In the cool morning light, the old man sat in quiet solitude on the balcony of his sprawling woodland mansion. A thin wisp of steam curled up from the delicate china cup cradled in his hands. His eyes drifted over the lush landscape—rows of ancient oaks framing the stone villa, distant birdsong weaving through the crisp air.
Normally, his trusted assistant would summon the carriage and prepare the day's business, but today a rare impulse stirred within him. Perhaps it was the ache in his old bones, or the weight of unspoken memories. He took a slow sip of tea and murmured, "Let's stretch the legs, shall we?"
"Right away, sir." The butler bowed and proceeded to ready the waiting carriage.
Not long after, the crisp creak of leather and wheels announced the arrival. The old man stood, cane in hand, steady despite age, and they stepped into the carriage—its polished exterior ordinary, but inside, finely furnished to conceal its humble guise.
Meanwhile, Valeri had endured a full week in this hellish den. Eight days marked by endless routine—from the opening clang of iron gates to the final lock click at night. She had memorized every beat: the guards' pacing, the cracks in the walls, the whispered bargains. Today was no different, save for the burning urgency that coursed beneath her calm exterior. The plan to escape was clear, precise—but there was patience to be wielded as carefully as a blade.
She closed her sharp eyes against the harsh light of the slavehouse's rat-infested corridors and grimy stone. Around her, the other captives' fractured hopes played out in desperate performances—screaming to be chosen, futilely bargaining to be "useful," or using seduction like worn armor. Valeri observed the theatre with mild distaste and sharp amusement.
"You'd think they'd choose the brothel if that was the game," she mused silently. "But no—they try to play noble instead."
The bell echoed sharply through the long hall as the newest visitor entered. The captive chorus erupted, begging to be picked—each voice laced with fear and false promise. Valeri remained apart, a stone in the swirling sea.
The latest buyer was an old man, stooped but keen-eyed. Valeri noted the irony: even at such age, men still sought women, presumably as mistresses or comforts—as whispered by hushed prisoners. Yet today, that old man—different.
He scrutinized the slaves with a measured gaze until, abruptly, he stopped before her. Valeri refused to meet his eyes, pretending indifference beneath her tangle of unruly hair.
"Stand up, slut," the trader spat as she was chained and dragged roughly forward.
Inwardly, Valeri fired back, Your grandmother is the slut, with a smirk trapped beneath clenched teeth. The trader grunted, jerked her chin up with his walking stick. She kept her eyes closed, willing the burning color away.
After a tense silence, the old man said simply, "Take her."
The trader barked false praise, shuffled Valeri's chains off like offering a wrapped gift.
Outside, the carriage awaited. Valeri was ushered inside. The vehicle was deceptively plain from the outside but furnished with elegant richness inside—deep leather seats, polished wood panels, soft cushions. Her gaze was fixed downward, thoughts on the unknown to come.
Her new owner's gruff voice broke the silence: "What's your name?"
For the first time since capture, her voice felt steady and clear. "Valerie. It's nice to make your acquaintance."
The butler's eyes widened in surprise; few slaves ever spoke with such poise. She caught his gaze and quipped with a playful smile, "Take a picture; it'll last longer."
"Unruly," the butler grumbled, but Valeri was already cutting in, "Unruly? Says the man staring way too long at a lady."
He opened his mouth to retort but was cut off sharply by their master's voice: "Vrim, she's baiting you. Both of you, be quiet."
A tense silence fell as the carriage rolled smoothly onward—toward whatever fate awaited.