Two days have passed since my failed escape attempt. The throbbing pain in my foot has faded to a manageable ache thanks to Frazier's careful treatment and the gentle healing magic he applies each morning. The emotional wounds between us remain raw and unaddressed.
My muscles have started adapting to the brand's constant drain on my strength, learning to compensate for the magic that saps perhaps a fifth of my natural power. I still feel the difference when I move with purpose.
The physical healing has been steady and thorough—his knowledge of herbs and healing spells speaking to training I don't understand. But the tension that fills this small house has become a constant presence that makes even breathing feel deliberate.
Every interaction carries weight we both feel but neither acknowledges. The memory of his hands on my body and my desperate flight through the grass creates an atmosphere so thick with unspoken trauma that even mundane conversations about meals feel fraught.
He continues to offer me the bed while he sleeps on the couch. A gesture that speaks of ongoing guilt and his clumsy attempt to provide what comfort he can.
Our daily exchanges are brief and functional—quiet acknowledgments about food, basic needs, the progress of my healing. But underneath these practical necessities lies a careful dance around the events that have shaped our relationship.
He avoids direct eye contact during these interactions, his gaze sliding away whenever our eyes threaten to meet. Our meals are eaten in strained silence that neither knows how to break.
The weight of what happened on my first night hangs between us like a physical barrier. I find myself watching him carefully during these interactions, trying to read his intentions and mood while maintaining the careful distance that feels safest.
I'm learning to navigate the complex dynamics of living with someone who has absolute power over me but seems reluctant to use it. Though I can never quite shake the knowledge that his restraint is a choice he makes rather than a limitation imposed by law or magic.
At night, when the house settles into quiet darkness and my enhanced feline hearing picks up sounds that Frazier probably assumes I can't detect, I discover layers to my captor that add unwelcome complexity to my understanding of him.
His sleep is far from peaceful—he tosses and turns with persistent nightmares that leave him murmuring constantly in distress. Fragments of words and phrases that paint a picture of trauma and loss that rivals my own in its intensity. The sounds drift through the thin walls like smoke, impossible to ignore.
They reveal a man carrying burdens that go far beyond guilt over what he's done to me.
"Alicia," he speaks with desperate longing that makes my chest tight with unwanted sympathy. The name recurring frequently and always spoken with the same tone of anguish and regret that suggests profound loss.
"Please, god, no," he gasps out in obvious distress, and other words too muffled to make out clearly but carrying unmistakable pain. They speak of witnessed horrors and personal failures that have shaped him into someone capable of buying another person while simultaneously being unable to sleep peacefully.
The name Alicia becomes a mystery that occupies my thoughts during the long hours when sleep eludes me. A woman's name, but who was she? A lover lost to violence, a family member he failed to protect, a friend whose death weighs on his conscience?
These nighttime revelations humanize him in ways that make my situation more complicated and my emotions more conflicted. It's easier to hate a simple monster than to understand someone who is clearly suffering from his own demons while simultaneously being the source of my suffering.
The knowledge that he carries pain creates an unwelcome parallel between us—both victims of circumstances beyond our control, both haunted by loss and trauma.
In the sleepless hours when his nightmares echo through the thin walls, my own memories surface unbidden. Somewhere in the wide world, my brother Kyo might still limp along northern paths, his twisted ankle healed but his spirit scarred. I wonder if they think of me, if they mourn me as dead, or if hope keeps them searching.
To distract myself from the emotional weight of my situation, I throw myself into daily routines that provide structure and purpose in a life where I have little control.
I tidy the already-clean house with methodical thoroughness, sweeping and dusting corners that don't need attention but give my hands something to do. The work is more about emotional survival than practical necessity, busywork that keeps my thoughts occupied.
In the backyard, I discover a small vegetable patch that has been neglected but not abandoned. The soil workable and the plants struggling but alive. I spend hours tending it with the focused attention of someone who needs to nurture something in a world that has shown me little kindness.
I pluck weeds with quiet concentration, pat down soil around struggling plants, and organize the small garden with methodical precision. The work connects me to memories of home, to the forest gardens where my people grew vegetables that supplemented our hunting and gathering. For brief moments I can almost pretend I'm tending my mother's garden while she hums working songs.
Frazier quietly permits these activities, nodding in approval when he sees my work but maintaining his careful distance. His acknowledgment of my efforts feels significant—he could forbid me these small freedoms if he chose, could demand I spend my time in ways that serve his needs rather than my psychological wellbeing. But he doesn't.
That restraint adds another layer to my confusion about who he really is beneath the surface of master and slave owner. The days stretch long between us, filled with silence that grows more familiar but no less heavy.
On the third morning since my escape attempt, Frazier announces his intention to visit the market in Myrtus City. As he prepares to leave, shouldering a worn canvas bag, he pauses at the door. "Don't worry," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "The market is closer than where you fell. The brand won't trouble you."
His words are meant to be reassuring, but they also serve as a casual reminder of his power and my limitations. Still, the thought that I am choosing to stay rather than being magically compelled feels like a small preservation of personal autonomy.
After he leaves, disappearing down the path toward the distant city, I find myself truly alone in the house for the first time since my purchase.
The silence feels different when it's guaranteed rather than fragile. When I know I have hours rather than minutes before his return. I occupy myself initially with the same cleaning routines that have become my refuge.
But as the morning stretches on and boredom gradually overcomes caution, my curiosity turns toward the one area of this small house that remains unexplored—the storage room that Frazier mentioned briefly when we first arrived but has never opened in my presence.
Standing before that closed door, I wrestle with competing impulses of curiosity and self-preservation. Being caught exploring could provoke anger or punishment. But I'm unable to resist the opportunity to learn more about the man who owns me.
I rationalize my decision by telling myself that if caught, I can claim I was trying to clean the whole house thoroughly as a gesture of good faith. It's a thin excuse, barely convincing even to myself, but it provides enough justification for me to reach for the door handle.
The storage room proves to be dim and cluttered, filled with practical items that speak of a life lived with purpose and preparation for journeys and challenges I can only guess at.
Old boots worn smooth by extensive travel sit beside water skins and lengths of rope. Candles and spare clothes share space with backpacks and tools that have clearly seen extensive use. The accumulated possessions speak of someone who valued practicality over comfort, function over beauty. The overall impression is of a man who has lived a life of movement and preparedness for dangers that most people never face.
But certain items catch my attention and hold it with surprising intensity—two wooden training swords with handles worn smooth from extensive practice, their surfaces polished by countless hours of use.
Beside them sits a folded military uniform with the cut and insignia of human armed forces. The fabric well-maintained but clearly worn. Seeing it suddenly makes sense of details I've observed about Frazier—his rigid posture that speaks of military bearing, the prominent scar on his forearm that looks like a battle wound, his efficient movements when treating injuries, and the persistent nightmares.
The uniform and training swords create a picture of my captor as someone with military experience, possibly a veteran of conflicts I know nothing about. The knowledge adds another layer to my understanding of him as someone shaped by violence and discipline.
Near the back of the room, I spot a stack of old books tucked away as if hidden. The sight of them makes my pulse quicken with a strange sense of familiarity that I can't immediately place.
As I examine the books more closely, a specific set catches my attention with the nagging feeling of recognition that hovers just beyond conscious memory.
The books are well-worn, clearly read multiple times with careful attention. They're arranged with the care of someone who values them not just as objects but as treasured possessions.
One book in particular draws my eye—a slim volume with a familiar binding that makes my heart race with half-formed recognition.
I reach for it with trembling fingers, trying to grasp the memory that dances just beyond my conscious awareness. The feeling is so strong, so insistent, that I know this isn't coincidence. I have seen this book before, held it in my hands, treasured it as something precious.
But the specific memory refuses to surface no matter how desperately I try to force it into consciousness.
The sound of the front door opening and footsteps announcing Frazier's earlier-than-expected return sends panic shooting through me. The book still clutched in my hands as I realize I've been caught in the forbidden storage room.
I scramble toward the door, my healing foot protesting the sudden movement, just as Frazier appears in the doorway with his arms full of supply bags. His expression shifts from neutral concentration to confused surprise as he takes in the scene—me emerging from his private space with obvious guilt written across my features and a book I shouldn't have been touching gripped in my trembling hands.
His eyes flick from my flushed face to the open storage room door behind me. I can see him processing what he's found—his slave exploring areas she was never given permission to enter.
Before he can speak, before his expression can shift from confusion to anger, I blurt out the explanation I prepared: "I was just trying to clean the house thoroughly, to be useful, I thought maybe the storage room needed—"
The words tumble out in a rush of nervous energy and barely controlled panic.
But his response is mild, almost gentle, catching me completely off guard: "You don't need to clean that much."
The correction is soft rather than harsh, more like advice than reprimand. The absence of anger confuses me more than shouting would have.
He sets down his supply bags and studies my face for a moment, his expression unreadable but not hostile.
After an awkward pause, I manage to find enough courage to broach the subject that brought me to the storage room in the first place.
"The books," I say carefully, "I recognize some of them. I think I've seen them before."
The admission clearly surprises him, his eyebrows rising slightly. His response comes in the form of questions rather than answers: "How could you recognize them? Can you read human script?"
The questions carry genuine curiosity rather than suspicion, but they also reveal that my literacy was unexpected.
"I learned from traveling human merchants years ago," I explain carefully, watching his face for reactions while being cautious not to reveal too much about my village. "One of them taught me the basics when I was young, and I kept practicing with books they gave me."
His expression shifts as I speak, and for a moment I see something like recognition flash across his features before he quickly masks it.
"That's unusual," he says finally, his voice carrying something I can't quite identify—surprise, respect, or perhaps something deeper. "Most beast-people don't have opportunities to learn human writing."
He nods toward the books still scattered in the storage room behind me, his gesture somehow permissive: "If you can read them, you're welcome to. Just... try not to damage them. Some of them are old and valuable."
The permission surprises me almost as much as his mild reaction to finding me in his private space. I realize that my literacy has shifted something in how he sees me—from simple property to someone with intellectual capabilities worth nurturing.
But there's something else in his expression, a flicker of emotion that passes too quickly for me to interpret. As if my story about learning to read has triggered memories or connections he isn't ready to examine.
Among the supplies Frazier brought back from the market, I notice two sets of women's clothes—one plain and practical for daily wear, the other more formal and carefully made. When he explains that he wasn't sure of my size so he bought options, offering to return to the market together if neither fit properly, I find myself once again confused by unexpected kindness.
The gesture speaks of consideration for my comfort and preferences, as if my opinion matters and my dignity deserves respect.
"I don't know if they'll fit," he says with obvious uncertainty, "but if they don't, we can go back to the market tomorrow and find something better."
The casual assumption that we might shop together, that my input would be valued in selecting my own clothing, strikes me as surreal given the legal reality that I belong to him.
I thank him quietly, unsure how to process this unexpected consideration, but grateful for the simple dignity of having clothes that might actually fit.
When I try on the clothes in the privacy of the bedroom area, both sets fit surprisingly well—the casual outfit comfortable and practical for daily tasks, the formal one more fitted and elegant than anything I'd worn since my life in the forest.
They're more modest than the simple forest attire I'd grown accustomed to in my village, with longer sleeves and higher necklines that speak of human standards for appropriate coverage. But they're clean, whole, and well-made, offering me the simple dignity of proper clothing after the degradation of the slave market.
The feeling of wearing clothes that fit, that were chosen with my comfort in mind, brings an unexpected sense of personal worth.
I return to the main room wearing the casual set, finding Frazier preparing our evening meal. When I thank him for the thoughtful gesture, he glances up briefly to comment that the clothes look good on me and asks if they're comfortable.
"Yes, Master, they're very comfortable. Thank you," I say quietly.
He pauses in his meal preparation, his hands stilling for a moment. "Don't call me Master," he says, not looking at me. "Just... use my name. Frazier."
The request catches me off guard. I hesitate, unsure if this is some kind of test.
"Frazier," I say carefully, testing how his name feels on my tongue when spoken directly to him rather than just thought.
He nods slightly, returning to his cooking, but I can see tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. Something has shifted between us.
We eat the familiar warm vegetable pottage that has become our routine, but the silence feels different now. The new clothes and the permission to use his name make me feel more human, but also more confused about what I am to him.
As we finish our meal, Frazier surprises me by bringing out several jars with handwritten labels, setting them on the table between us.
"Can you read these?" he asks, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
I lean forward to examine the careful script that describes various herbs and preserved foods. Reading the labels aloud proves that my literacy is real and functional, and I can see satisfaction in his expression.
But then his questions become more personal, cutting through the practical demonstration to reach something deeper: "Who first taught you to read? How did you learn?"
The questions feel loaded with meaning I don't understand, as if my answers might trigger reactions he isn't fully prepared to confront.
"He taught me the basics of reading and writing," I tell him, the memory warming me despite everything that has happened since, "and when his group left, he gave me a book to continue practicing. I never learned his name, but his kindness sparked my love of learning."
The memory feels precious and distant, like something that happened to a different person in a different life.
Frazier's tone sharpens with interest when I mention the book: "What book did he give you?"
As the memory crystallizes in my mind with startling clarity, bringing back details I hadn't thought about in years, my breath catches with the intensity of sudden recognition.
"I think it was 'The Small Lantern,'" I say, the title emerging from memory with perfect clarity at the exact same moment that Frazier speaks the same words aloud, his voice carrying the same tone of dawning realization.
The synchronicity hits us both like a physical blow. The impossible coincidence hangs in the air between us as the weight of recognition settles over the room.
My heart stutters as I stare at his face, seeing recognition dawn in his eyes as it dawns in mine. The impossible becomes undeniable as puzzle pieces I never knew were scattered suddenly lock together to form a picture that redefines everything I thought I knew about our connection.
The realization recontextualizes everything between us with devastating completeness—he isn't just my captor and master, not just the man who violated me and holds absolute power over my life, but the person who gave me one of my most treasured memories. Who showed me kindness when I was young and vulnerable. Who opened my mind to possibilities beyond my forest home and sparked the love of learning that has sustained me through my darkest moments.
The boy who taught reading with patient kindness and the man who bought me as a slave are the same person, separated by years and circumstances that have changed us both beyond recognition.
The small lantern itself represents more than just a book now—it was the light of knowledge, kindness, and human connection that once existed between us. As we sit in stunned silence processing this impossible recognition, I realize that everything about our relationship must be reevaluated in light of this shared past that neither of us suspected.
"You were..." I whisper, my voice breaking. "You were the boy with the books."
His face goes white as the final piece falls into place.
"And you were the little cat-girl who listened so carefully."
The silence that follows is deafening.
The kind boy who taught me to read and the man who bought me as a slave are the same person.
Everything I thought I knew shatters like glass.