selections are more complex. A few personal items that clearly hold sentimental value, his remaining magical implements, and practical necessities. I notice he includes a small, wrapped bundle that he doesn't explain, and I don't ask. We're both entitled to our private treasures.
As I fold my spare clothes into my pack, I realize how little I'm taking from this place that has been both prison and sanctuary. The brand on my neck marks me as property, but everything in my pack was chosen by me, belongs to me in ways that transcend legal ownership. It's a small assertion of identity, but a meaningful one.
The night before our departure, we do a final check of our preparations. Packs are loaded and tested for comfort and balance. Weapons are cleaned and sharpened. Routes are reviewed one more time, though we know our plans will likely change once we encountered the realities of travel.
"Are you ready for this?" Frazier asks as we sit by the fire, our packed belongings waiting by the door like silent promises of the journey ahead.
"I don't think anyone can be ready for something like this," I reply honestly. "But I'm as ready as I can be."
"We can still change our minds. Stay here, find another way, accept that some things can't be changed."
I look at him, seeing the offer for what it is—not cowardice, but genuine concern for my wellbeing and recognition of the magnitude of what we're attempting. The comfortable life we've built here could continue indefinitely if we chose to let it.
"Could you?" I ask. "Could you accept leaving things as they are?"
He considers this seriously, his gaze moving to the fire as if seeking answers in the flames. "No," he admits finally. "I don't think I could. Not anymore."
"Then we go."
The simple words carry the weight of absolute commitment. Tomorrow, we'll walk away from this house, this life, this carefully constructed refuge, and venture into a world that may kill us both. But we'll do it together, united by shared purpose and mutual determination.
Our final night in the house is quiet and reflective. We don't make love—the weight of tomorrow's departure creates a different kind of intimacy, one based on shared anticipation and mutual support rather than physical desire.
Instead, we talk quietly about practical matters and unspoken fears. What if we can't find the practitioners we need? What if the journey proved too dangerous? What if we succeeded in breaking the contract but the cost was higher than we anticipated?
"Whatever happens," Frazier says as we prepare for sleep, "I want you to know that this choice—to try, to risk everything for the possibility of your freedom—it's the right choice. Even if we fail, even if it costs us everything, it's right to try."
I nod, understanding the weight of his words. "Thank you," I say simply. "For choosing to try. For making it possible."
The gratitude I feel goes beyond words. This man could have kept me as a comfortable slave forever, could have maintained the status quo that served his needs. Instead, he's choosing to risk everything—his life, his resources, his carefully built peace—for my freedom.
As we prepare for our final night in this house, I think about transformation. The terrified, broken woman who was first brought here no longer exists. Tomorrow, we become something new again—partners in an impossible quest, equals united by shared danger and purpose.
The weight of my sword beside my pack reminds me that I'm no longer passive in my own fate. The research we've done, the preparations we've made, the commitment we've shared—all of it has prepared me not just for the journey ahead, but for the person I need to become.
Frazier moves about the house with quiet efficiency, doing final checks of our preparations. He's transforming his entire identity, from a man who owned a slave to someone willing to die to free her.
Tomorrow, our real journey begins. Tonight, we'll spend our final hours in this place that has been both prison and sanctuary, holding onto this last moment of peace before we venture into the unknown.
When we wake tomorrow, it will be to begin the quest that will either free me or destroy us both.
But for the first time since my capture, I'm not afraid of what tomorrow might bring.
I'm ready to fight for it.