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Chapter 35 to 44 Already there!
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 Morning light filtered in through the shutters, casting pale bands of gold across the wooden floor and the foot of the bed. The room was quiet, save for the distant murmur of the city waking beyond the inn walls—carts rolling over cobblestone, a dog barking somewhere far off, muffled voices below.
James stirred, blinking slowly as consciousness returned. Warmth still clung to the sheets. For a brief moment, he thought Ofelia might still be asleep beside him.
But as he turned his head, he found her lying on her back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling with a distant expression.
She didn't move when he shifted. Her hands were folded on her stomach, and the pendant he'd given her the day before rested just above her fingers, catching a glint of morning light.
Her face was calm. Still. But not peaceful.
"Morning," James said softly, voice still thick with sleep.
Ofelia blinked once. Then turned her head slightly toward him. "Morning," she replied, barely above a whisper.
She didn't smile. Her voice wasn't cold—but it lacked weight, as if part of her hadn't quite come back from wherever her thoughts had wandered.
James studied her for a moment longer, then rested a hand lightly against her forearm.
She didn't flinch.
But her eyes slowly drifted back to the ceiling.
She was there. Physically. But her mind was still somewhere else.
James let out a quiet sigh and sat up, running a hand through his hair.
"I'll go get breakfast," he murmured, already reaching for his clothes, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as he began to dress.
He hadn't even finished fastening his trousers when movement beside him broke the stillness.
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Ofelia's eyes had snapped wide open.
He said he was going to get breakfast.
Just a simple phrase. Gentle. Almost tired.
But to Ofelia, it landed like a blade.
Her breath caught. Her heart skipped. Then crashed into a frantic rhythm.
No. No, no, no—he's leaving. He's going to do it himself.Because I didn't move. Because I was useless. Because I failed.And slaves who fail don't get second chances.
A hot panic surged through her chest, ripping her out of the fog she'd been drifting in all morning. Her body moved on instinct.
She threw off the blanket like it burned her.Her feet hit the floor before she even registered the cold.Her fingers flew over her clothes, tugging fabric into place with practiced, desperate speed—no care for precision, only completion.
In less than two breaths, she was dressed.
She didn't look at him. She couldn't.
If I see him disappointed, if I see him walking away… I won't survive it.
All she could hear was the echo of other voices, the ones burned into her memory:
"You move when I tell you.""You eat when I say.""Don't speak unless spoken to.""Stop crying or I'll make you cry harder."
The crack of whips. The heat of fists. The nights without food. The days without rest.
The way they looked at her—not as a person, but as a thing.A cursed, pointy-eared thing.
James had never touched her like that. Never yelled. Never looked at her with hate.He gave her a ring. He bought her and permit her to have weapon to defend herself.He smiled when she spoke, even if she stumbled.He asked if she was okay.
And now he was getting up to fetch the food.
That's my task.It should be me. It's always supposed to be me.
If she let him do it, he'd stop needing her.And if he stopped needing her… then he'd stop wanting her around.
Just like the others.
She opened the door in one sharp motion, barely aware of her surroundings, her breath ragged in her throat.
And then she was running—down the hallway, down the stairs, into the inn—driven by one single, all-consuming thought:
If I don't fix this, he'll abandon me too.
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"What the…?"
James stood frozen, shirt half-buttoned, staring at the door as it swung shut with a thud.
The blanket still held the shape where Ofelia had been lying moments before, but she was already gone—vanished out into the hallway like a shadow fleeing fire.
He blinked, trying to process what had just happened. One second she'd been silent, distant, lying there like the weight of the world was still pressing her down.
The next, she had bolted upright, dressed with a speed that left him speechless, and darted out the door without so much as a word.
Her sudden burst of energy had jolted him like a slap. He hadn't even had time to speak, let alone stop her.
He stared at the now-closed door, bewildered.
"Did I… miss something?" he murmured to himself.
It wasn't anger he felt. Or frustration.
It was confusion—layered with a creeping sense of worry. Her reaction hadn't been casual. That hadn't been someone snapping out of sleep.
It had been fear.
Panic.
James let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair.
Whatever ghosts she was still carrying… they weren't gone. Just buried under the surface, waiting to lash out when he least expected it.
Still, he didn't chase after her.
Not yet.
She'd moved because she thought she had to. Because of whatever past still clung to her.
But the one thing he didn't want to do was make her feel hunted.
So he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door, and waited.
Time passed slowly.
James remained seated on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, watching the closed door in silence. He didn't know how long he waited—a couple minutes, maybe more. Long enough for the warmth of the morning sun to start creeping across the floorboards.
Then, soft footsteps returned. The door creaked open.
Ofelia stood in the doorway, holding a wooden tray in her trembling hands. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. She'd clearly run, and now she was trying to pretend she hadn't.
Her eyes didn't meet his. Her voice was barely audible.
"Master… I have brought you breakfast."
James's brows drew together.
The word hit him like a rock to the chest.
Master.
It tasted wrong in her mouth. And even worse in his ears.
She hadn't called him that in days. He taught he had been clear about it before.
He stood up slowly, approaching her with quiet steps. She stiffened as he drew near, still holding the tray with both hands, her arms rigid.
He reached out and gently took the tray from her.
She let it go without resistance—but her head dipped instantly, eyes lowering, shoulders tense. Bracing.
James carried the tray over to the small table by the window and set it down carefully.
When he turned back, she was still standing in the same position, her head bowed, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her whole body trembling just slightly, like a leaf trying to stay still in the wind.
She didn't look at him.
She didn't speak.
She was waiting.
And when he stepped closer, placing his hands gently on her shoulders, she flinched and closed her eyes.
James let out a quiet sigh—not of annoyance, but of heartache. He didn't understand everything. But he understood enough.
Gently, he turned her toward the bed and guided her with slow movements. She followed like a puppet, her legs moving but her will absent.
He sat her down on the edge of the mattress. She didn't resist. She didn't respond. She just sat there, like she wasn't sure what she was allowed to do.
James sat beside her, giving her space but not distance.
"Feli," he said softly, his voice just above a whisper.
No answer.
He waited, then tried again, leaning slightly toward her.
"Feli. Look at me."
Slowly, like waking from a long, cold dream, her eyes drifted toward him. Dull. Empty. But searching.
He didn't smile. He didn't try to joke. He just spoke, quiet and steady.
"I know what you saw yesterday at the market," he said, "I don't know what it made you remember. But whatever it was… I'm not going to punish you. And I'm not going to leave you."
She blinked, her lower lip trembling slightly.
"You're not a tool," he continued. "You're not a burden. You don't have to call me that word. Not ever."
His voice cracked just slightly.
"You're not a slave here. Not to me."
Ofelia didn't answer. But her breath caught in her throat, and the first tear broke free, rolling silently down her cheek.
Then the dam broke.
The first sob tore from her chest like something ripped loose inside her—sharp, raw, and helpless. And then another. And another.
Tears streamed down her cheeks in a flood, and her body began to shake as the weight of everything—days, months, years—poured out all at once. There was no restraint left. No control. Just the sound of grief, fear, shame… and something deeper she didn't know how to name.
She buried her face in her hands, shoulders trembling violently.
James didn't hesitate.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, gently but firmly, like holding something fragile and precious. He said nothing—there were no words that would make this easier.
He just held her.
Her sobs soaked into his chest as she clung to him, crying without shame, like a child who had finally been given permission to fall apart.
Time passed. The world outside moved on.
But inside that room, James stayed still.
And for the first time, Ofelia let herself be held—not as property, not as a possession—but as someone who mattered.
Someone who could break.
And be caught.
Eventually, the sobs began to fade.
They didn't stop all at once—grief never did. But they softened, stretching into quiet, broken breaths and small, shuddering exhales. Ofelia still trembled in his arms, but less now. Her hands had loosened their grip on his tunic, resting instead against his chest, limp and warm.
James kept holding her, one hand gently running along her back in slow, reassuring circles.
The silence between them was no longer heavy. It was soft. Healing.
After a while, Ofelia shifted slightly. Her face was still pressed against his chest, but she tilted it just enough to speak, voice hoarse and low.
"I'm sorry…"
James looked down at her, frowning softly. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
She shook her head faintly. "I… I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to break."
"You didn't break," he said. "You let go. That's not the same."
Her eyes glistened again, but no new tears came. She was empty, but lighter.
He brushed a few strands of hair from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear. "You've been holding it in for too long. Anyone would've collapsed by now."
Ofelia swallowed, her throat tight. "…I thought you'd hate me. For being like this."
James met her gaze, steady and unwavering. "I could never hate you."
She looked at him for a long moment. Searching. Doubting. Hoping.
He smiled faintly, brushing his thumb against her cheek.
"I don't know what the world told you about yourself, Feli," he said. "But they were wrong."
Her lower lip trembled again, but she didn't cry this time.
Instead, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his collarbone, eyes closed.
"Thank you," she whispered.
James tightened his arms around her just slightly.
They stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet.
Eventually, James gently eased Ofelia out of his arms.
He gave her a small nod, and together, they made their way to the window table where the breakfast tray still waited—now cooled and slightly soggy.
Neither of them complained.
They ate in quiet companionship, sharing the bread and lukewarm stew like it was a feast. The warmth of the food might have been gone, but there was something else in the air now. Something steady. Something fragile, but real.
Once finished, they gathered their things without hurry.
Ofelia stayed close to James, and though her steps remained cautious, the dread no longer clung to her every movement. He noticed. And he didn't rush her.
They left the room together. Ofelia having put her cloak on to hide her elven features.Â
The stairs creaked underfoot as they descended. The scent of wood smoke and roasted vegetables drifted up from the kitchen, mingling with the soft murmur of the inn below.
As they reached the main floor, Marlin was standing behind the counter, wiping a mug with the same old rag. His eyes tracked them quietly as they passed. He didn't say a word.
But James caught the faint narrowing of the man's eyes. A question unspoken. A judgment withheld.
He didn't care.
Outside, the city greeted them with its usual buzz—vendors calling, carts rolling, the faint chatter of morning crowds already swelling in the streets. But for James, it all faded into background noise.
Today was the day.
No more wandering. No more rooms borrowed by the night.
Today's gonna be the day they finally buy a home for themselves.
He walked with purpose, Ofelia by his side, the pendant she now wore catching flashes of light with each step, in the gap of her cloak. Until they reached a modest building near the center of town. A neatly painted sign hung above the entrance, swaying gently in the breeze: City Clerk's Office.
It was far from grand. The whitewash on the walls had faded in places, and the paint on the shutters was beginning to chip—but the door was clean, the hinges well-oiled, and the path leading to it recently swept.
James stepped forward and pushed the door open.
Inside the modest office, the air was still and cool, carrying the faint scent of ink, parchment, and old stone. The clerk looked up, adjusting the oversized glasses perched on his nose. His gaze shifted briefly to Ofelia, pausing just long enough to acknowledge her presence.
He didn't comment.
There was no change in expression, no raised eyebrow, no remark. He had already recognized what she was. A slave—nothing uncommon in these parts. And nothing worth dwelling on.
"Ah," he said, voice steady, tone purely administrative. "You're here to finalize a purchase?"
James nodded. "Yes. The first property you showed me—the one listed at twenty gold."
The clerk hummed faintly, nodding as he reached under the desk and pulled out a thick leather-bound ledger and a small brass plaque. The ledger creaked as it opened, revealing long columns of names, numbers, and notes in a tight, practiced hand.
"There's also a one-time registration fee of ten silver coins upon purchase," he said without looking up. "As we discussed earlier, the property tax amounts to thirty silver coins each year for this particular house. Is that alright with you?"
James smiled and nodded. "Yes."
He reached into his pouch and counted out the coins, laying them one by one on the desk. Forty silver.
The clerk counted them again without comment, his fingers quick and practiced. He set them aside in a small drawer before closing it with a click.
"Perfect," he said, then glanced back down at his ledger. "Now, how much would you like to pay today as your down payment? Afterward, the remaining balance will be two gold coins per year, until the full amount is covered."
James blinked. Once. Twice.
"You mean… I can pay it over time?"
The clerk nodded, still scribbling neatly into the ledger. "Of course. Most residents here earn little more than a few coppers or silvers each week. Only major merchants pay property in full—and even then, they rarely invest here. There's little opportunity in a quiet town like this."
James let out a quiet laugh, surprised but pleased. "In that case… I'll pay the full amount now."
The clerk finally looked up again, his pen halting mid-word, glasses glinting in the morning light. For a second, his expression didn't shift.
Then his mouth opened slightly.
"…What?"
James repeated, casually. "I'll pay it all. Now."
The clerk stared at him, eyes unfocused, like he'd momentarily forgotten where he was. It took him a moment to blink, as if recalibrating his reality.
James reached into his pouch and, without another word, began laying out the gold coins one by one onto the polished desk.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Twenty gold coins.
Neatly stacked.
Silently gleaming in the morning light.
The clerk just watched, his mouth still slightly ajar.
James gave him a faint smile. "I assume that's acceptable?"
The older man cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses unnecessarily. "Y-Yes. Of course. I just… not many pay in full, that's all."
Then, without ceremony, he reached forward and gathered the twenty gold coins James had placed on the desk. The metal pieces clinked softly as he stacked them in a practiced motion, then opened the same drawer as before and placed them neatly inside.
Click. The drawer closed.
He straightened his back and dipped his quill again, his fingers moving a little more carefully now.
James could see the shift—the small flicker of respect. Or maybe disbelief.
Behind the clerk's unreadable expression, thoughts flickered like shadows:
Most of the time, even getting the annual payment means calling in the guards to strong-arm folks—or throwing them into the street.
If only every transaction could be this easy.
He wrote James's name into the registry with quiet precision, the scratch of the quill the only sound between them for a moment. Then, with a practiced motion, he sealed the entry, flipped the ledger closed, and gave a firm nod.
"It's done," he said simply.
But instead of rising or handing over a document, the clerk reached into the drawer beside him and retrieved a small, flat plaque of dark metal—smooth and cool, with faint etchings barely visible along the surface. Nearly identical in design to the one James had seen used by the slave trader before.
James's eyes flicked toward Ofelia for the briefest moment, but she stood still, her face unreadable.
The clerk placed the plaque on the desk and gestured toward it.
"To finalize ownership, place your Regalite here," he said, tapping the center of the plate with a finger. "A light touch is enough. This will register the property under your name with the state records."
James nodded, then extended his left arm.
He lowered his wrist and tapped the bracelet gently against the center of the plaque.
A soft chime echoed in the quiet room.
The etched lines on the plaque shimmered, brightening for a heartbeat before fading into stillness.
The clerk gave a curt nod, already sliding the plate aside. "Done. The house is officially registered in your name, sir."