Winter didn't cry.
That was the first thing I noticed after we returned from Sabaody. She didn't shed a single tear during the ride back to Mariejois. Not when they fitted the collar around her neck. Not when the other slaves whispered about the strange white-haired girl the master had overpaid for. Not even when she was left alone in a stone room with nothing but a cot, a bowl of rice, and a pair of too-big shoes.
Most of them cry.
Some beg. Some scream. Some break before they even reach the gate.
Not Winter.
She simply sat in the center of the room, legs crossed, back straight, hands on her knees like she was meditating. When the maid reported this to me, she was clearly expecting some kind of order. Punishment, maybe. A test. Something.
I gave none.
"Let her be."
She was already doing exactly what I wanted her to do.
Training began the next morning. I didn't drag her out or chain her to a post or scream at her until she snapped. I wasn't one of those idiot nobles who thought fear alone built loyalty.
Fear inspires obedience. Yes. But only while the whip is raised. The moment you look away, the fear fades.
I didn't want obedience.
I wanted ownership.
Winter came to the training yard quietly. She didn't ask questions. Didn't speak. Just stood there barefoot in the frost, waiting.
"Pick it up," I said.
She stared at the wooden staff.
Then she picked it up.
Good girl.
Over the next few weeks, I shaped her days like clockwork:
06:00 – Wake. Cold bath. Meditation.
07:00 – Physical training: body conditioning, balance, speed.
09:00 – Breakfast.
09:30 – Weapons drills: staff, knife, later sword.
11:30 – Reading and writing.
13:00 – Lunch.
13:30 – History and world geography.
15:00 – Devil Fruit theory.
16:00 – Combat simulations.
18:00 – Dinner.
19:00 – Reflection and silent hours.
Each session was adjusted daily, depending on performance. I had no need to yell. No need to threaten. A simple nod when she succeeded. Silence when she failed.
She adjusted rapidly.
By week two, she could disarm a grown man.
By week three, she was writing in cursive, fluent in three dialects.
By week four, she asked her first question:
"Why me?"
I didn't answer right away. I circled her slowly. She didn't flinch. Another test passed.
"Because you listened," I said. "Because you're quiet. Because you want to live, and you're smart enough to know the price."
She nodded.
Not grateful. Just aware.
Perfect.
The estate buzzed with rumors.
"The young master's pet."
"He picked her himself, didn't he?"
"She eats better than we do."
They were right.
She was my pet.
But I wasn't training a puppy. I was raising a weapon. And the sword does not love the sheath. It simply obeys.
Winter's first kill came earlier than expected.
A thief. One of the outer stewards had smuggled a Devil Fruit out of the west vault. Sloppy. Desperate. I let the news reach me slowly, like I hadn't known for two days already. I even let him run.
Then I handed Winter a blade.
"He stole from your master," I said. "Find him."
She did.
Less than twelve hours later, she dragged his body into the estate courtyard, the Fruit intact in her satchel. Her sleeves were soaked with blood, and she didn't say a word.
I looked her over. No limp. No hesitation.
"What did you learn?" I asked.
"He begged," she said. "Words mean nothing."
Good girl.
That night, I gave her a heated bath. She didn't ask for it. Didn't expect it. But when she slid into the steaming water and I poured rose oil into the tub, she stared at me like I'd gifted her a kingdom.
She still didn't smile.
But her hands stopped shaking.
By the third month, Winter no longer moved like a slave.
She moved like a blade.
Light. Quick. Efficient.
She never asked for freedom.
She didn't need to.
She had it. She just chose to stay near me.
Some nights, I watched her sleep through the glass wall of her chamber. I had it installed myself—one-way, of course. Not for perversion.
For peace of mind.
Because she wasn't just a weapon. She was mine.
And in a world filled with monsters, there was something deeply reassuring about knowing I was building one that breathed only for me.
Next came the matter of a real test. A public one. Something that would set her apart. Something that would make the other nobles flinch.
A demonstration.
In Mariejois, power isn't shouted.
It's whispered.
So I arranged a duel.
To the death.