I follow Frazier through the streets of Myrtus City, my legs shaking from days of confinement and my body aching from systematic abuse. The maid outfit they've given me to wear is deliberately degrading—too tight across my chest, too short to provide proper coverage, made of rough fabric that chafes against my bruised skin with every unsteady step.
The thought of running never truly occurs to me. Not because I don't want freedom, but because I'm too weak from days of poor treatment, too overwhelmed by the bustling city around me, and too aware that drawing attention to myself by fleeing would only make things worse. Besides, even if I tried, he could easily catch me in my current condition, and the magical compulsion of the slave brand would likely prevent any real attempt at escape anyway.
Frazier walks ahead with confident strides, his silence adding to my confusion and fear. He's neither cruel in his pace nor considerate of my obvious distress, offering no explanation of where we're going or what my life will be like now.
As we move through the city I once dreamed of visiting, the bitter irony of finally seeing this place cuts deeper than any physical wound. I had imagined exploring grand buildings and bustling markets as a free person, perhaps trading for books or learning about different cultures. Instead, I see it from the perspective of property being transferred from one owner to another.
People's reactions reveal how normalized slavery has become in this society. Most ignore us completely. Some glanced with mild interest at my "exotic" features like they might assess a fine horse. Children stared until their parents redirected their attention, teaching the next generation to look away from suffering.
No one questioned his ownership of me. No one offered help. No one showed any sign that they saw me as a person rather than property. The realization hit me that I'm invisible now, my personhood erased by the brand on my neck.
The slave quarter we're leaving reeked of misery and human waste. The commercial district we passed through bustled with bright activity that continued around us with complete indifference to my suffering. I understood that this was normal here—a man leading a beast-woman slave was so common it didn't merit attention.
As we continued walking, the urban environment gradually gave way to quieter, more residential areas where buildings became sparser, gardens appeared between houses, and the sounds of the city faded into distance. Frazier navigated the route without hesitation, clearly familiar with the path and certain of his destination.
My confusion grew with each step as I realized we're heading toward the city's edge, away from the centers of power and commerce, away from the noble districts with grand houses or merchant quarters where I might have expected to serve.
The isolation felt ominous after the crowded horror of the slave market. There, at least, there were witnesses to any abuse, guards who might intervene if only to protect valuable property. But out here, away from prying eyes, anything could happen to me without consequence or observation.
I had prepared myself for a dungeon, a brothel, or some other obvious place of suffering. Instead, we're walking through increasingly peaceful countryside where the urban development gave way to open plains and farmland.
The weight of my magical bondage served as a constant reminder that despite the pleasant scenery, I remained property being transported to whatever fate he had planned. My legs grew weaker with each step as exhaustion from days of abuse caught up with me.
When I stumbled, he paused for a moment—not looking back, not speaking, just stopping until I regained my balance. I'm left wondering if this small consideration represented mercy or simply practical concern for maintaining his investment.
A simple wooden house sat alone in the transitional space where the southern fields of Myrtus City gave way to open plains, a distant line of forest marking the horizon far to the south. The setting was unexpectedly peaceful and almost idyllic in its rural simplicity.
The house itself appeared well-maintained but modest, with clean lines and practical construction. Nothing ostentatious or suggesting the wealth required to purchase a slave at market prices.
The disconnect between the peaceful domestic scene before me and the horrors I've prepared myself to endure created a dissonance that's almost painful. I've spent days bracing for obvious cruelty, but this looked like a home where someone might live quietly and contentedly.
Everything about the scene contradicted my expectations, from the gentle sound of flowing water to the well-tended garden plots that suggested someone who cared about growing things rather than destroying them. But the brand on my neck reminded me that appearances could be deceiving.
As Frazier led me toward the front door, I studied the house for signs of what awaited me inside—barred windows, heavy locks, basement entrances that might lead to dungeons. But I saw only the normal features of a modest country home, which somehow made me more nervous than obvious preparations for imprisonment would.
When he unlocked the front door and gestured for me to enter, the simple action felt more unsettling than any command would have been, because I couldn't predict what kind of master he intended to be.
The interior reinforced my confusion as I took in a space that's clean, organized, and practical but strangely impersonal. The main room contained simple furniture arranged with precision, a small kitchen area stocked with basic supplies, and a curtained doorway that presumably led to sleeping quarters.
Everything spoke of someone living alone by choice rather than circumstance, with no servants, no luxury items, no obvious signs of cruelty or perversion. But also no warmth or personal touches that would make this feel like a home rather than a temporary shelter.
Without ceremony or explanation, Frazier moved to the kitchen and began preparing food with practiced, efficient movements. His short dark hair was slightly disheveled from our walk. The absence of commands was almost as confusing as the domestic activity I'm witnessing after the constant orders and threats of the slave market.
He gestured vaguely at a chair, and I sat carefully, watching him work while trying to understand what's happening. The meal he's preparing was simple but substantial—vegetable pottage, fresh bread, and clean water that made my mouth water after days of scraps and dirty liquid.
When he set the food before me, I hesitated, unsure if this was a test or trap. But hunger eventually won over caution and I ate while he watched with an unreadable expression.
The food was plain but filling and warm—the first decent meal I've had in over a week. The act of eating real food, of sitting at a table like a person rather than being fed scraps like an animal, created a dissonance that's almost painful.
We ate in near silence, the quiet broken only by Frazier's awkward attempts at conversation that were mundane to the point of absurdity given our circumstances—observations about the weather, the harvest prospects, the condition of the roads, as if we're neighbors sharing a casual meal rather than master and slave.
"The weather has been mild for this time of year," he says.
I didn't know how to respond to these conversational offerings, wondering if they were tests of some kind. I gave minimal answers, watching for signs of danger in his expressions and body language.
But he seemed genuinely uncomfortable rather than threatening, though I've learned that appearances could be deceiving and the capacity for violence could hide behind the most mundane facades.
His discomfort was palpable but puzzling—he paid an enormous sum for me, brought me to his isolated home, yet seemed uncertain how to proceed. This uncertainty created its own form of tension because I couldn't predict what would trigger approval or displeasure.
When he asked if the food was adequate, I nodded and murmured my thanks, the words feeling strange in my mouth because it's been so long since I thanked someone for kindness rather than begging for mercy.
"Yes, Master," I said quietly, the formal address feeling both foreign and necessary on my tongue.
The conversation limped along with long pauses and stilted exchanges that revealed nothing about his plans for me. I found myself almost wishing he would simply state his expectations clearly rather than maintaining this pretense of normalcy.
The magical brand on my neck throbbed faintly, reminding me that regardless of how civil this interaction appeared, I remained bound to obey whatever commands he eventually chose to give.
Frazier noticed my bruised and cut hands—evidence of rough treatment during capture and transport, the wounds still raw and painful from the shackles and rough handling. Fresh bruises from the wagon's jolting ride overlapped older injuries, creating a map of accumulated suffering on my skin. Without asking permission or explaining his intentions, he reached across the table toward me.
I flinched instinctively but forced myself to remain still, knowing that pulling away would likely anger him and bring consequences I couldn't afford.
He murmured something under his breath, and warm golden light emanated from his palms as the pain in my hands eased, cuts closing partially and bruises beginning to fade.
The healing magic was gentle, controlled, and practiced, suggesting both power and restraint. The healing wasn't complete, but it was significant enough to provide real relief from discomfort I'd accepted as permanent.
As he worked with careful concentration, I found myself studying his features more closely—his striking blue eyes that seemed almost too bright against his otherwise understated appearance, and a large scar on his left forearm that spoke of violence in his past despite the gentle touch he's showing me now.
"Thank you, Master," I managed to say when he finished, the words carrying genuine gratitude despite my confusion about his motivations. This kindness seemed to serve no purpose beyond easing my pain.
The contrast between his healing touch and the magical compulsion that bound me created a dissonance I struggled to reconcile—he had the power to command my absolute obedience, yet he chose to heal rather than harm.
After our meal, Frazier stood and gestured toward the main room. "Wait here," he said simply, then disappeared through the back door with an empty bucket in hand.
I remained where he's indicated, uncertain and tense, listening to his footsteps fade as he walked toward what I remembered seeing as the gentle river flowing behind the house. The sound of running water reached me faintly through the walls, and I realized he was fetching fresh water.
When he returned, the bucket now heavy with water, he moved toward the bedroom area and set it down behind the curtain. "Come here," he called, and I approached cautiously.
I found him arranging clean cloth, soap, and a set of men's clothes that would be too large for me but were clearly clean and well-made. His instructions were matter-of-fact rather than commanding: "You can wash. Change into these."
The offer of privacy and clean clothes felt like an impossible luxury after the degradations of the slave market. After setting everything out, he stepped back through the curtain without another word, apparently intending to give me the space to clean myself without observation.
The simple gesture of providing cleaning supplies and privacy felt like a radical kindness after being treated as livestock. I stood alone behind the curtain, clutching the soap and cloth like precious treasures.
I could hear him moving around in the main room, but he made no attempt to position himself where he might see through the thin fabric. This restraint puzzled me, because it suggested a level of respect for my dignity that seemed impossible given my legal status as his property.
The river water in the bucket was cool to the touch, and I found myself staring at it in wonder, remembering what it felt like to bathe for pleasure rather than survival.
Behind the curtain, I hesitated for a long moment before slowly peeling away the degrading maid outfit, my hands shaking as I exposed skin that had been hidden and protected, even poorly, by the rough fabric.
In the light from a small lantern he had left, I finally saw myself properly, and the reflection that greeted me was shocking—bruises covered my body in various stages of healing, dirt and dried blood coated my skin and hair, and the discarded maid outfit had left angry red marks where the rough fabric rubbed against my flesh.
Standing naked and vulnerable but finally alone, I began washing methodically and efficiently, trying to scrub away more than just physical dirt. The water turned dark with grime as I worked to clean every inch of skin I could reach, each clean patch feeling like a small victory.
The simple act of cleaning myself, of having soap and warm water and privacy, felt like reclaiming some small piece of my humanity. I worked with desperate thoroughness to erase every trace of hands that touched me without permission, voices that spoke about me as if I couldn't hear them, eyes that evaluated me like merchandise.
I finished washing and stood dripping beside the bucket, reaching for the clean clothes when disaster struck. The exhaustion from days of abuse and the relief of finally being clean had made me move slower than I should have, and I was still completely naked when I heard his footsteps approaching.
The moment of peace shattered when the curtain moved and Frazier entered without warning, catching me exposed and defenseless. He froze, his eyes fixed on me, but his gaze seemed to look through me, and his breath hitched. For a second, a flicker of raw agony crossed his face—a memory I couldn't see but could feel the devastating weight of. When his eyes focused on me again, the brief vulnerability was gone, replaced by a hungry desperation that terrified me.
My first instinct was to cover myself, my hands flying up in a futile gesture of modesty, but I was too slow, too stunned to move. My voice shook as I asked, "Master? What are you doing?" but he didn't answer, his eyes taking in my naked form before moving closer with purpose.
When he reached for me, instinct finally kicked in and I tried to push him away, my hands pressing against his chest with desperate force. But he was stronger and caught my wrists, bearing me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed and I fell onto it with him following me down.
"No, Master, stop!" I gasped, trying to twist away.
When I struggled harder he spoke a single word that changed everything: "Still."
The moment I continued to fight against his grip, the slave contract activated with searing pain. The brand on my neck flared like a hot iron as agony shot through my body in waves. I could still move, still struggle, but every motion that defied his command brought fresh torture that made my vision blur and my breath catch.
The choice was unbearable—endure his violation or endure pain so intense it felt like my very soul was being burned.
Pinned beneath his weight with my arms trapped above my head, I forced myself to stop fighting. His hands began exploring my body despite my obvious fear and distress.
His words revealed his internal struggle: "I saved you from worse. I won't hurt you. You're mine now, I paid for you. This is better than the auction block."
But these rationalizations didn't lessen the impact of his violation or the helplessness I felt as his hands moved lower, finding evidence of my body's involuntary responses—physical reactions that shamed me even as I understood I had no control over them.
When his mouth found my neck and trailed down to my breast, when his tongue touched my nipple with deliberate intimacy, my mind screamed while my body remained still under the threat of unbearable magical punishment. I knew that any movement to push him away would bring fresh waves of agony from the brand.
Tears fell silently as I experienced the ultimate helplessness of choosing between violation and torture.
The violation was made worse by the gentleness he showed—not violent or brutal, but careful and almost tender, as if he genuinely believed this was kindness rather than assault.
His touch burned like fire against my skin, not from physical pain but from the knowledge that my body belonged to him now in the most fundamental way, that the brand on my neck gave him legal and magical authority to use me however he chose.
I closed my eyes and tried to disappear inside my own mind, to retreat to memories of home and family and freedom. But his hands and mouth anchored me in this terrible present where I was nothing more than property being claimed by its owner.
Something changed when Frazier looked up and saw my tears. The sight seemed to shock him as if he hadn't fully grasped the reality of what he's doing until confronted with my obvious distress. His expression shifted through shock, guilt, and something that might be self-loathing before he pulled back abruptly, releasing me as if my skin had burned him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words barely audible and carrying a weight of genuine regret that confused me almost as much as his assault did.
Then he fled as suddenly as he entered, leaving me to collapse against the wall, shaking with a mixture of fear, relief, and utter bewilderment.
With trembling hands, I reached for the men's clothes he had provided, pulling them on as quickly as my shaking fingers allowed. The soft fabric now felt like armor against further violation. The shirt was enormous on my frame but wonderfully modest, covering what he just touched without permission, and I clutched the excess fabric to myself like a shield.
I remained in the bedroom area, afraid to emerge and face whatever mood might have taken hold of him. I listened through the thin curtain to sounds that weren't threatening—no drinking, no anger, just quiet movement followed by stillness.
The contradiction terrified me more than simple cruelty would—a monster was predictable in its monstrosity, but someone who could be both kind and cruel was impossible to navigate safely. His sudden stop when he saw my tears suggested some capacity for conscience, but it also demonstrated how easily he could cross boundaries that should be absolute.
Through the thin curtain, I heard him moving around the main room—quiet, purposeful sounds that told me nothing about his mood or intentions. I strained to listen, every creak of floorboards making me tense, waiting for his footsteps to approach the bedroom again.
But they didn't come.
The brand on my neck ached with each heartbeat, a constant reminder that this was only the beginning. Whatever kindness he showed before, whatever gentle healing he offered, the truth had been revealed—I was property, and he would take what he wanted when he wanted it.
The clean clothes felt like a mockery now, a pretense of dignity that could be stripped away whenever he decided. I huddled in the oversized shirt and waited, knowing that the man who bought me was more dangerous than any obvious monster because he could make me hope for better treatment before destroying that hope with his actions.
I thought the slave market was the worst thing that could happen to me. I was wrong.
This was worse—this confusion between kindness and cruelty, this illusion of choice that ended in the same violation, this master who could heal my hands one moment and assault me the next.
At least in the market, the evil was honest.