Sabine had come to save the day and entered quickly, pushing a cart stacked with folded linens. But Ayoka could see it immediately—beneath the sheets were freshly pressed maid clothes. A small bundle. A quiet return to invisibility. And nestled within the folds was a small vial: cloudy green with a cork stopper, marked by a rune burned into the glass.
A potion.
Ayoka recognized the smell before she understood what it was. Bitter mint, ash, and something faintly metallic.
It was a contraceptive tonic—brewed by the Fliponon, a rare mountain-dwelling species of monster known for their hatred of offspring, even their own. The Fliponon made potions so potent they not only prevented conception but frightened the spirits of unborn children from drawing near. Old folklore said they used to eat babies whole, snatching them from cribs with silk-threaded claws. Now, they bottled that curse instead.
Sabine said nothing. Just gave her a long, unreadable look. She knew this was a dangerous plan, one toeing the line between madness and desperation. But she also trusted Viktor enough to have the potion on hand. Trust—or pragmatism—she wasn't sure which guided her today. Still, it was better than handing him a cursed root that'd give him prinkle dick for a year or one of those nasty voodoo binding hexes her mother kept in old coffee tins. This was mercy, in its most bitter form.
Ayoka looked away. She knew what Sabine was thinking, could feel the judgment simmering just beneath the silence. And for a flickering second, it stung. Not because she was ashamed—but because she couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now.
Sabine reminded her of her mother in a way—stoic, composed, with a spine forged in heat and silence. She didn't have mommy issues; it wasn't that. But Sabine had that same kind of strength that came from being forced to survive with your dignity flattened and repurposed into armor. Generational muscle memory.
Ayoka remembered stories passed down in whispers—of enslaved women teaching their daughters how to sew, how to heal, how to hide. How to look their master in the eye and never blink. How to protect their children when they couldn't even name their fathers. Some mothers had no choice but to love in code: through food, through lullabies, through rituals they weren't allowed to admit were prayers.
And Sabine stood like that. Like someone who had learned all those lessons and passed the test that was survival. But even as Ayoka admired her, envy crept into the edges of her thoughts. If Sabine were the one in this closet, maybe she wouldn't have had to hide—not like this. Not under the weight of suspicion and magic and shame. Sabine would still have to disappear in her own way, of course—but when people looked at her, they didn't always see danger. They saw a maid. A girl. Someone useful. Disposable, maybe. But not powerful. Not threatening.
That came with its own curse.
Real history taught Ayoka that some Black women, especially those born into slavery or near it, learned to disappear so thoroughly that survival became an art form. They were cooks, healers, wet nurses—given roles, but never freedom. Yet Sabine moved with the confidence of someone who had hacked a little freedom out of that horror and made it hers. She bent the rules. She survived the silence.
Ayoka wasn't sure she knew how to do either.
Still, her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the clothes. The towel slipped, baring one breast before she caught it again. Her cheeks flushed—not with embarrassment, but with the raw, tangled knot of emotions clawing their way up her spine. Anger. Fear. Defiance. A whisper of longing.
She swallowed hard. Breathed through it.
Be strong. You've survived worse, she reminded herself. But the weight of the moment pressed like invisible fingers on her shoulders. And still, she stood straight.
Viktor stepped behind her, leaned close to her ear, and gave her a firm slap across the ass with a quiet, echoing thud. He whispered low and rough, "We should do this again."
Ayoka's spine snapped straight like a struck match. The words hit harder than the slap. She clenched her jaw, doing everything in her power not to whirl around and smack him, or laugh in disbelief, or scream. Her heart pounded a confused rhythm—anger, heat, shame, a touch of thrill she refused to name.
Sabine raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Just one slight shift of expression, but Ayoka felt it like a slap of her own. She didn't meet her gaze. Instead, she reached out, grabbed the vial tucked between the linens, and uncorked it with a practiced flick. The scent hit her like bad memory—bitter mint, ash, metal. Still, she tilted her head back and downed it in one gulp.
The potion burned. Not like fire, but like grief swallowed wrong. She didn't flinch. She wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.
She remembered another time—years ago now—lying in tangled sheets beside Malik's father, the scent of sandalwood and sweat still burned into her memory. He was a merchant with soft hands for a fighter and a tongue slick enough to convince her—just for a moment—that the world could make room for her. He had promised her a future after the war, one where she wouldn't need potions like this. One where their children would have names and safety, not shadows and silence. He'd traced her spine with calloused fingers and said, "I'll give you something better than legacy—I'll give you peace."
And oh, how she tried not to believe him. But everyone has that one person. That one coin flip. And she lost hers.
He didn't give her peace. He disappeared into duty, or fear, or the arms of another plan. Left her with nothing but a whisper and a belly full of almosts.
So she drank it down. Because promises weren't protection. Not here.
Then she grabbed the clothes without a word and walked—deliberately slow, steady—toward the changing screen in the corner.
"I need a moment," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
Behind the screen, she stood frozen, her breathing shallow. She held the dress in one hand, her towel beginning to slip, her skin still tacky with sweat, bathwater, and now that feeling—that terrible, vulnerable electricity of being seen and handled like something both precious and dangerous.
She looked in the mirror. What stared back wasn't a girl. It wasn't even quite a woman. It was someone cracked open—shining, splintered.
And then it blinked.
Her reflection.
Not her.
Ayoka's breath hitched. The figure in the mirror raised a finger to its lips—shhhh—and the sound seemed to vibrate behind her ears, a hush wrapped in threat. The smile it wore stretched too wide, lips not quite syncing with the motion, and the shadows around its shoulders pulsed like they were breathing.
She took a half-step back.
"What the hell…" she whispered.
The mirror rippled, subtly. And behind the shadow-self, a second silhouette formed—one she knew. The outline of Malik, not quite right, all in shadow but unmistakable. The figure held the shadow-Malik gently, reverently, like something to be guarded.
Then it mouthed a single word: Safe.
But the way it did—the way its jaw unhinged slightly, the tongue a little too long—made her stomach twist. There was no comfort in that version of safety. Just promise. Just warning.
She blinked again, and the figures were gone. Her own face stared back. Pale, sweating, shaking.
She looked like she had just stepped out of a fire—and knew she might walk straight back into it, gritting her teeth and daring it to burn her properly this time.
Tears brimmed but didn't fall. Her lips trembled but stayed sealed. Her hands shook but she dressed anyway.
When Ayoka exited the room, her steps were steady. Controlled. Her footsteps echoed softly, like defiance on marble.
Sabine remained behind, her posture composed but her eyes sharp as she turned to face Viktor. Her voice was low, firm, more familial than formal—like a sister reminding a brother of the weight he carried. "Master Viktor," she said, "this isn't like where you come from. A liaison like this could cost Ayoka her life."
Viktor, still buttoning his shirt, met her gaze. "I'm aware of the risks," he said, calm but deliberate. But even as he said it, there was the faintest flicker in his eyes—doubt or hope, it was hard to tell. He wanted to believe he understood the weight of it all. The danger, the cost, the unrelenting gaze of a society built to punish women like Ayoka for daring to be seen. But Sabine's silence pressed the question harder than words: was he truly aware, or simply bracing for consequences he thought he could outwit?
Sabine's jaw tightened. "You may hold favor here, more than Genevieve's family even, but that won't shield her. Not from this. The structures here are old—unforgiving. Especially when it comes to the whispers. They're saying the child is yours, even though everyone at the slave market knows otherwise.
Genevieve's family may carry the elegance of French ancestry, old Creole prestige—names tied to the blood-stained lace of New Orleans' past. But theirs isn't one of the big names. Not the old plantation dynasties that still hold invisible power. Her people walked the ballroom fringes, not the throne. Their influence is subtle, ornamental. And fragile.
They survive on scandal and sunshine favors, not legacy. Sunshine favors—those pretty, visible debts traded in parlors and charity galas, where everyone smiles while slipping in the knife. They're the polite kind of poison, the sort people pretend are kindnesses. Not like shadow favors, which are bloody and honest, hidden behind closed doors and sealed with secrets.
That's what makes this worse. Because the moment Ayoka's name is caught in their orbit, she becomes entertainment. And no one survives long as a spectacle."
She took a breath, steadying her voice. "They don't care 'bout no truth. Jus' scandal. And scandal? It eats girls like Ayoka alive. Boys—they say he jus' bein' wild, or clever, or makin' his way like they always do. But girls? One lil' rumor an' we gone. We either witches, temptresses, or fools who asked for it.
People watch boys walk off scot-free. But girls? They watch us drown and call it poetry."
As Viktor adjusted his attire, Sabine's attention was drawn to his shadow on the wall. It moved independently, not in sync with his motions—a subtle but disconcerting anomaly. Her voice dropped to a whisper, more to herself than to him. "Why would she entangle herself with someone who consorts with the likes of the Shadow Man?"
She knew the stories—passed through hush-toned kitchens and back-alley prayers. In old Louisiana, during the dark hush of colonial rule and plantation reign, the Shadow Man was more than myth. He was blamed for stillborns, sudden disappearances, tongues that forgot their language overnight. The enslaved called him many names, but always in warning. He was a spirit who walked with the twisted tongues of nobles and Creole aristocrats, a half-god whose promises came with inked pacts and silent screams.
And Viktor's shadow moved like it remembered all those old names.
It wasn't just magic. It was legacy.
Viktor's expression remained unreadable, but the room seemed to darken slightly, the air thick with unspoken tensions. Sabine took a step back, her instincts flaring, her voice trembling not from fear, but from memory. She knew the signs. The shift in the air. The way light seemed to bend away.
"Be careful, Master Viktor," she said, and her voice was lower now, rough with warning. "Some forces, once invoked, are not easily dismissed. And some names? They ain't meant to be said aloud more than once. The Shadow Man don't care 'bout contracts. He remembers blood. He remembers names."
She lingered just a moment more, her eyes meeting his with a look that was half defiance, half plea. "Don't be the fool that thinks legacy is protection. He's watched legacies rot from the inside."
With that, she turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Viktor alone with his thoughts—and the ever-present, ever-moving shadow curling at his feet like smoke waiting to bite.