The estate was larger than she'd imagined. Past the rotting walls and heavy drapes, beyond
the overgrown gardens, there were green fields, a narrow lake, and walking paths cut into
the soft earth by careful design. The land wasn't noble in the way Viktor dressed—it was
patient. Older than the house. She wondered who had bled into it before him.
Beside her, Viktor walked with steady purpose. His look was striking—dark, polished, and
rough in equal measure. Like a mafia prince who had rolled out of a logging camp. His beard
was trimmed with meticulous care, neat against the cut of his jaw. His hair was a deep,
unexpected purple that shimmered like bruised twilight. And those eyes—copper-bright,
unblinking—watched everything with the calm of a predator. When he smiled, you could see
the faint flash of fangs.
They walked in silence for several minutes, her hands folded in front of her, his cane tapping
lightly with each step. He said nothing about her appearance, though Sabine had tied her
corset tighter than necessary, making her chest nearly spill out, and had straightened her
braids twice before letting her go.
Ayoka began mentally noting details—his words, the estate's layout, even the sounds beneath
her feet. Every small fact felt important. Then, as they passed beneath a vine-covered arch,
a few servants crossed their path—clearly not slaves. She blinked in quiet surprise. Among
them were two leprechauns in tailored vests walking beside a unicorn-horned woman with
silvery skin and sandals made of bark. They moved with freedom, but not quite ease—like
guests who had learned to survive the house's moods.
It struck her as strange. Leprechauns and unicorns had fought brutal wars in old realms, long
before human records remembered. Their peace, when it came, was delicate—more a truce
than a bond. Both lived long lives, held long memories. To see them working together,
especially here of all places, was like spotting frost beside flame.
Even more jarring was the unicorn. It was rare to see one in a house where chains rattled
down hallways. Unicorns were known for their disdain of places tainted by servitude,
especially the kind that twisted their own kind into systems of power. Yet here she was.
Quiet. Walking. Serving. But then again, Ayoka thought, this whole house was strange. It bent
rules. It stitched opposites together. Nothing behaved quite the way it should.
After a long stretch of silence, he finally spoke in a neutral tone. "I've noticed you memorize
things—details, names, routes."
Ayoka didn't respond right away. She wondered how he would take that observation. Most
people preferred their slaves simple—easy to manage, forgettable. Slaves weren't meant to
carry knowledge; they were meant to obey. Remembering too much was dangerous.
As a slave, you were only supposed to remember what you were taught—nothing more,
nothing less. And even that came at a cost. Ayoka considered herself lucky to have learned a
handful of words that made sense, let alone how to think in full sentences.
She braced herself, hoping his next words wouldn't punish her for her mind. But then he
surprised her.
"There are others in this house who do the same," he continued. "The staff is
permitted—encouraged, even—to read and write. I believe in educated labor. Intelligent
service. It leads to loyalty... and fewer mistakes."
Ayoka agreed with that statement—but not the part about loyalty. A slave's loyalty wasn't
earned; it was enforced from birth. And even then, it was fragile. The moment a taste of
freedom reached your tongue, that loyalty unraveled.
The part about mistakes, though—that was true. She had seen it too many times: Masters and
Mistresses setting traps, then punishing a slave for not knowing how to read or count. They
weren't taught—but they were expected to know.
She pulled a fan from her bodice and fanned herself gently, masking her expression. She could
have spoken her mind—Viktor could be lying, just like all the others who'd bought her and
promised false freedom. Instead, she turned her face slightly, letting the fan become a
screen. And then she offered the answer she'd recited a thousand times just to stay alive.
"Or more elegant betrayal."
Viktor smiled at that. "Perhaps."
What he didn't say—but what Ayoka quickly realized—was that knowledge came with a price.
This wasn't a place where freedom was worn openly. The slaves here were taught to read and
count, yes, but they had to swallow their words and dull their eyes the moment company
arrived. Viktor could get into a helluva amount of trouble for this kind of house—if he didn't
have the power to protect himself. But he did. He held it close, wore it well. And somehow,
that power turned her on a little more than she was comfortable admitting.
She glanced away quickly, annoyed with herself. There was the kind of power play whispered
about behind laundry lines and between curtain hems—murmurs of a hand on the throat not
to punish, but to claim. But real power, the kind Viktor wore so easily, didn't ask. It didn't
flirt. It acted. And yet, somehow, that very danger stirred something in her, no matter how
much she hated to admit it.
She looked again at the other slaves when she passed them—eyes down, thoughts hidden. It
was all performance. The moment guests arrived, pages vanished, voices quieted. Even here,
liberation was theater. A well-rehearsed lie dressed in velvet and compliance.