The mornings came softer now. It seemed that since Genevieve wasn't here anymore—or in whatever state she was trapped in—people were allowed to breathe again. The slaves and servants no longer had to entertain that supposed lady of the house or lick her boots until their jaws ached. One poor skelbeton actually broke their jaw trying. Now they could only vibrate when they laughed.
Sabine didn't say it out loud—didn't want to jinx the peace—but she noticed the change in Ayoka with each passing day. The girl still moved like she carried caution in her bones, still kept one ear tuned to every creak of the house. But something had begun to unfurl in her—like a long-caged bloom stretching toward light.
And with that bloom came scandal, or at least the whispers of it. Ayoka dressed like someone's wife, yes—but she also showed more skin than expected. Neckline low, shoulders sometimes bare, even a split at the hem when she walked too fast.
Folks whispered, blamed it on Viktor's preferences, said he must like her on display. It wasn't a new sort of talk—history had always made it easy to dress a woman's rebellion in the guise of a man's desire. In their time, any woman who chose fabric with intention—color with pride—was labeled a puppet or a plaything. A fashionable whisper turned weapon. Ayoka's gowns were no exception. Her choices were pinned on Viktor's appetite, not her agency, as if it was easier to believe he picked her wardrobe than admit she was dressing herself with purpose.
But Sabine knew the truth—because she helped dress her. Every button placed, every stitch aligned, was a choice made by Ayoka herself.
And truth be told, Sabine had noticed something else too. "I ain't the only one takin' note," she'd muttered while folding linens one evening, watching how Ayoka came back from Viktor's quarters with her cheeks all flushed and her step a bit slower. Folks had started whisperin' that the two of them were courtin' more than polite company allowed—closer than Sabbath talk permitted.
Wasn't long before the local apothecaries were sendin' more tinctures and tonics for women's rest. Little glass bottles passed quiet through hands with labels inked neat. Sabine didn't need no calendar to know the pattern—birth control requests doubled after Miss Ayoka's nightly visits got frequent. The midwives and herb women would come gigglin', but they weren't foolin' nobody.
"Mmhmm," Sabine had said once, archin' a brow as she tucked a box behind the pantry wall. "Ain't no corset ever stitched strong enough to keep that kind of story laced shut."
She clicked her tongue and shook her head, easing the pins back into her sewing cushion. At this rate, she figured she'd have to start stitching Ayoka's dresses with combat thread, the way those two carried on like wild creatures with no care for seams or modesty. She still remembered the time Ayoka brought her that velvet bustle, ripped clean through the back like she'd gone three rounds with a vengeful ghost. Claimed it was the wind, too, with a straight face no less. Sabine hadn't bought that nonsense then, and she sure wasn't buying it now.
Ayoka, mid-laugh and not the least bit ashamed, murmured as she toyed with the ribbon on one of the boxes, "Sorry, Sabine. I'll make sure to take the dress off next time before things get heated."
Sabine made a noise halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. "You best. I ain't got the patience to mend scorched hems and busted bustles 'cause you forgot what a button was in the moment."
Each day, Ayoka's smile came quicker. Something about not being paraded in front of guests nearly every day made her happy as a hog in the mud. She looked freer—not all the way, not yet—but freer just the same.
Sabine swore she once caught Ayoka leaning a little too close to a guest's goblet, her fingers just barely grazing the rim like she might drop something in. When that guest, who'd spent the afternoon treating the staff like footstools and the slaves like smoke, made it through supper unscathed, Ayoka had the most disappointed look Sabine had ever seen. The kind a woman wears when the storm she prayed for doesn't come.
That was when Sabine first noticed it—Ayoka's darkness, quiet and coiling. A path being chosen, not stumbled upon. Sabine couldn't bring herself to judge. She had no need to touch shadow magic herself—not with the kind of work she did, the webs she wove—but she had given Ayoka a clear warning about messing too close with Viktor. Every now and then, Sabine would check Ayoka's soul through her webwork, the way her kin taught her. Lately, that soul had grown darker. Not just troubled—darker. A hue of deep purple had started to seep through its center, swirling like ink in milk.
It made her uneasy.
Sabine wondered if Ayoka was stepping too far, too fast—into territory that didn't belong to mortals. Into the Shadow Man's domain. And perhaps, if Sabine was honest, Ayoka might not have been mortal at all. There was something in her—snake-blooded maybe, old and coiled—something not bred from this earth. Sabine had wanted to ask her once, ask plain what she was. But she held her tongue. Too many like Ayoka had been forced into borrowed names and shackled roles, their truths buried deep for survival's sake.
It wasn't uncommon. Even in the world of the living, enslaved folk rarely knew where they came from unless someone told them—or unless they found the old books, the records that survived. Names were erased, languages stolen, entire bloodlines severed with a pen and a lie. For the immortal communities, it was much the same. Playing maid, wife, whore—whatever the mortal world demanded. It wore at the soul. And those who did know their truth were often too afraid to say it out loud.
Still, if one had coin or favor, there were ways to learn the truth. Sabine knew of women—like the Twelve Sisters—who offered bloodbound readings for cheap. Not just diviners, but spiritual recordkeepers. They could read the bones and blood and tell a soul who they truly were, if they dared to ask—and if they were ready to carry that knowing like armor.
Don't get Sabine started on that Shadow Man. Her folks used to say he was the devil on Viktor's shoulder—and Sabine? She was meant to be the angel on the other side, whisperin' sense into foolish dragon's ears.
She might argue with that old thing. Might even spit in his eye if she had to. But Sabine knew the truth: not even her power could hold back the terror wrapped in his laughter.
Still, she felt the pull to act. It already seemed like it might be too late—but Sabine had to try. She had to pull Ayoka back from this man, from this path, before it swallowed her whole and left nothing behind but shadow and silk-stained regret.
Lately, Sabine had been waking in the middle of the night, the bed cold beside her. She'd reach through her webs, stretch her magic soft and slow through the walls of the house—and more often than not, she'd find Ayoka standing still in the dark.
Knife in hand.
At first, it had been during the time Genevieve still roamed the halls. Ayoka would slip to the door of that gilded bedroom and just stand there—silent, staring, the knife steady in her hand. But Genevieve had been gone a while now, and still, Ayoka returned. Whenever a guest was placed in that room, if they spoke like Genevieve, treated folk like she did... Ayoka would return to that same spot, blade clenched tight, breathing even.
She never went in.
Instead, she'd stab the door three times—clean, quiet, ritual—and vanish before dawn.
The guests never remembered anything. But they'd wake up tired, pale, unsettled. And Ayoka? Ayoka would walk through the morning with more color in her cheeks, more spring in her step. Like something inside her had been fed.
Sabine saw it. Felt it. And feared what it meant.
She knew Ayoka might still remember the old rituals from her homeland. All slaves did—it was passed down in secret, whispered between laundry lines and braided into hair—but hard to keep alive under watchful eyes. The immortal ones had to step in most times, to keep the memory breathing.
That morning, they were having tea together. Viktor was there too, sitting at the edge of the parlor table with a furrowed brow and a half-smile, flipping through a worn envelope of guest letters. The scent of cinnamon bark and orange peel steeped the air, the kind of tea that lingered on the tongue and the memory.
When a knock came at the back door, Viktor rose without fanfare. "That'll be the barnhands," he said. "The ones who asked about their cousins going north. I'll tend to it."
He kissed Ayoka's knuckles and nodded to Sabine before stepping outside. The back door shut with a wooden thud.
Sabine stirred her cup twice, let the spoon clink once, then asked, "You been out late, bébé?"
Ayoka didn't flinch. Just took a slow sip of her tea and smiled over the rim.
"Seeing Viktor," she said, light as a breeze.
Sabine didn't press. Didn't blink.
But later—after the tea had cooled and the parlor quieted—she turned toward the hall and narrowed her eyes.
She thought she'd seen it once—Ayoka's shadow moving before her body did. Separate. Slithering. The way it curved at the edges didn't match the angle of the sun or the way her arms moved. Sabine had paused, reaching out with her web, only to feel a cold ripple in the threads.
The Shadow Man.
She was sure of it. He'd been gifting Ayoka's shadow again—just like he did when courting souls, not bodies. Little boons. Twitches of autonomy. Sabine had wanted to reach in, stop it, sever the thing right then. But Viktor's warning whispered back to her in memory:
"Don't mess with him or his shadow."
So Sabine didn't. She stepped back, fingers still twitching, and watched the hallway long after Ayoka had gone.
But she wasn't alone.
A shadow peeled itself from the far wall, longer than it should've been, darker than night ought to allow. The room went colder.
Tsk, tsk… came the voice—smooth as spilled ink. "Little spider. Be careful where you weave. That priest and priestess of mine? They are not yours to redirect."
The Shadow Man stepped forward, not with feet but with suggestion. He grinned, lips sharp and voice laced in velvet malice. "I hear from your folks you've been planning a little escape. That sweet little snake of yours—Ayoka. Thinking of carting her and that child off before the real war begins. Planning it behind Viktor's back, are we?"
Sabine didn't flinch. Her fingers twitched once, and then her webs flicked outward—silver lines snapping through the air, pinning the Shadow Man against the wall like silk-staked prey. She stepped closer, slow and fearless, and laid her fingers against the edge of his cheek.
She stepped closer, slow and dangerous, the glint of mischief tucked beneath her lashes. Her smirk spread like velvet cut with glass, and when she spoke, her voice curled low and knowing.
"You might not have a true form," she said, fangs glinting just slightly in the soft light, "but I trust Viktor to do the right thing."
The Shadow Man smirked. "Ah, but trust is such a brittle thing. You see this?" He nodded down—toward the golden glimmer coiled faintly at Sabine's wrist. A chain, barely visible, humming with quiet magic. "He may not use it. But I gave him the means. One pull, and you'll be free. And when that time comes…"
He leaned close. "I will win."
Then, with the smugness of a devil dressed for a garden party, the Shadow Man puckered his lips in the air and blew her a kiss—mocking, flippant, damn near flirtatious.
His fingers ghosted the air in a wave, slow and deliberate, like he was brushing the edge of her aura just to make her shiver. His smile stretched wider than his face should allow, sharp as broken promises and twice as gleaming.
"We'll dance again, little spider," he whispered, voice like silk soaked in grave dirt.
And just like that, he vanished into mist—leaving the room colder, the shadows longer, and Sabine glaring at the space he used to stand with a heat that dared him to return.
She stood alone now.
That chain—temporary, magical, born of an old favor Viktor had granted her when he saved her—bound them still. Only a few could see it. Fewer understood what it meant.
And yet, his words haunted her.
Free.
Free when?
Free how?
And what did it mean if the Shadow Man won?
The lie Ayoka told wasn't what gnawed at her most—it was what truths she might already be wearing under her skin, stitched in shadow and silk.
It wasn't the ritual that unsettled her.
It was how easy Ayoka lied.
Used Viktor's name like a lantern in the dark—safe, bright, unquestioned.
But Sabine knew better. She always did. She'd seen enough visions, untangled enough futures to know when something was wrong—and lately, everything stank of false peace.
Ayoka lying. Viktor acting like everything was fine. It was all a performance, and Sabine was the only one still looking behind the curtain.
She wanted to look deeper. Into Ayoka's future. Into Viktor's. Into her own. But the threads were tangled, and she knew the risk. Sometimes, knowing too much meant twisting your own fate along the way. Sometimes, this power—this curse—was nothing but a gilded chain of its own.
And gods, some days it sucked like hell.
Still, Sabine kept her silence.
But her eyes saw everything.
Maybe this time, instead of sittin' on the sidelines like she often did, she could throw him off. Confuse him. Distract him. Play her hand bold, messy, maybe even dangerous.
Because something about Ayoka was different.
Sabine had helped plenty of women before—patched them up, guided them out, whispered spells into their wrists and told them to run. But Ayoka? She was something else.
Maybe it was the way she helped raise Malik on that creaky parlor floor, laughter tucked between feedings and folded laundry. Maybe it was the way she moved—not free, not yet, but closer to it than most dared to be.
Maybe it was how much she reminded Sabine of her mother.
Not in the freedom, but in the love. In the stubborn choosing of a man who didn't match the mold. Her father hadn't bought her mother like Viktor had bought Ayoka—but the pattern still echoed. Same skin tone, same silence in public, same heat behind closed doors.
Or maybe Sabine just wanted to do one good thing before her people left.
Before the war started.
Before her family crossed back into the old realms—back to their side of the veil, where time flowed differently and mortal wars were watched from the safety of smoke-glass windows and moonlit parlors.
She'd stood on the sidelines all her life. That was what fate-born did. Watched. Threaded. Whispered. Never interfered too deep, never played the hero. That was the burden of her kind—the faters, as some spat. To guide, not grip. To nudge, not hold.
But sometimes? That distance turned to apathy. And apathy was just another word for cruelty when people needed saving.
And if this was the last woman she helped, she wanted to do it right. Even if it meant stepping off the sidelines and into the thread itself. Even if it meant lying. Even if it meant breaking her own weave and risking the backlash.
She could feel the golden chain—thin as memory, heavy as a vow—that looped around her spirit. The Sonsters had placed it there, long ago, when she agreed to serve beside Viktor. A safeguard, they called it. If he gave an order she truly could not abide, she would be bound to obey it once more... one last time. Only then would the worker's bond break.
It was meant for servants like her. Ones too powerful to leave unchecked. Ones trusted but never fully freed. And for men like Viktor—those with power enough to hire people like her—it was a safeguard he accepted, knowing the risk. The golden chain was a mark of loyalty, yes, but also a warning: that losing someone like her meant losing your most useful pawn in the game. A final command, a final choice—and then, perhaps, no more moves left at all.
And Sabine? She hadn't thought about it in years.
On the same day Genevieve left, Viktor had sent one of the older servants to Sabine with a quiet word: he would need to speak with her soon. More contracts were breaking, he'd said—and hers might be among them. The tone wasn't cruel, but it wasn't tender either. Just the plain speech of a man who knew the world was shifting under his feet and was trying to hold onto what he could.
Sabine hadn't answered. She'd just nodded once and gone back to sweeping the floor, though her grip on the broom had tightened.
But today? Today, she couldn't help herself.
The house felt just right somehow—like the walls had loosened their grip, like the floorboards remembered laughter. It smelled of warm spice and something soft, and for once, the shadows weren't watching with hungry eyes. Just enough light filtered through the curtains to make the room feel alive, not staged.
The birds were chirping more calmly that morning, their songs laced with a strange hush—as if even they felt the shift in the house's rhythm. It wasn't the frantic flurry of warning calls, but the soft trill of contentment. Sabine noticed it, a quiet between the worlds.
Malik had woken early and was already full of energy, slapping his little hands on the edge of the crib and babbling at Sabine, who had taken to watching him while Ayoka prepared herself for the day. Sabine played along, bouncing the child gently on her knee and humming an old tune under her breath, the kind passed down by breath and blood. There was something grounding in it, something old and familiar, like the warmth of morning sunlight through lace curtains.
She smiled at Malik's wild curls and gummy grin, thinking not for the first time that the boy carried a rhythm all his own.
Ayoka emerged from behind the dressing screen, smoothing the front of her bodice with a practiced hand, only to pause when she saw Sabine and Malik mid-giggle. With a fond smile, she stepped forward and took over the bedmaking herself, lifting the pillows and giving the sheets a sharp tug as Sabine looked on with a hum of approval.
"You been glowing, cher," Sabine said with an joyful tone. She gave Malik one last bounce on her hip before handing him over to Ayoka, who cradled him with a soft hum and settled him against her shoulder. With her hands now free, Sabine stepped back, giving Ayoka room to finish making the bed herself. She adjusted the pillows, straightened the sheets, and smoothed the coverlet with the care of someone reclaiming her space one fold at a time. "Folks gon' think you been kissed by a swamp spirit."
With a small sigh, Sabine turned toward the window. She unlatched it with care, letting the early morning breeze spill into the room. The air was crisp and carried the soft scent of jasmine and chimney soot. Grabbing the broom from the corner, she swept the room in slow, circular strokes, coaxing out dust and stale corners as if airing out more than just space—like she was chasing out whatever shadows still lingered.
She turned back to Ayoka, eyes soft, but with something unreadable underneath. "Would you come with me?" she asked gently. "To my realm. You wouldn't be a slave no more."
Ayoka blinked once, then slowly smiled. It all made sense now—why Sabine had been bringing up her kinfolk so often these past few weeks.
The truth was, Ayoka wouldn't have minded staying with Viktor. On most days, it even felt like a possibility. But lately... something had been off. Not wrong, not dangerous—just off. And she didn't know if that feeling was her own unease, or something brewing deeper.
She had noticed something darker blooming beneath her skin—how she was growing bolder with each passing day, especially when it came to thoughts of violence. She caught herself fantasizing about poison, about knives. And sometimes, she even enjoyed the thrill of it. She remembered a couple of guests who seemed bone-weary the morning after she'd hovered near their doors—ones who'd been cruel to staff or touched too freely. She hadn't harmed them, not truly. Just slid her knife into their doorframe three times like her mother taught her. A ward, she'd said. To keep witches from stealing beauty or turning dreams into madness.
Still… there were nights Ayoka swore she lived in a fever dream. One where she crept out to the barn and let her hands remember how to kill.
Lucky for everyone she remembered a few restraint rituals from her old village. Even luckier she hadn't forgotten how to come back from the edge.
And then there was her shadow.
That thing seemed to move without her at times, flickering in ways that didn't match the angle of the sun. It had started whispering back. It wasn't like hearing voices—it was more like feeling an echo. A second pulse. A split self.
It had only gotten bolder since Genevieve officially left the house. That night, Ayoka swore her shadow danced when it heard that woman scream—twirling with joy, twisting unnaturally against the candlelight. Ayoka didn't even try to stop it. She should have been alarmed, should have pulled herself away. But the truth was, she reveled in the sound too. The sharpness of Genevieve's voice cutting through the halls was almost… freeing.
She knew it wasn't normal for a shadow to act like that. But in that moment, she didn't care.
Joy had been so rare, and that one—raw and dark as it was—was too tempting not to savor.
Sabine hadn't said it aloud, but Ayoka suspected she knew. Maybe even pitied her. But Ayoka wasn't sure she needed pity. After all, this was probably just a side effect of sleeping with Viktor. His lineage didn't come clean, and she knew shadows didn't lie.
The real question was—what part of her was changing? And who would she be when it was done?
That thing seemed to move without her at times, flickering in ways that didn't match the angle of the sun. It had started whispering back. It wasn't like hearing voices—it was more like feeling an echo. A second pulse. A split self.
It had only gotten bolder since Genevieve officially left the house. That night, Ayoka swore her shadow danced when it heard that woman scream—twirling with joy, twisting unnaturally against the candlelight. Ayoka didn't even try to stop it. She should have been alarmed, should have pulled herself away. But the truth was, she reveled in the sound too. The sharpness of Genevieve's voice cutting through the halls was almost… freeing.
She knew it wasn't normal for a shadow to act like that. But in that moment, she didn't care.
Joy had been so rare, and that one—raw and dark as it was—was too tempting not to savor.
Sabine hadn't said it aloud, but Ayoka suspected she knew. Maybe even pitied her. But Ayoka wasn't sure she needed pity. After all, this was probably just a side effect of sleeping with Viktor. His lineage didn't come clean, and she knew shadows didn't lie.
The real question was—what part of her was changing? And who would she be when it was done?
She reminded herself she had to think of Malik before herself. That's what good mothers did, right? Put the child's needs first, even when your heart begged to stay planted.
But Malik wasn't just her son anymore. Not to her, not to her spirit. He was her Anarch now—the tether that grounded her, the compass that pointed her toward something beyond vengeance and servitude. Maybe that was why her shadow never danced near him. Or maybe it was because it already recognized him—as something greater. She had caught glimpses once or twice, in the low flicker of candlelight or the long stretch of dusk, of her shadow holding its own version of Malik in its arms. Cradling him carefully. Mimicking the word 'safe' in its silent mouth.
The idea should have unsettled her, but it didn't. Not really. Not when her real arms were doing the same. Maybe that's why the screams never sounded as loud when she was holding him.
She wasn't just raising a child. She was guarding a legacy. A new order. One that wouldn't bow.
But then came the second thought, quieter and far more dangerous: Was she doing this for Malik… or for herself?
He was starting to grow, to think, to mimic. He looked at Viktor with open, curious eyes. Would he grow up thinking Viktor was his father? And if he did… was that such a terrible thing?
Just the other day, Viktor had insisted on eating his pastry by peeling all the edges off first and folding it into quarters like a delicate pocket. Ayoka had watched with mild horror and quiet affection. But the funniest part? Malik, sitting nearby with his little biscuit, did the exact same thing—tiny fingers mimicking Viktor's ritual with determined seriousness.
She'd laughed until her sides hurt. Viktor looked genuinely confused by the joke, then vaguely proud.
He had somehow, accidentally, become her strange, broken-in husband—the kind who forgets anniversaries that haven't happened yet and eats sweets like they're ritual offerings. And Malik? Well… maybe he already had a father. Just not the kind with matching blood.
He had somehow, accidentally, become her strange, broken-in husband—the kind who forgets anniversaries that haven't happened yet and eats sweets like they're ritual offerings. And Malik? Well… maybe he already had a father. Just not the kind with matching blood.
Ayoka wasn't sure anymore. And that—more than anything—was the dilemma.
If she stayed, maybe she could work past it. The way Viktor had bought her, the way her story started—that didn't have to be where it ended. She wouldn't be the first, nor the last, to turn a coerced beginning into something resembling love. But what did that really mean for her? Could she ever truly untangle her choices from the chains they began in?
She was beginning to taste the edge of power, the kind that curled around her spine and whispered that she didn't have to feel like she did the day Malik was born—terrified, owned, half-vanished. She could become someone new. She could become someone dangerous. And maybe she liked that.
But if she left…
If she left, maybe she and Viktor would meet again one day—and it wouldn't be as captive and master, not even as the mother of the child he now calls his own. Viktor had said it once—half-asleep, half-bleeding—looking at her and calling Malik his son. And though Ayoka never corrected him, she always remembered: Malik was her child. The one she carried, the one she bled for. But Viktor? He'd helped raise him, stumbled into fatherhood the way he stumbled through most things—with a bruised heart and open hands. Maybe it would be as equals. Or maybe they'd never see each other again, and she'd have to build a new future from the ashes of what was almost something.
She thought about how history bent for women like her. How it didn't often forgive softness or indecision. And how, when magic and legacy and love tangled into the same breath, every step forward could damn or deliver you.
It was a question that clawed behind her ribs: Was this her freedom, or her rebirth?
And what would it cost to claim either?
"When are we leaving?" Ayoka asked.
Sabine looked mildly startled, lips parting, eyes flickering. For a flicker of a second, she saw it clearly: Ayoka must've been planning to leave at some point, like most slaves quietly dreamed of doing. Sabine had always thought Ayoka might stay with Viktor for safety's sake—given the era, the dangers, the expectations of women with children and no name to call their own.
And maybe that had been true. Maybe it still was.
Sabine did feel, somewhere low in her gut, like she was betraying Viktor a little. But then again… they hadn't had that talk. The one that really mattered. And as far as her contract went, there was nothing written that forbade her from offering a helping hand.
She had seen this story before—men and women, regardless of their color or creed, choosing to stay with their former masters and mistresses. It was a story as old as shackles, woven into the fabric of both immortal and mortal worlds. Some called it loyalty. Some called it fear. But most often, it was survival wrapped in a softer lie.
Very few dared to truly leave. It took strength, more than most were willing to admit. The kind of strength that cracked open history and stitched it back together with blood and will. And Ayoka? Sabine was starting to believe she might be one of those rare few.
The kind who chose freedom even when safety beckoned from the hands that once held the leash.
Especially not when someone reached back for it.
Ayoka rolled her eyes and set Malik down on the bed beside her. He immediately began trying to crawl across the blanket, squealing at the pillow mountain ahead.
"I do pay attention, you know," Ayoka said, watching her son with fond amusement. "I saw the others leave. And since I took Viktor up on his offer to teach me letters, I been glancing over those papers he writes when he thinks no one's watching. Routes, contacts, the way out."
She let out a dry, almost tired laugh, and glanced down at Malik. "I want to stay. I'm afraid. But this ain't no kind of life for my son."
Sabine arched a brow. "You really okay with leaving all this behind?"
As she asked, she reached down to scoop Malik up again, cradling him with practiced ease while her eyes stayed fixed on Ayoka. The boy gurgled and patted at her shoulder, but Sabine's gaze didn't waver. She was watching Ayoka closely now.
There was a look in Ayoka's eyes—not fear, not resolve, but something in between. A kind of ache stretched thin. Like a woman who knew she was making the right decision but still hoped for another kind of world.
Sabine started to see the cracks, the places where Ayoka had held herself together too long. Maybe Ayoka didn't notice. Maybe Viktor hadn't either. But Sabine did.
Two lovers, circling each other with half-spoken things. Not enemies. Not strangers. But not whole either. Not anymore.
"Yes," she said. "Even though Viktor's not the worst master—well, I'd say 'man,' but we both know what I was to him at the start."
She rose from her seat without another word, crossed the room, and retrieved a bottle from the sideboard. Pouring herself a drink, she moved to the window, unlatched it with a sharp click, and lit a cigar from the candle stub resting on the sill.
Ayoka took one slow drag and exhaled, the smoke curling around her in the breeze. She stared out over the garden with tired, defiant eyes, letting the silence linger between them, flavored with tobacco and a strange, bitter calm.
Sabine opened her mouth, hesitated. "He might see you as more than that," she offered, voice softer now. "Maybe even a wife, 'cause…"
But before she could finish, Malik let out a sleepy whimper.
Sabine rose with gentle care, rocking the child briefly before settling him down in the crib, making sure to roll it a few feet farther from the drifting smoke.
She stepped back to Ayoka's side, her own lips twitching into a tired smile. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled out one of her thinner webs—a delicate strand soaked in vallian spice—and lit it with a match. The smoke it gave off was fragrant, bittersweet, almost floral.
"Mind if I join?" she said, already leaning near the window.
Ayoka nodded, sharing the silence, the tobacco, and the truth that sat thick in the air.
Ayoka glanced up, squinting slightly. "Cause what?"
She knew Sabine knew more than she let on. More about Viktor, more about his nature—maybe even about his lineage. The kind of knowledge that came from watching someone longer than they realized. But what did any of that have to do with seeing her as a wife?
Ayoka's voice carried a mix of challenge and curiosity, the kind of question that didn't want a lie for an answer.
Sabine waved it off and knelt beside the trunk, brushing over the topic like dust under a rug. "It don't matter. What matters is freedom. You'll have it. Me too. I'll be working as a sort of secretary for my people. Not housework—spirits forbid—but translating messages, handling scrolls."
She paused, glancing at Ayoka through the curl of smoke between them. "Viktor's mentioned it before, you know. That tongue of yours—how you switch dialects like silk gloves. He talks about you more than he realizes. Especially when he thinks no one's really listening."
Sabine gave a sideways smirk. "I caught it myself when guests come by—you speak near-fluent in whatever tongue they use."
Ayoka smirked. "You can thank my first slave trader for that."
Ayoka laughed softly, the warmth in her chest sharper than she'd expected. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to imagine something that didn't end in chains.
Sabine caught that comment—dry and distant—but didn't press. She could guess the truth; Ayoka wasn't fully human, that much was clear. Maybe the slaver who first sold her had been something else entirely, someone with magical means. Sabine just prayed they hadn't used one of those curses that stripped language from the root—binding the tongue so a girl couldn't even speak her own name. It was a trick too many slavers favored. One that left scars deeper than chains.
A knock at the door broke her thought. One of the old servants—one of the few who still lingered—stepped in and gave a respectful nod.
"Master Viktor would like a word with you, Miss Sabine."
Ayoka shrugged, drawing another curl of smoke from her cigar.
Sabine gave a quiet sigh, brushed her skirts smooth, and turned toward the hall. "Duty calls," she murmured, disappearing into the shifting light beyond the doorway.