[Frazier's POV - Flashback, Years Ago]
The memory strikes me without warning as I stare at Leiko across the table. The recognition of our shared past triggers recollections I've spent years trying to bury.
I'm eight years old again, standing beside a badly injured man—my family's most loyal servant, now bleeding from wounds that speak of desperate combat and sacrifice. His face is pale with pain and loss of blood, but his voice carries absolute determination.
"Frazier," the servant says, his tone pained but resolute. Each word carefully measured as if speaking them costs him physical effort. "That's your new name now. Not your birth name, not your family name. Frazier. Remember that, and never speak the other name again."
The moment is grim and confusing for the child I was. I didn't yet understand the full gravity of what had happened to my family or why my very identity must be erased for survival.
The weight of loss is already settling into my bones even though I can't yet comprehend what I've truly lost—not just my family, but my place in the world, my future, my very name and the history that came with it. The servant's wounds are fresh, and the smoke of our burning home still rises in the distance like a funeral pyre for everything I once was. My memories are fragmented by trauma and shock, protecting me from understanding too much too quickly.
I can only nod at his instructions and try to memorize the new name he's given me. I don't understand that I'm witnessing the death of one identity and the desperate birth of another.
Through fragmented time skips that feel like looking through broken glass, the pieces of my early journey emerge with painful clarity. After the murder of my noble family—betrayed by forces I was still too young to understand—I escaped with my younger sister, barely six years old and traumatized into silence, under the protection of the dying servant.
The servant is gravely wounded, slowly deteriorating with each mile we travel. But his dedication to protecting us never wavers even as his strength fails. We're fleeing not just death, but the complete erasure of our bloodline, carrying secrets that could get us killed if discovered.
When we encounter a merchant group headed north, the servant negotiates passage with desperate efficiency. He's cautious and wary of pursuit, specifically requesting that they avoid the main roads and must not pass near Orrakhan, where those involved in my family's murder might have influence or allies waiting.
The paranoia isn't unfounded—noble houses don't fall without political implications that ripple through kingdoms. My sister and I represent loose ends that powerful people might want eliminated. The merchant leader is experienced enough to recognize the danger, but also practical enough to understand that such risk comes with substantial reward.
To convince the merchant leader to accept the risk, the servant offers payment that reveals the magnitude of our loss.
From his bloodstained pouch, he produces a golden ring, ornate and unmistakably noble in its craftsmanship. The ring bears the crest of a house that no longer exists. It's worth more than most people see in a lifetime, but its true value lies in what it represents—the last tangible connection to our murdered family.
The merchant agrees after examining the ring with the practiced eye of someone who knows precious metals and noble craftsmanship.
The group detours through the edge of the Shadrazel Forest to reach Myrtus City from the west, avoiding the main routes where pursuit might be waiting. During this detour, the group stops at a village within the forest for three days to rest and resupply. A decision that will create connections none of us could have anticipated.
The forest village seems safe enough, populated by beast-people who have little contact with human politics. For three precious days, my sister and I experience something approaching normal childhood interaction, playing with local children and observing a way of life completely different from the formal nobility we once knew.
It's during this brief respite that I encounter a local feline beast-woman girl who watches our group with curious eyes. In her curiosity I find a momentary escape from trauma through the simple act of sharing knowledge.
While the merchant group rests and my sister clings to the servant's side in traumatized silence, I encounter a local feline beast-woman girl who watches the human visitors with curious intensity. The interaction begins with mutual wariness—she's never seen humans up close, and I've never met beast-people before. But curiosity overcomes caution as it often does when children meet across boundaries.
She approaches our camp with careful steps and respectful distance, drawn by the sight of books and writing materials that represent knowledge she's never had access to.
When I discover she can't read the human script that comes so naturally to me, I'm moved to share my knowledge. Over the three days we're in the village, I teach her basic letters and simple words, explaining the sounds and meanings with patient attention. She learns with remarkable speed and obvious hunger for knowledge, asking questions that reveal a sharp mind eager to understand the wider world.
In her eagerness I rediscover a sense of purpose and normalcy that I desperately need.
When the merchant group prepares to leave, I make a decision that will echo through both our lives. I give her one of my precious books—"The Small Lantern," a simple story about finding hope in darkness.
"Keep practicing your reading," I tell her, not learning her name in the chaos of departure. Neither of us understands the significance of this gift, but in that moment of sharing knowledge and kindness, we create a bond that transcends the circumstances that brought us together.
As we leave the forest and continue toward Myrtus City, the servant's condition worsens dramatically. Despite the efforts of the group's best healer, it becomes clear that his wounds bear the traits of a curse—magical damage that goes beyond physical injury and resists healing.
The curse is subtle but relentless, draining his life force while preventing his body from recovering. A vindictive final strike from enemies who wanted to ensure that even our protector couldn't survive.
The servant dies en route, but not before leaving final instructions.
"Take them to an orphanage in Myrtus City," he instructs the merchant leader with his dying breath. "Somewhere their noble identity can remain hidden while they grow to adulthood. They must disappear completely."
The merchant leader honors this dying request, bringing two traumatized children to a small, relatively unknown orphanage where we can disappear into anonymity.
The servant's final act of loyalty ensures our survival, but at the cost of everything we once were—our names, our history, our place in the world. My sister and I are eventually separated by the practical necessities of orphanage life and adoption by different families.
In losing everything, we gain the chance to live. But the price is the complete erasure of our original selves. The boy who once had a noble name and a place in the world dies with the servant, and Frazier is born from those ashes—a new identity built on survival and shaped by loss.
[Leiko's POV - Present Day]
The flashback dissolves like smoke as we walk together by the riverbank outside his house. Both of us are still processing the revelation that has transformed our understanding of each other.
The morning air is cool and quiet, broken only by the gentle sound of water flowing over stones and the rustle of grass beneath our feet. Here, walking side by side, we can almost pretend to be equals sharing stories rather than master and slave.
The peaceful setting provides contrast to the weight of shared memory and the complexity of emotions we're both struggling to process. I'm trying to reconcile the kind boy who taught me to read with the man who bought me as a slave, while he's grappling with the knowledge that the curious girl who listened so eagerly has become the woman he enslaved and violated.
In an attempt to lighten the heavy mood, I make an awkward joke about his not having had a very happy childhood. He responds with only a faint smirk, but my attempt at humor isn't unwelcome even if the subject matter makes genuine laughter impossible.
Gathering my courage, I ask the question that's been haunting me since the moment of recognition: "Did you buy me because you recognized me?"
The directness catches him off guard, his step faltering slightly. His response comes slowly, weighted with honesty: recognition was partly the reason, though he admits it wasn't the only factor.
"The other part," he says with obvious reluctance, "is that you remind me of someone I lost recently."
My assumption immediately turns to Alicia—the name I've heard him murmur in his nightmares with such anguish.
When I gently ask who she was, his voice drops to barely a whisper. "Alicia... she was someone I loved. Long gone now."
I ask if she was in the military, referencing the uniform I found in his storage room.
He confirms that the uniform was his, but deflects further questioning about both his military service and her. The conversation hits walls that he's not ready to tear down.
I can sense the pain beneath his reluctance, but I also understand that pushing too hard might shatter the fragile progress we've made.
The conversation leaves me deeply unsettled as I begin to understand that I might be nothing more than a replacement for someone else—a living reminder of a dead woman rather than a person valued for myself. The thought hurts more than I expected.
If I'm just a substitute for someone he loved and lost, then what does that make our relationship?
I consider asking to be released, the words forming in my mind with desperate intensity. But the thought feels too risky. The slave contract makes such requests dangerous, and I'm not sure I'm ready to face the consequences.
Instead, I choose a smaller assertion of agency. One that might be acceptable within the constraints of our relationship while still allowing me to reclaim some connection to who I was before.
"If I'm going to stay here," I say, my voice carefully controlled, "I want to be able to use one of the wooden swords. To train, or at least to kill time."
The request represents more than simple boredom—it's an assertion of my identity as someone with skills and needs beyond basic survival. I watch his face carefully as the words register, noting the way his expression shifts from surprise to something that might be respect.
The request intrigues him, and he studies my expression—calm but determined, showing a spark of the person I was before slavery tried to strip away everything that made me who I am.
After a moment of consideration, he nods agreement with something that almost looks like approval.
"All right," he says simply, but the words carry weight. It's a small concession, but it represents a shift in how he sees me—from simple property to someone with legitimate needs and capabilities.
We return to the house in comfortable silence, both of us processing the weight of shared revelations and the small step toward mutual understanding we've taken.
Inside the house, he steps into the storage room without hesitation this time and retrieves one of the worn wooden training swords. The weapon shows years of use, its handle smooth from countless hours of practice. When he holds it out to me, his words are simple but significant:
"Show me what you've got."
The challenge is offered with respect rather than condescension, an acknowledgment that I might possess skills worth witnessing.
I accept the sword with both hands, feeling the familiar weight and balance. The handle fits comfortably in my grip, and I take a moment to adjust my stance and center myself in the cleared space of the main room.
Drawing a slow breath to focus my thoughts, I begin to move through forms and techniques that represent years of dedicated training. My strikes are clean and efficient, shifting between slashes, defensive stances, and blocking techniques with practiced rhythm. The demonstration isn't showy—it's the controlled display of someone who understands that combat is about efficiency and effectiveness.
My form isn't perfect; there's still wildness in my footwork and some hesitation in transitions that speak of interrupted training. But every movement reveals discipline layered over natural instinct and fighting ability that goes beyond basic competence.
When I finish, my breathing is steady and controlled, my tail flicking behind me for balance. I meet his eyes with a slight raise of my brow that carries both confidence and challenge.
"Well?" I ask, the single word carrying the weight of someone who knows her capabilities and expects them to be acknowledged.
[Frazier's POV]
I watch the entire demonstration with arms crossed and sharp attention, my experienced eye following her technique and assessing her capabilities.
Her movements reveal training that goes far beyond basic self-defense—this is someone who has dedicated serious time and effort to developing real fighting ability. The discipline evident in her form speaks to natural talent refined through consistent practice.
When she finishes and meets my eyes with that challenging question, something shifts in my expression as understanding settles over me.
"You've got talent," I say finally, the compliment understated but genuine. "More than most recruits I've seen."
The words carry significance—in the military, recruits represent the baseline of combat capability. Her performance exceeds that standard by a considerable margin. For someone who learned to fight in a forest village rather than under formal military instruction, her skill level is remarkable.
When I ask about her experience and training, she explains that she practiced daily in her village, sparring with others and learning through observation and repetition. I note that while beast-men possess strong natural instincts for combat, what she's demonstrated goes beyond instinct into genuine skill.
[Leiko's POV]
After a pause, he carefully broaches the question that I know will be difficult but that he needs to understand.
"How did you end up there?" he asks as gently as he can, understanding that the question requires me to revisit the worst moments of my life.
I answer with controlled composure, giving him the basic facts without dwelling on details that would be too painful to share.
A demon attack destroyed my village, I tell him. My brother escaped north, and I was eventually captured by slavers after some period of survival and struggle. The simple facts carry the weight of trauma that goes far beyond their surface meaning.
As I speak, something shifts in his expression. I can see recognition or unease settling in his chest as my story connects to knowledge he possesses but hasn't shared—information about events in the south, near Orrakhan and the Shadrazel Forest.
The connection creates a sick feeling in his stomach as he realizes that the broader conflicts that shaped his own traumatic childhood might also be responsible for the destruction of my village.
When I finish explaining the basic facts, I notice something in his expression that suggests my story has triggered knowledge or memories that he's not ready to share.
He mentions quietly that he's heard things about the south, about events near Orrakhan and the Shadrazel Forest. But he doesn't elaborate despite the way his words make my pulse quicken with hope for answers.
The moment hangs heavy with unspoken truths and connections that neither of us is ready to fully explore. His reluctance to explain further feels like another form of control, even if it might be motivated by protection rather than manipulation.
Both of us are carrying secrets that feel too dangerous or too painful to share completely. I don't press the issue, understanding that some revelations can't be forced and that trust must be built gradually.
Instead, I accept his limited response and file away the information for future consideration.
As I grip the training sword again, feeling its familiar weight in my hands, I feel more grounded than I have since my capture. Still uncertain about my future and still constrained by the bonds of slavery, but a little steadier in my sense of self.
The shared activity of swordwork has created a space where we can relate to each other as people with complementary abilities and histories rather than simply master and slave. It's a small foundation, but one that might support the growth of something more complex and genuine.
Both of us are connected by a past neither fully understands yet, bound by trauma and loss and the strange twist of fate that brought us together.
We are both people born from ashes—he from the destruction of his noble family, I from the burning of my village. We both carry names that aren't quite our own, identities forged in the aftermath of loss.
Perhaps that's where understanding begins. In the recognition that we are both survivors, both carrying the weight of worlds that no longer exist.
The boy who taught me to read and the girl who learned so eagerly are still here, buried beneath layers of trauma and circumstance. The question now is whether we can find our way back to that simple connection, or if too much has been lost in the years between.
But for the first time since my capture, the possibility doesn't feel entirely impossible.