The Paladin and the Slave

[Synosius45]

Kaber's wagon jolted over the rutted country road, each bump jarring his bruised ribs and aching joints. The sun hung low, painting the sky in streaks of amber and violet, while the first autumn leaves—crimson and gold—drifted from gnarled oaks, catching in his horse's mane. A biting chill seeped through the air, turning his polished armor into a frigid shell that leached cold through his sweat-dampened undergarments, stinging his skin. After endless, torturous miles, the dense rows of trees parted like sentinels, revealing his estate's silhouette—its stone towers stark against the fading light, promising rest but stirring an unease he couldn't name.
Kaber guided the creaking wagon toward the stable, its wheels crunching over frost-kissed gravel. Gritting his teeth, he eased himself from the driver's seat, half-climbing, half-falling. His boots struck the earth with a jolt that tore an involuntary yelp. Though he'd mended the shattered bones in his ankle with a paladin's magic, the wound throbbed with a vicious pulse as if the demon's fangs still gnawed beneath his skin. The healed gashes on his hip and arm fared no better—each brush of his cloak against them flared like claws raking fresh furrows, a cruel echo of the battle that had scarred him.
Weary to the bone, he unfastened the horse's sweat-crusted harness and brittle bridle, his gauntlets clumsy against the buckles. He led the beast—a loyal gray charger whose ribs faintly showed beneath its dull coat—into the barn's shadowed maw. The air inside smelled damp with rot. He pried open the oat bin, only to gag at the sour, fetid stench wafting from sodden clumps. The hay pile, once golden, lay matted with black mold, its spores swirling in the lantern's dim glow. Kaber's shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh. The estate's neglect mirrored his frayed spirit, a lord's duty left to decay.
He trudged back to the wagon, each step a negotiation with pain, and rummaged through his battered supplies for a sack of unspoiled barley. He worked the rusted handle at the pump until clear water gurgled into the trough, splashing his boots with icy droplets. Returning to the barn, he poured the grain into a trough, watching the horse nudge it gratefully. With a final pat on its velvet nose—his calloused hand lingering a moment, seeking warmth—he whispered a soft word, perhaps an apology, and swung the warped barn door shut against the creeping dusk.
The last embers of sunlight bled away behind the skeletal trees, casting long, clawlike shadows across the frost-dusted ground. Kaber hefted the last of his supplies, burlap sacks and a battered sword sheath, and limped through a side door into the foyer. The oak panel groaned shut behind him. With a grunt, he let the sacks slump to the stone floor, their contents spilling slightly, and kicked off his mud-caked boots. His armor—dented steel etched with faded sigils—clattered carelessly as he shed their weight. The final sliver of light seeping through the arched window above the door snuffed out, plunging the room into an inky void.
Kaber paused for a moment, reflecting. He barely recognized the contours of his own house. The air clung to him, thick with damp rot and the ghost of neglect. He fumbled forward, hand grazing a splintered banister, before a spark of clarity struck—he could summon light. He mutters ancient words, his voice hoarse from disuse, and channeled a trickle of energy. A soft glow bloomed in his palm, its silver warmth flickering like a hesitant star, casting his gaunt face in stark relief.
He pressed into the main hall, the light revealing a tomb of faded grandeur. Cobwebs draped the ceiling like tattered banners, their shadows weaving a spectral net across cracked beams. The air tasted of dust and mildew, sticking to his throat. Something skittered in a shadowed corner—a rat, perhaps, or some restless remnant of the estate's decay. Underfoot, the once-rich carpet frayed and unraveled, its threads catching his socks. Numerous portraits lined the hall, their gilded frames chipped and tarnished. The eyes of painted ancestors seemed to watch, their silent judgment heavier than his armor as he climbed the creaking stairs. Each step groaned under his weight, echoing in the silence, as if the house resented his return.
"I've been gone longer than memory serves," Kaber muttered, his voice a cracked whisper lost in the dark. "Perhaps this will be my last crusade."
He shuffled into his bedroom at the hall's end, the door creaking on rusted hinges. The air hung heavy, sour with dust and the faint musk of abandonment. Fumbling, he peeled off his sweat-soaked tunic and grimy breeches, their damp weight dragging at his burn-scarred skin. He pulled back the top blanket, its worn embroidery disintegrating at his touch, and hurled it onto the pile of dirty clothes—a mound resembling a beggar's pyre in the corner. Tugging back the next layer, a threadbare sheet that smelled faintly of mildew, he collapsed onto the sagging mattress. The bedframe groaned under his weight as if protesting his return.
Sleep came slowly, hindered by a flood of memories—cries of defeated enemies, the demon's luminous gaze, and the burden of promises he had scarcely fulfilled. The silence of the house was a suffocating void, unnatural and menacing. Kaber was no stranger to sleeping beneath stars, lulled by the rustle of nocturnal creatures—owls hooting, foxes scratching through underbrush. In the wild, silence heralded danger: monsters stalking, their breath hot with malice. Here, in his forsaken manor, the quiet felt like a trap.
Restless, he rose and stumbled to the window, the floorboards icy against his bare feet. The warped frame resisted, swollen with years of damp neglect. With a grunt, he pushed it upward, inch by stubborn inch, splinters digging into his palms. At last, a rush of cold air flooded in, sharp and cleansing, carrying the faint tang of pine and frost. It soothed his fevered skin, easing the ache of demonic scars that still pulsed faintly beneath his flesh. Far off, something screeched—an owl, or perhaps something less natural—its cry slicing through the night like a warning.
Kaber staggered back to bed, sinking onto the groaning mattress. Sleep overtook him sporadically, but true rest eluded him—only the demon's curse gnawing at his thoughts. He was back in the hell pit, its suffocating black tunnels coiling around him like a serpent's throat. Heat seared his lungs, the air thick with sulfur and the coppery tang of blood. Jagged obsidian walls glistened with molten veins, pulsing as if alive. There was no escape—only forward into the abyss or backward to doom. Retreat meant demons hounding their heels, their guttural snarls promising death or a fate worse: eternal torment as their thrall. Forward led to the demon lord, a gamble for victory that could free them all.
His company—battle-hardened knights and mages, their faces gaunt with fear—hacked and burned their way deeper into the abyss. Swords cleaved through lesser fiends, their shrieks echoing off the stone. Magic flared, scorching the air, but each step sapped their will. As they neared the royal chamber, a palpable aura of fear emerged, and a crushing tide broke their resolve. One by one, his allies faltered, clutching their hearts or weeping, until only Kaber remained to press on, his paladin's faith a flickering shield against the terror, forged by vows to Isa, goddess of life.
He strode into the chamber, sword gleaming with her faint blessing, shield raised against the dark. The demon lord loomed—twice his height, its hide like charred iron, eyes blazing with infernal malice. It lunged with savage fury, claws rending the air. Flames erupted through gaps in Kaber's armor, searing his flesh with white-hot agony; his skin blistered, the stench of his burning mingling with brimstone. Claws tore through steel as if it were parchment, shredding his breastplate. His armor fell in molten scraps, leaving him bare, blood streaming from gashes.
Desperate, Kaber summoned Isa's power, her name a ragged prayer on his lips. Light surged through his blade as he carved into the demon's chest, each strike a thunderclap. Kaber fought the demon lord with reckless fury, heedless of his own life. Each swing of his blade was a defiant roar against the dark. He prayed death would claim him before the demons did, sparing him a prisoner's torment in their endless fire. His vision blurred, muscles screaming as strength bled away. Yet he fought on, driven by Isa's fading light, until—finally—the demon lord staggered, its chest a ruined map of glowing slashes. With a guttural wail, it collapsed, its body dissolving into ash that swirled upward, carried by an unseen wind, as if the horror had never been.
Kaber crumpled, his body a broken relic, consciousness slipping into oblivion. His companions—knights and mages, their courage reborn with the demon's fall—rushed into the chamber, faces pale with dread. They bore his mangled form from the hell pit's depths up through tunnels that reeked of brimstone and despair. On the surface, in a twisted forest where gnarled trees clawed at a starless sky, Kaber lay writhing. For days, his screams tore through the night, demonic venom searing his flesh, defying his paladin's healing. Mournfully, his comrades kept vigil in the moss-draped gloom, whispering prayers as they braced for his death.
Then, silence fell, heavy as a shroud. His breathing stilled, and they knelt to prepare his body, wrapping him in tattered cloaks for burial beneath the cursed earth. But Kaber stirred, eyes fluttering open, their dark brown glint catching the firelight. He sat up, chest heaving, and saw his companions' faces—rugged adventurers, scarred by horrors, now streaked with tears. Dirt caked their cheeks, but rivulets of wet skin shone through, betraying their joy. These warriors, who'd faced death unflinching, wept openly, their hands clasping his, as if anchoring him to life.
The journey home stretched into a grueling odyssey, each step a reminder of Kaber's fragility. In the first ramshackle town, his companions pooled coin for a weathered wagon—not just to ease his throbbing wounds, still raw despite Isa's grace, but to haul dwindling supplies through the scarred wilds. As they neared Adros, its spires glinting faintly under a bruised sky, the band dispersed with weary nods, bound for their hearths until duty's horn called again. Kaber, alone, guided the creaking cart onward, his heart heavy with unspoken farewells.
He awoke at dawn in the manor's chill embrace, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his scarred skin. The nightmare's echoes—screams, ash, claws—lingered like a curse. Shuffling to the bathroom, he twisted the rusted faucet, half-expecting silence. Hot water gurgled forth, steaming the cracked tiles, and he barked a hoarse, "Thank you, Isa," his voice raw with gratitude for this small mercy. The shower's heat soothed his aching joints, though demonic scars pulsed faintly, defiant of solace.
Dressed in plain linen trousers and a loose blouse, their weave soft against his tender flesh, he draped a felt robe over his shoulders to ward off the morning's bite. Around his neck hung his badge of office—a silver sigil of Isa, tarnished yet heavy with obligation—swaying on a worn lanyard. He descended the creaking stairs to the kitchen, its shelves bare but for dust and the ghosts of plenty. No food, no warmth—only neglect. Sighing, he returned to the provisions slumped by the side door, forcing down a breakfast of hardtack and sinewy dried meat, each bite a gritty reminder of survival's cost.
Kaber trudged to the barn with no tasks to anchor him in the hollow manor, boots scuffing frost-dusted earth. His gray charger snorted softly, its breath clouding in the crisp air, as he hitched it to the wagon with practiced hands. He slung his sword—its scabbard chipped from battles past—over his shoulder and tucked a pouch of meager coins into his belt. The road to Adros called, heavy with duty: a report to the sovereign awaited, as was the need for supplies to revive his barren estate. He climbed aboard the wagon, groaning under his weight, and set off into the distance.
The wagon rattled over uneven roads, each jolt a fresh torment to Kaber's battered body. The horizon gave way to Adros's towering gates, their iron-wrought sigils glinting under a slate-gray sky. The guards, clad in chainmail that clinked softly, recognized his paladin's badge and waved him through with deferential nods, their eyes lingering on his scarred hands gripping the reins.
At the castle, a young footman with a nervous stammer took the reins of his weary charger, leading it to the stables as Kaber dismounted with a stifled wince. He limped through marble halls, their vaulted ceilings adorned with faded tapestries of past glories, to the sovereign's chamber. The ruler, a stern figure swathed in velvet and crowned with silver, spared him only a moment amidst a flurry of advisors. "The demon pit is closed," Kaber reported, his voice steady despite the ache in his bones, as if the hell pit's horrors were mere routine.
"Very good," the sovereign intoned, eyes barely lifting from a parchment. "Your bravery serves the realm. It will be recorded." A clerk with ink-stained fingers pressed a heavy pouch of gold coins into Kaber's palm—its weight a cold comfort—and ushered him out with practiced efficiency.
Kaber trudged to the bank, the pouch clinking at his hip. The vault's iron doors groaned open, swallowing his reward into an account already swollen with past bounties, a fortune that felt more like a shackle than security. His duty was done, and he sought respite at a coffee shop, its warmth a faint balm against the morning's chill. He sipped bitter brew, the steam curling like spirits, and bit into a flaky pastry, crumbs dusting his robe. Across the cobbled street sprawled the slave market—cages glinting in the weak sun, voices hushed and sharp, a tableau of chains that twisted something deep in his gut.
Kaber's gaze lingered on the slave market, its iron cages casting jagged shadows across the cobbled street. The clink of chains and muffled pleas gnawed at him, stirring a discomfort he couldn't shake, though slavery was Adros's unyielding custom. In this city, personal rights flowed solely from the sovereign's decree. Those beyond Adros's borders—wanderers, outcasts, or captives from untreatied lands—could be legally bound, their freedom crushed under the crown's weight. Allied nations, bound by inked treaties, saw their citizens shielded as honored guests; to chain one was to spit on their sovereign, inviting war's wrath.
Yet, citizenship in Adros was its own yoke. To claim it, one knelt before the crown, swearing fealty—an oath Kaber knew, felt like servitude dressed in pomp. He'd seen men and women, eyes dull with resignation, pledge their lives to a throne that offered protection but demanded loyalty. Others sidestepped this bond through cunning or coin—guild memberships, noble houses, or ancient family names granted legal sanctuary. Even land ownership required that same sworn vow, a de facto chain forged in parchment and ritual, binding buyer to realm.
Owning a slave, though, was no simple privilege. Kaber had heard the burdens whispered in Adros's halls: a master bore the cost of their property's food and shelter, their hands tied to every need. Worse, they stood liable for any misdeed—damage wrought, insults spat, or crimes committed under their name. Across the market, a slaver's shout cracked the air, and Kaber's hand tightened on his coffee cup, the porcelain warm against his scarred fingers. The system's logic was ironclad, yet it sat heavy in his gut like a blade he couldn't unsheathe.
Kaber had planned to hire a groundskeeper and a maid—simple transactions, coin for labor, no strings beyond a day's duty. Servants would arrive, trained and equipped, to sweep away the manor's decay, then vanish to fend for themselves. Clean, detached, like a blade sheathed after use. Yet the slave market's clamor—shouts of hawkers, clinking chains—gnawed at his resolve, pulling his gaze to the nearest stall.
There she stood, a young woman, her beauty marred by hardship. A tarnished metal collar bit into her neck, its chain tethered to a weathered wooden pole, swaying faintly in the chill wind. Her thin shift clung to her shivering frame, offering no warmth against Adros's biting morning. Misery etched her features—pale skin smudged with dirt, lips cracked from cold. A handful of silver could change her fate, pry her from this cage to a life less cruel.
But a paladin buying a pleasure slave? The thought burned like a demon's claw. Kaber, envoy to the crown, stooping to trade in flesh—tongues would wag, nobles sneering at his fall. A man of Isa's oath, high title gleaming like polished steel, reduced to base urges, rutting like a beast. Shame coiled in his gut, heavier than his gold pouch. He could free her, snap the chain, and let her run—but what then? What if she were wild, unhinged, a thief born of desperation? She'd need to steal to survive, and he'd bear the blame, his honor tarnished for a reckless whim.
I slay demons, he thought, scarred hands clenching, yet quail at whispers of scandal? Fear had never ruled him in the hell pit, where instinct and passion led his blade. Plans, logic—they crumbled under his heart's fire. He rose from the coffee shop's worn bench and strode to the stall, the hard soles of his boots clapping on the cobblestones. Up close, she was more ravaged—her hair tangled like storm-tossed brambles, her cheeks hollow from hunger. Her blue-gray eyes met his, sharp as a blade's edge, holding a shiver of fear but something fiercer too—a spark unbowed by chains. His breath caught, the market's din fading as if Isa herself had stilled the world.
Kaber loomed over the stall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across the splintered wood. Scars crisscrossed his weathered face, a map of battles won and lost, framed by dark hair cropped close, gray flecking the temples like ash in a dying fire. His hands, massive and calloused, dwarfed hers—knuckles knotted from gripping swords, forearms corded like twisted oak, wrists thick as her calf. The battered blade at his belt, its leather grip worn smooth, hung heavy, whispering of demons slain. Yet his dark brown eyes, nearly black in the market's dim light, flickered with unease, betraying the nervous hitch in his stance.
She stared back, her blue-gray gaze steady despite the collar's bite, accustomed to eyes that weighed her like butcher's meat. This man didn't leer like the slavers or lust like the perfumed lords who prowled these cages. He was no scoundrel craving a helpless thing to break—no, his scars and bulk spoke of foes far fiercer than chained girls. Handsome enough, with a rugged jaw to draw a courtesan's smile, and wealthy, judging by the silver sigil of Isa glinting at his throat—a paladin's badge, not a brothel-goer's coin. Yet he appraised her, judged her, as if searching for something beyond flesh.

 

[Synosius45]

"How old are you?" Kaber asked, voice low and halting, like a man stepping onto unsteady ground.
She flicked her eyes to the slaver, a wiry man with a predator's smirk, who'd been watching like a hawk. He gave a curt nod, chain rattling as he tugged it for emphasis. Permission granted. She lifted her chin, meeting Kaber's gaze again, her voice clear despite the cold tremor in her bones. "Twenty-four."
"How long have you been a slave?" he pressed, the words clumsy, unguarded.
Stupid questions, she thought, bitterness curling behind her cracked lips. He's never bought a slave—doesn't know the game. If he wanted labor, her hands could scrub or sow. If he sought pleasure, she'd learned to yield, to survive. If he craved pain—hers or his own—she could weave seduction or grovel, whatever kept her alive. But those eyes, dark as storm clouds, didn't hunger like the others. They searched, uncertain, and that unnerved her more than any whip.
"All my life," she answered, her voice catching with hesitation. Her blue-gray eyes searched his, unsure what this towering paladin sought. The words hung heavy, a truth worn thin by years of collars and cages.
"Do you want to come home with me?" Kaber asked, his deep voice faltering, as if testing forbidden ground.
"She's for sale, sir," the slaver cut in, his voice oily with greed, chain clinking as he stepped closer. His hawkish eyes narrowed, sensing a deal slipping beyond coin into something messier.
Kaber glanced up, raising a scarred hand in a curt gesture—wait—before his gaze dropped back to her, softer but no less intense. "Why are you asking me?" she said, brow furrowing, the collar's cold bite grounding her suspicion. No one asked slaves what they wanted—her life was a ledger of others' whims.
"I thought…" He stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, his paladin's sigil glinting faintly at his throat. "Maybe you'd want a kind master." The words tumbled out, earnest and clumsy, like a blade swung with too much heart.
She bit back a scoff, survival's instinct snapping tight. A kind master? Another rescue fantasy—nobles loved playing savior before tightening the leash. But his eyes, dark as storm-wrought iron, held no malice, only a nervous hope that disarmed her. She softened her expression, slipping into the role she'd perfected: the pliant prize. "You would buy me?" she purred, voice sultry, honey over steel. "I could belong to you, body and soul?"
Kaber's face flushed, his massive frame tensing as if struck. "That's a bit much, don't you think?" he blurted, voice cracking with panic, his hand twitching toward his battered sword as if it could fend off her words.
Her lips curved, a genuine smile breaking through, nearly a laugh. He was… adorable, this scarred giant tripping over his own honor. A man like him—broad as a barn, handsome enough to charm a tavern maid—probably had no trouble elsewhere, she thought, a wry flicker crossing her mind. She rose to her knees, chain rattling, and widened her eyes, letting them gleam with mock pleading. Her lips trembled artfully, her tattered shift slipping to bare a hint of cleavage. "Take me home, please," she breathed, "be my master!"
The slaver rolled his eyes, a smirk curling his thin lips. With his nervous stammer and holy badge, this chump was ripe for fleecing—twenty silver, easy, for this scrawny wench whose wit outshone her frame. He tugged the chain, a warning to keep the act tight.
Kaber's spine straightened, shoulders squaring as resolve settled over him like a well-worn cloak—a paladin's instinct kicking in, honed by battles where doubt meant death. "How much?" he asked, voice steady now, eyes fixed on the slaver.
"Twenty silver," the man replied, his smirk as sharp as a blade. His fingers drummed the stall's splintered edge.
Kaber's brow arched. "I thought the going rate was ten?"
"She's skilled in the sensual arts," the slaver drawled, leering at her as if she were a prize mare, his chain jangling for emphasis.
They haggled, voices rising over the market's din—Kaber's calm baritone clashing with the slaver's oily cadence—until they settled on sixteen silver coins clinking heavily into the man's greedy palm. With a grunt, the slaver knelt, unfastening the tarnished collar from her neck. It fell away, leaving raw, reddened skin, the chain coiling like a dead snake on the dirt.
Kaber turned to her, his dark eyes softening, searching past the grime and tattered shift. "What's your name?"
"Obedient Slave," she said, voice flat, blue-gray gaze steady but guarded, as if the words were carved into her bones.
"No, really," he pressed, a gentle urgency in his tone, "what's your name?"
"I don't have one." Her answer was a wall, unyielding, her lips barely moving.
Kaber blinked, his scarred face shifting—surprise, then something more profound, a flicker of sorrow as if he'd stumbled into waters too vast for his reckoning. "Do you just think of yourself as… Obedient Slave?" he asked, almost to himself, voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," she replied without pause, her chin lifting slightly, though a tremor betrayed her, a crack in the mask she'd worn all her life.
"I'm sorry," Kaber said, his expression crumpling, sadness etching lines deeper than his scars. His massive hand twitched as if to reach out but stilled at his side.
"Why are you sorry?" she asked, confusion rippling through her tone, her eyes narrowing. No one apologized to slaves—kindness was a trap, a prelude to worse.
"I don't want to think of you that way," he said softly, his voice raw like a prayer to Isa gone unanswered. The words hung between them, fragile as frost in the market's clamor.
"That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard," she blurted, the truth slipping free before she could cage it. Her face blanched, fear igniting—eyes wide, breath hitching—for such a reckless misstep. A master's wrath followed defiance: fists, whips, or worse. She braced, heart pounding, for the blow.
But Kaber chuckled, a low, warm sound, untouched by anger. No rage flared in his storm-dark eyes; no hand rose to strike or seize. He stood, weathered and towering, his battered sword still sheathed, his honor untainted by the market's filth. The slaver's smirk faded, unnoticed, as the air seemed to still, charged with something neither chain nor coin could bind.
Kaber strode from the stall, his heavy boots crunching on the market's cobbled filth, oblivious to her hesitation. No glance back, no command—he walked as if certain she'd trail him, as if chains still bound her steps. Her pulse quickened, eyes darting to the crowd's swirl—merchants haggling, cloaks brushing past. She could melt into that chaos with a few strides, a ghost in Adros's underbelly. But then what? Her contract sold to slave catchers, those leering dregs who'd hunt her like sport. They'd flay her for amusement, string her up in some squalid pit, selling tickets to her screams. The thought sank claws into her gut, colder than the collar's ghost on her neck.
She sprinted to catch him, bare feet slapping stone, and fell into step at his heel, head bowed like the obedient slave she'd been forged to be. The market's din—shouts, chains, hooves—faded as Kaber's voice broke through, curious, almost boyish. "Why is it weird?"
Her breath hitched, caught by his earnestness. "I'm a slave. I'm nothing," she said, voice low, tinged with a sadness she hadn't meant to bare. "I live to serve and be used—for pleasure, for pain." The words tasted like ash, truths she'd swallowed until they were her bones.
Kaber halted mid-stride, dust settling around his boots. He faced her, then looked away, as if her words were a blade he couldn't parry. He scratched his gray-speckled, bristled chin before his dark eyes met hers again—storm clouds heavy with something broken. He opened his mouth, but silence choked him, his face flushing with a quiet defeat, as if honor itself had betrayed him. "I can't imagine what you've been through," he said at last, voice cracking, eyes misting with unshed tears. He turned away, broad shoulders hunching, shame burning beneath his paladin's sigil.
She stared, caught by the raw, absurd weight of his sorrow. Laughter bubbled in her throat—pity for a slave, from a man who'd slain demons? Yet sadness coiled in her chest, unbidden, heavy as the chains she'd shed. Not for herself, but for him—for the pain in his eyes, like he'd glimpsed a lie woven into Adros's stones and felt its cut. A paladin, scarred by hell pits, grieving for her nothingness—it made no sense, yet it ached.
Kaber started walking again, slower now, his sword's battered scabbard swaying at his hip. She followed, steps measured, head lowered—an obedient slave's mask slipping over her racing heart. The sigil at his throat glinted faintly, Isa's light a flicker in the market's shadow, promising nothing but pulling her forward.
She watched Kaber clamber onto a rickety wagon, its weathered boards creaking under his bulk, and her heart sank. A donkey cart? Maybe he wasn't the paladin his sigil claimed—perhaps just a dirt farmer, scraping by in a mud-floored hovel with a sagging thatch roof that wept in the rain. She pictured him toiling dawn to dusk, mucking through pig slop, trudging home reeking of sweat and filth, expecting a hot meal and a quick tumble, her body just another chore. Her lips tightened, the collar's raw mark itching as cynicism curled in her gut—freedom's dream soured by another master's yoke.
Kaber turned, extending a scarred hand to help her onto the bench. Her fingers, small and calloused, vanished in his grip—firm, steady, but not bruising, as if he feared crushing a sparrow. She settled beside him, her slight frame barely claiming a quarter of the splintered seat while his broad shoulders spilled past the halfway mark. He scooted to the edge, wood groaning, yet still crowded her space. His dark eyes flicked to her, lingering on the tattered shift that clung to her, barely a veil against the morning's chill. A flush crept up his neck, and he stood abruptly, shrugging off his felt robe. With a clumsy drape, he wrapped it around her shoulders, its warmth heavy with the scent of leather and faint incense.
She schooled her face into a soft grimace, the kind women wore when men's kindness felt like a debt. Too nice, too soft—it always came with a price. Her fingers tightened on the robe's edge, wary of the trap beneath his scars.
The horse's hooves clip-clopped over Adros's cobblestones, a steady rhythm against the city's pulse. Triple-story townhouses loomed, their carved facades fading into slums where laundry sagged like ghosts. The castle's spire, silver-tipped, shrank at their backs, its shadow no longer touching her. They passed the fish market's briny stink, the leatherworker's acrid tang, and the alley reek of refuse and despair. Guards at the gate glanced their way, one's lips twitching—a knowing smirk, perhaps, at the paladin and his ragged charge. She ducked her head, the robe a shield against their eyes.
The wagon rolled beyond the walls, where fields unfurled under a warming sun, early fog burning off in wisps. A farmhouse emerged—sprawling, weathered, but no hovel. Its stone walls stood firm, though ivy clawed at the cracked mortar. Its big barn loomed over the fields, brown and sturdy, with wooden shingles weathered by seasons of sun and storm.
Multiple doors gaped open, boys darting through with purposeful strides—hauling buckets, tossing hay, their chatter a low hum she couldn't parse. A dozen young men worked the grounds, their movements languid in the morning light—exercising sleek horses, stitching leather tack, shoveling earth, sweeping barns, measuring grain, and grooming coats to a shine.
Horses snorted in distant pens, fields stretching beyond her understanding; she knew neither crops nor stables, only chains and survival's sharp lessons. Her gaze lingered on the barn's bustle, a world alien to her cage.
Kaber eased himself off the bench with a stifled groan, boots thudding on packed earth, his movements careful, as if each step prodded old wounds. He'd seemed a towering force in the market's shadow—broad, scarred, unyielding. Now, squinting in the midday light, he looked older, gray-flecked hair catching the sun like frost. A grandfather play-acting youth, she thought, her lips twitching with wry judgment. The bumpy ride had worn him down, his vast frame betraying creaks of weakness beneath the paladin's badge. Old and frail, after all—not the master she'd feared.
He approached a man—lean, weathered, younger than Kaber but older than the boys—who met him with a trader's nod. Words passed, low and brisk, as Kaber handed over a fistful of silver, coins glinting like pale stars. Together, they hefted bales of hay, their coarse fibers scratching the wagon's boards, and sacks of oats, heavy with dust that tickled her nose. She sat, unmoving, the robe loose around her shoulders, watching his slow labor without a word to her—no command, no glance to pull her into the work.
They rolled on, stopping at a ranch where the air thickened with the tang of blood and salt. Kaber bartered for slabs of meat, wrapped in rough cloth, their weight straining his scarred arms. At a farm, furrowed fields yielded sacks of vegetables—primarily potatoes, knobby and earth-crusted- piled into the wagon's bed. Through it all, he never beckoned her to lift or carry, though pain etched lines deeper into his face with each load. Did he forget I'm here? She wondered, a flicker of unease cutting through her scorn. A slave's purpose was labor—or worse—yet he let her sit, idle, as if she were no tool to wield.
The sun climbed to its zenith, bathing the road in golden warmth, the morning's fog a distant memory. She shrugged off Kaber's robe, letting it pool on the bench, and tilted her face to the light, savoring the heat on her bare arms. Her tattered shift offered little modesty, but the sun's caress felt like freedom, however fleeting. Kaber's dark eyes darted to her—quick, stolen glances, not leering but soft, almost shy, as if caught by her presence. A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden, warmth blooming in her chest. His attention, guileless and fleeting, stirred something she hadn't named—happiness, perhaps, fragile as a spark in straw.
The wagon creaked to a halt before an estate that sagged under neglect's weight—Kaber's home, a shadow of grandeur. Withered flowers hung limp in cracked beds, their petals dust on the wind. Browned hedges clawed skyward, brittle and untamed, while mounds of dead leaves and choking weeds sprawled across the courtyard, a graveyard of seasons past. The manor's stone facade loomed, its windows dark, shutters warped like broken bones.
Her blue-gray eyes flicked from road to hedge to shadowed gully, mapping escape in frantic bursts. If this were a horror house—some noble's lair for twisted games—she'd bolt, vanish into the wilds. But resignation sank heavy, a stone in her gut, knowing she wouldn't run away. Whatever he wants—blood, flesh, pain—it's my duty to give, she thought, the mantra of a life chained, etching deeper into her bones. She might scream herself to death in his dank basement, and she would accept that as her fate.
Kaber's gaze caught hers, his dark eyes softening as if he felt her surrender's weight. He slid an arm around her shoulders, tentative, his scarred hand light but warm through the robe she still wore. She shivered, bracing for the bruise, the grip that always followed kindness—a master's prelude to pain. Her pulse thudded, expecting the worst.
"I know it's not much to look at now," he said, voice low, tinged with a sigh. "I've been away… over a year, I think." His words trailed off as if counting battles, not months.
She turned, her face a mask of sorrow, dark pain pooling in her eyes. He was mocking her—dangling hope like slavers with wicked grins, promising safety before the whip fell. Men have always played this game, and their lies are a prelude to cruelty. But Kaber's expression held no smirk, no gleam of malice—only a flicker of disappointment, perhaps, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. He'd wanted her to see something in this ruin, to nod in awe at his domain, but her silence had failed him. Failure meant punishment, her flesh the price—she knew the script too well.
Men, she thought, bitterness curling like smoke. All little boys chasing approval, even from slaves whose thoughts should mean nothing. They preened—Your house so grand, your face so fine, your wealth so vast, your power unmatched, your prowess a myth to moan for. Take me, master, you're perfection! She'd fed those lies to survive, her voice a tool to soothe egos before they broke her. Yet Kaber's eyes sought no flattery, only something she couldn't name, and that unnerved her more than any lash.
She clutched Kaber's massive arm, fingers digging into his sleeve, and pressed her cheek against his shoulder, the robe's warmth a faint shield against her trembling. It no longer mattered who offered comfort—master or monster, even the cruelest sadist had a soul, a thread tying her to the world, proof she wasn't utterly alone. Her throat tightened, tears prickling. "Your house is very impressive, master," she said, voice quavering, forcing the flattery she'd honed to survive, though it tasted bitter now.
"Hey, what is this now?" Kaber said, his scarred hand cupping her head, fingers smoothing her tangled hair with a gentleness that jarred her. His voice was soft, curious, not commanding.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears spilling, her voice breaking on a sob's edge. "I've made so many mistakes. I'm a worthless slave." The words poured out, old wounds bleeding—failure meant pain, always had.
He scoffed, a low, incredulous sound, his weathered face creasing with sincerity. "Ridiculous! I can't think of anything you've done to offend me." His dark eyes held hers, steady, no trace of mockery.
"You mean it, truthfully?" she asked, voice shaking, her blue-gray gaze searching for the lie, the trap she'd learned to expect.
Kaber shrugged, a casual roll of broad shoulders, as if her fear weighed nothing, as if punishment wasn't the world's law. His nonchalance unnerved her—a master who forgave was a riddle she couldn't solve.
He halted the wagon before the manor's sagging barn, its warped doors creaking as he swung them wide. With a grunt, he unhitched the horse, leading it to a stall with a practiced hand, his movements slow, pain etching deeper lines into his face. He returned, hefting four sacks of oats into the barn, their dust swirling in slanted light. Each hay bale followed, lifted with a strained groan, his scars taut under sweat-damp linen. He broke off a piece for the horse, murmuring to the beast, a tenderness she hadn't expected.
"Go on, take the food inside," he said, barely glancing her way, his focus on brushing the horse's flank, voice calm but carrying a paladin's quiet authority.
She hesitated, then slid from the bench, bare feet meeting cold earth. The sacks—potatoes, meat, greens—felt leaden, her thin arms straining as she dragged them individually. A side door loomed, ajar, its iron hinges rusted but yielding. She stepped inside, into a chaos of neglect: wooden boxes toppled, small crates splintered, burlap sacks slumped like drunken sentries. Weapons glinted in the gloom—swords, daggers, a dented shield—strewn among pieces of armor, their trail snaking through the foyer like a warrior's fever dream. To the left, a kitchen beckoned.
The kitchen held order beneath its dust: knives aligned, pots stacked, cutting boards scarred but neat. A meat grinder rusted in a corner, a sausage press gleamed faintly, untouched. Strange tools—curved blades, spiked rollers—sat alien to her, relics of a chef long gone. The air felt heavy and lonely, as if the room mourned its purpose.
She set the sacks down with an echoing thud and stood rubbing the raw scar on her neck, a stranger in a house that whispered of memories and absence. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, stirred by her steps as she trudged back to the wagon for the remaining supplies—meat, greens, each load straining her thin arms.
Kaber appeared in the doorway, his massive frame filling it, silhouetted against the sun's glare like a sentinel carved from shadow. Her breath caught—this was it, the moment when masters turned cruel. She felt cornered in his trap, but the usual fear didn't rise in her throat. Exhaustion dulled her, or perhaps his steady eyes had worn down her dread. He stepped forward, dropping the last bundle of vegetables with a muffled thud, his scarred hands flexing as if shaking off pain.
"Do you know your way around a kitchen?" he asked, voice low, edged with a fatigue that matched the room's dust.
She paused, her fingers tightening on a sack's rough burlap. "No," she said, "but I can cut vegetables. That's usually all they let me do." Her voice was flat, a truth stripped bare by years of menial tasks, her eyes flicking to his, wary of judgment.
Kaber sighed, rubbing his gray-flecked temple, a flicker of regret crossing his weathered face. A chef would've been wiser—two silver for a stout matron, aproned and bustling, her stewpot simmering beef and thyme by now, maybe her children chopping carrots for free. Instead, he had her, untrained, trembling in a shift too thin for the manor's chill. He shook his head, less at her than himself.
"Do you know how to light a fire?" he asked, softer now, as if testing her limits.
"No, I'm sorry," she said, eyes dropping to the floor, misery choking her voice. "I'm a worthless slave." The words spilled, old wounds reopening, her shoulders curling inward as if braced for a lash.
"All right, come here," Kaber said, with no trace of anger, only a tired patience. He knelt before the tremendous cast-iron stove, its black bulk squat and cold, and opened a small door with a rusty squeak. She edged closer, watching as he drew a basket of fluffy char cloth and wood slivers from a shelf, his movements deliberate despite the creak in his joints. He broke the cloth into fragments, fingers deft but scarred, and steepled them with kindling in the stove's maw. A match flared—struck with a hiss—and flame licked through the pile, warm light catching his paladin's sigil, glinting like a star in the gloom.
He stepped away, filling a pot with water from a tap that groaned to life, and set it on the stove's flat iron. Kneeling again, he added a thick cord of wood, its bark flaking under his touch. "Just like that," he said, glancing at her. "When that log gets going, add two more. You got it?"
She nodded, a lie her eyes betrayed, uncertainty flickering in their blue-gray depths.
"Start washing the potatoes," he added, rising with a grunt, his gaze already drifting to the horse outside, as if the manor's weight pressed harder than his wounds.
She turned to the sink, scrubbing knobby potatoes under tepid water, their earth clinging stubbornly to her fingers. The kitchen's silence pressed in—knives still, pots empty, a faint hum pulsing somewhere deep like the manor's heart stirring her neck's scar. She worked, head bowed, an obedient shadow in a house of dust and echoes, yet Kaber's calm voice lingered, a riddle she couldn't unpick.
The pot simmered, water sluggishly bubbling on the cast-iron stove, its heat a faint pulse in the kitchen's chill. Kaber dipped a handful of eggs into the steaming water, counting minutes under his breath, then fished them out with a spoon. He passed one to her, its shell warm and speckled, before settling at the table's corner to peel his own, flakes scattering like ash on the scarred wood.
She perched on a stool opposite him, clutching the egg, its weight foreign in her palm. Silence cloaked the room—broken only by the pot's soft hiss and the distant hum of the kitchen, a low thrum that stirred her neck's raw scar. Peace should've soothed her, but it coiled her nerves tighter, a trap waiting to spring. The worst was coming—punishment always followed stillness, a master's fist or worse. Her eyes fixed on the egg, unseeing, dread pooling in her gut.
Kaber tapped his knuckles on the table, a sharp rap that jolted her. "Hey, wake up. Food," he said, voice gruff but not unkind, his dark eyes catching hers briefly before flicking away.
Tears pricked her eyes, blurring the egg's curve. She blinked, fighting their spill, but they clung to her lashes, heavy with a lifetime's worth of fear, failure, and the certainty of pain. Kaber froze mid-bite, his weathered face creasing with unease. He glanced around as if the dusty knives or rusted grinder might offer answers, then rose, fetching a tin cup from a shelf. Water sloshed as he filled it from the groaning tap and set it before her, his massive frame sinking back to the stool with a creak. His paladin's sigil glinted faintly, Isa's light a flicker in the gloom, useless against her trembling.

 

[Synosius45]

"I would like it if you punished me now," she said, voice barely above a whisper, shattering the silence. At least pain was certain—a script she knew, a role to play when lost in this manor's echoes.
"For what?" Kaber asked, voice rising, loud with disbelief, his brows knitting as if she'd spoken a foreign tongue.
"I didn't know what else to say. I feel so lost," she murmured, eyes downcast, fingers tightening around the egg. "Punishment, I understand. It reminds me of my place." Her voice wavered, raw, as if admitting defeat to a foe she couldn't name.
He chuckled, a warm, rolling sound, shaking his head. "At least wait till after lunch," he said, a grin tugging at his scarred lips, eyes softening with a humor that felt like sunlight breaking fog.
Normality washed over her, fragile but real, his jest a lifeline she hadn't expected. The egg's shell cracked under her fingers, peeling away in jagged strips, its warmth grounding her as she mimicked his motions. She sat, quieter now, the manor's hum a distant pulse, her tears drying as Kaber's chuckle lingered, a riddle wrapped in kindness she couldn't yet trust.
Kaber tipped the pot, draining steaming water from the potatoes, their earthy scent mingling with the kitchen's dust. He sprinkled in a gray powder—some soldier's alchemy, she guessed—stirring until it thickened into a glossy gravy. Selecting a blackened frying pan from the neat but lonely rack, he set it sizzling, laying out strips of bacon that popped and spit, their rich, smoky aroma flooding the room, curling around the rusted grinder and silent knives like a spell.
Her mouth watered, hunger clawing her hollow belly as she sat, hands folded on the worn table, eyes tracing the bacon's crisp edges. Kaber slopped a heap of diced potatoes, gravy, and bacon onto a tin plate, sliding it before her with a fork that clinked softly. "Come on, skinny bones, eat up," he said, a grin tugging his scarred lips. "I'm not that terrible of a cook."
She blinked at the plate, its bounty foreign. "What is it?" she asked, voice small, fingers hovering over the fork.
"Trail food," he said, settling across from her, his plate piled high, the stool creaking under his bulk.
She prodded a potato and then plucked a bacon strip; it was tempting. The first bite burst on her tongue—fat and salt, a blaze of flavor that made her chin lift, eyes fluttering as she chewed slowly, savoring a joy she'd forgotten. Kaber watched, his dark gaze softening, the paladin's sigil at his throat catching the stove's glow, a faint star in the gloom.
"Usually, we boil the bacon with the potatoes," he said, breaking a strip for himself, "but it's better in the skillet. Multiple pots are too much to carry on a long march." His voice carried a soldier's ease, weathered but warm, as if sharing mess-hall tales.
She tried the potatoes, their creamy warmth mingling with the gravy's tang, each bite a quiet revelation, filling voids she hadn't named. "Mostly, I just eat stale bread and table scraps," she said after a pause, the words slipping free, raw with truth. They ate silently, forks scraping, the kitchen's hum a distant pulse. Then, hesitantly, she ventured, "You're a soldier?"
"Sort of," Kaber said, leaning back, his gray-flecked hair catching the light. "I'm a paladin."
"What's that?" she asked, brow furrowing, the word alien on her tongue.
"It's a mix of cleric and warrior," he replied, simple, as if explaining a trade, though his eyes held a weight—battles, oaths, scars unseen.
The idea baffled her, a riddle beyond her cage's bars. Clerics were myths whispered of in markets, robed figures wielding light she'd never seen. Soldiers she knew, their rough hands seeking comfort, a quick embrace or fleeting warmth, their kindness transient as coin. But a paladin? She chewed, staring at the plate, her mind grappling with a man who fought yet healed, whose hands cooked rather than struck. The manor's shadows seemed to listen, their hum stirring her scar, as if Kaber's world held secrets her own couldn't touch.
Kaber scraped the last of his plate, the fork's soft clink swallowed by the kitchen's hush, and pushed himself up from the table, stool creaking under his weight. "I trust you can clean up?" he said, voice rough with fatigue, eyes heavy as if battles clung to him still. "The trip was exhausting. I'm going to lie down and read for a bit."
She nodded, her blue-gray gaze flicking to his for a fleeting second—just enough to mark his words, a slave's reflex honed by years of commands. Her fingers tightened briefly on the tin plate, its warmth fading.
He shuffled from the room, steps dragging, his broad frame stooped like an ancient oak bowed by storm. Gone was the man who'd slung hay bales an hour ago, muscles taut under scars; now he seemed a relic, worn by time or ghosts she couldn't name. The manor's shadows claimed him, floorboards groaning faintly, leaving her alone with the stove's dying embers.
She ate quickly, bacon's salt lingering, potatoes filling the hollow ache in her belly. The plate cleared, she turned to the sink, scrubbing dishes under a stream of hot water—steaming, unnatural, flowing from a tap that gleamed faintly, like a wizard's charm etched into iron. Magic? Her brow furrowed, hands pausing in the suds, the kitchen's pulse a riddle pouring over her skin. Drying the last fork, she glanced around the room, dust and order whispering of absence—a chef's ghost, a master's neglect.
Her eyes caught a large cabinet, its sturdy door banded with iron, beckoning like a half-remembered dream. She tugged it open, a rush of cold air kissing her face, sharp and unnatural. Inside, shelves gleamed with frost—an ice box, stocked with the day's haul: meat wrapped tight, potatoes knobby, greens crisp despite the road. Her breath caught, fingers hovering over the chill. Magic, too? The kitchen's hum seemed to answer, low and steady, as if its heart beat beneath the stone. Maybe he's richer than I thought, she mused, a spark of wonder cutting through her caution—Kaber, no dirt farmer, but a man of means cloaked in dust and scars.
She drifted from the kitchen, bare feet whispering over cold stone, the manor's hush urging her onward. Her fingers trailed along cracked walls as she explored its sprawling bones—servants' quarters, their bunks sagging, blankets gray with dust; dining rooms, tables bare, chandeliers dulled by cobwebs; bedrooms, mattresses sunken, curtains frayed; a library, shelves bowing under tomes, their leather spines cracked like old skin; storage rooms, crates spilling rusted tools, shadows pooling in corners. Each door creaked, each step braced for a secret torture dungeon—chains, bones, a noble's cruel jest—but she found only neglect, the manor's hum low and mournful, stirring her neck's raw scar as if it wept for Kaber's absence.
Her heart tugged her to the master bedroom, its heavy door looming at the corridor's end. She eased it open, the hinges sighing, and peered inside. Kaber lay sprawled on a vast bed, its canopy tattered, velvet faded to ash. He slept, chest rising slow, a book splayed open across his linen shirt, pages yellowed, its script unreadable in the dim glow of a single candle stub. His scarred face softened, gray-flecked hair loose, the paladin's sigil at his throat glinting faintly, Isa's echo in a room of ghosts.
Loneliness clawed her, sharp and sudden, a void no meal could fill. Instinct took hold, older than fear—she shed her tattered shift, the fabric pooling like a shed skin, and crawled onto the bed, smooth as a shadow, her slight frame barely denting the mattress. She curled beside him, close but not touching, her breath shallow, expecting rebuke. In other houses, new masters demanded seduction—sex, a swift blade to their hearts, her body a tool to survive their lust or rage. She'd learned to read their eyes, to yield before whips fell, her worth tied to pleasing or screaming.
But Kaber was different. His glances held no heat, no leering hunger to punish ignored desire. He'd offered eggs, not orders, his care a riddle—indifference, perhaps, or regret. Does he wish he hadn't bought me? Her mind spiraled, old wounds bleeding. Worthless, scrawny, no skills—suitable only for fleeting pleasure or sobbing under pain, a slave's litany carved deep. Yet his warmth drew her closer, a hearth against her chill. She nuzzled in, cheek grazing his arm, and rested a hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath, strong beneath scars. The book's edge brushed her fingers like this moment held a truth she couldn't name.
Kaber stirred, his voice thick with sleep, a low rumble in the dim bedroom. "Oh, hey. What are you doing?" he murmured, eyes half-lidded, candlelight catching the gray flecks in his hair.
She said nothing, her breath shallow, guided by instinct over fear. Her hands slid under his linen shirt, fingers brushing warm skin, taut over muscle. The fabric bunched, its weave coarse against her calloused palms, the manor's faint hum pulsing through her neck's raw scar as if urging her on.
He shivered, a tremor rippling through his broad frame, and she paused, heart quickening. Was he untouched by women, this scarred giant? His face stayed calm, lips parted slightly, no trace of anger or lust—just a quiet surrender that unnerved her. Emboldened, she unbuttoned his blouse, each clasp yielding with a soft pop, revealing a chest sculpted and dusted with dark hair. Faint scars crisscrossed his skin like old maps—battles won or endured. Below, fresher wounds—pink, jagged, claw-like—slashed across his navel, vanishing beneath his trousers' waist, raw as if torn by a beast's fury.
Her pulse raced, arousal flickering at his vulnerability, this paladin laid bare under her touch. She traced the pink scar, its heat startling against her fingertips, and Kaber flinched, a sharp intake of breath breaking the silence. "What did this to you?" she asked, voice a husky whisper, eyes searching his for truth.
"A demon," he said, casual as if naming a storm, his dark gaze steady, untroubled by her touch.
"I don't know what a demon is," she admitted, her fingers stilling, her brow furrowing. The word felt heavy, a shadow beyond her cage's bars—slavers were cruel, but monsters?
"It's good you don't know," he said, voice low, a flicker of weight behind his ease. "They're monsters of pure evil." His shoulder lifted in a shrug, careless, as if scars and demons were just another day's work, no need for her awe or belief.
She froze, hands hovering over his skin, gauging his calm. Was he spinning tales, a warrior's boast to charm or mock? His shrug said neither truth nor lie; he didn't care what she thought, and that indifference stirred her more than fear. The book resting on his chest slid to the side as if a gate had opened, and her purpose was clear.
The candle's flicker cast shadows over Kaber's scars in the tattered bedroom. Her fingers found his trousers' clasp, easing it open with a soft rasp. Her hand slipped beneath the linen to feel his warmth stirring, quickening under her touch. She met his eyes, blue-gray steel in hers, confidence surging—this was her domain, a script she knew by heart, where slaves held fleeting power.
She shifted to her knees, tugging his trousers down, revealing him—broad, strong, like the rest of his weathered frame. Her hand moved slowly, tracing his length, each stroke deliberate, her pulse steady despite the manor's ghosts whispering of traps. Kaber's breath hitched, but his face held no command, only a quiet watchfulness, the paladin's sigil glinting at his throat like a star in the gloom.
"You don't have to be a slave here," he said, voice low, steady, not a master's lure but a truth she couldn't grasp.
Her lips tightened—she recognized this game, the lure to confess her truth. But she knew the false answers to give: I crave you, master, take me, I'm yours. Words to stroke egos, to survive whips. But this felt different; there was no jest in his eyes and no trick to unravel. She stayed silent, her touch unbroken; this moment was no game but a dare to trust. The air thickened as if it watched.
She slithered up, her breath grazing his jaw, lips hovering near his. Slowly, Kaber's arms rose, oak-strong, wrapping her close, their warmth a shield against the room's chill. Their lips met, his kiss gentle, savoring, not claiming—a caress that startled her. Could she pull away? She tested, easing back, but his hold tightened briefly, firm as roots, insisting on the kiss's end. Her tongue brushed his lips, meeting his, and his grip softened, a silent yield, as if her touch had won a quiet battle.
Her kisses trailed down, lips grazing his massive chest, its scars like rivers under her breath, over the taut ripple of his abdomen. Her fingers curled around him again, firm and warm, a smile flickering in her eyes—lust, yes, but laced with triumph. I've got you now, she thought, a victor's thrill. You'll bare your soul, your secrets—your game will unravel. She believed desire would bind him, make him hers, as it had others, though his gentleness shook her certainty.
Her lips brushed his warmth, teasing its sensitive tip, drawing a soft moan from him—a surrender that felt like victory in her mind. Think of this instead when you think about hurting me, she willed, her breath warm against his skin. Slowly, she lowered her head, enveloping him, her tongue tracing tender spirals, coaxing his hips to rise, a subtle buck against her rhythm.
She sank deeper, pausing to draw a steady breath through her nose, the air sharp with linen and his heat. Her lips tightened, taking him further, the act a claim—not of a slave, but of her power. Kaber's moan deepened, urgent, resonating through the bed's creak. She eased back, letting friction linger, then plunged again, each motion measured, her throat steady despite its quiver, a secret she kept as her eyes flicked up, meeting his briefly, asserting her control.
His cry broke free, raw and unguarded, a good boy's plea, his abdomen clenching, scars taut under candlelight. She moved steadily, rising and falling, her hands joining the dance, fingers curling around his base, stroking in time. Kaber's head lifted, eyes hazy, clouded with surrender, before sinking back to the pillow, his breath ragged.
Her lips focused higher, savoring his warmth, while her hands worked lower, firm and sure. A pulse quickened under her touch, his body tensing, a low grunt—almost a growl—rumbling as his release surged, warm and sudden, filling her senses. She held steady, eyes locked on his face, watching every muscle seize, his torso curling, scars vivid, as he yielded fully to her. The manor's stones bore witness, binding them in this raw, unspoken truth.
Kaber collapsed, a shudder rippling through his scarred frame, every muscle slack with spent fervor, the bed creaking under his weight. She snaked upward, smooth as a shadow, and nestled her head on his chest, a wild grin curling her lips—victory hers, the paladin's strength conquered by her touch. His heartbeat thrummed beneath her cheek, steady despite his gasps.
He rolled over, propping himself to face her, an unguarded smile etched on his weathered face, eyes glinting with a warmth that caught her off guard. They lay there, time stretching in the manor's hush, dust motes drifting in the candle's glow. Her triumph lingered, fierce and fragile, until Kaber shifted, flipping atop her with a fluid grace that belied his exhaustion. His grin widened, playful, a spark of mischief dancing in his gaze, as if he held a secret move in their unspoken game.
Her smile faltered, face smoothing to neutrality, a flicker of fear seeping through her mask—victory was hers no longer, the warrior's weight a reminder of masters past. Her breath hitched, expecting force, pain, the script she knew too well. But Kaber's lips found her neck, soft and deliberate, trailing warmth along her collarbone, then lower, grazing her chest. His breath teased her skin, coaxing a shiver as he lingered, kissing gently until her body responded, tightening under his care. His mouth drifted further, brushing her flat stomach, each touch a quiet exploration, reverent, not claiming.
Confusion swirled in her—no man had touched her like this, offering pleasure without demand. Slavers took, soldiers sought quick release, but Kaber's kisses felt like worship, a riddle beyond her cage's bars. The manor's hum swelled faintly, as if its stones leaned closer—binding them in this uncharted moment, where fear and wonder fought for her heart.
His lips brushed the tender hollow where her thighs met, a spark of warmth that sent her breath catching. He eased her legs apart with care, sliding lower, his frame a shadow against the tattered canopy. As his tongue grazed the delicate edge of her skin, her body arched, a jolt of pleasure so sharp it startled her. Her hands rose, instinctively pushing against his head as she gasped, a reflex born of fear and uncharted sensation.
Kaber paused, lifting his gaze to hers, her head thrown back, a moan trembling on her lips. His eyes held no demand, only patience, glinting in the candlelight like the paladin's sigil at his throat. Her tension ebbed, hands softening, fingers threading through his gray-flecked hair, urging him closer—a surrender she hadn't planned. He ventured deeper, his touch slow, reverent, finding the heart of her warmth. She flinched again, a shiver of intensity, but he gently nudged her hands aside, his breath steady against her skin.
His kisses lingered, soft and deliberate, tracing her contours as she moaned, her body easing into the unfamiliar tide. He savored her, teasing with care until her limbs writhed, breath ragged, panting in the manor's hush. The room seemed to tremble—or was it her?—its walls blurring as if the air quivered, lifting her senses skyward. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with awe, to find Kaber leaning over her, his smile warm, unguarded, scars vivid in the dim light. His hand guided himself to her, a gentle press at her threshold, as the manor's pulse swelled, binding them in this raw, soaring moment.
Their chests heaved, lungs grasping for the dusty air, the candle's glow dimming as if bowing to their shared breath. Kaber hovered above her, sweat tracing his scars, and in her gaze, he seemed new—raw, unguarded, no master but a man. Her schemes—control, seduction—lay in ruins, no game of power but life itself, unscripted, vast. A slave's life still, perhaps, but certainty had fled, leaving only his warmth, stirring her neck's raw scar like a question unanswered.
He smiled, soft and sure, rolling to her side, the bed creaking under his weight. A pang struck her—don't go far—and she pressed close, cheek to his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum against her fear. "So, you were trained in the sensual arts?" he asked, voice light, teasing.
"That's just what slavers claim," she said, a half-laugh hiding old wounds, her fingers tracing the bed's worn velvet.
" Isa is a goddess of growth, nature, love, and family," he said, gazing into the distance as though witnessing a vision of beauty. "Verdant fields, tall trees, typically evergreen pines, her symbols. Clerics study healing, anatomy, the functions of living bodies, and sexuality."
"So you were trained in the sensual arts?" she teased, a giggle breaking free, her shame easing in his comfort.
"You could say that," he chuckled, eyes crinkling, scars softening in the candle's glow.
"I believe it. I've just…" She faltered, shame rising like bile. "Been with many men." No use hiding—her past was her skin, worn and torn.
"I've known many women," he said, no judgment, only truth, his hand resting near hers, not claiming.
"You're different," she murmured, her voice catching on wonder's edge.
"Your lot didn't care how you felt," he said, not a question, his gaze steady, seeing her scars unseen.
"They wanted me to enjoy it but never tried," she admitted, bitterness fading in the manor's hush.
"I love a woman's moan, her arching back," he said, voice low, earnest. "Feeling her tense and cry out."
"That makes you feel powerful?" she asked, searching his face, expecting pride.
"It is powerful," he said, simple, no boast, as if power was shared, not taken.
"There's a difference—fake power and fantasy," she pressed, her old cynicism flaring.
"I'm the real deal," he said, a grin tugging his lips, scars creasing with quiet pride.
She paused, walls crumbling. "I thought this was a game," she confessed, sadness threading her voice. "I came here to control you—seduce you, make you love me." Her eyes dropped, raw with truth.
"I don't know," he said, casual as dawn, "but I love you, so I suppose it worked." His tone was light, as if he could simply declare a holiday, yet his eyes held her steady and true.
Her breath snagged; she felt stuck in place as if she had stepped on her own tail. "You can't just say that," she snapped, anger masking fear, tears pricking.
"Why not?" he asked, brows lifting, no jest in his gaze.
"Because you don't mean it!" she hissed, voice trembling, braced for lies.
"I'm a holy warrior of love!" he laughed, rolling closer as the bed groaned, his arm draping loosely around her.
"But real love—cherish, passion, devotion, like vows," she insisted, tears spilling, hot against her cheeks.
"I fall fast," he said, his voice softer now, scars vivid in the dim light. "I think I loved you at the market, sitting there, so fierce yet so fragile. I had never bought a slave before, but I thought a handful of silver could change her life."
"That was kind," she whispered, tears streaming, her chest tight with awe, fear, hope.
"I'm glad you're here," he said, his hand brushing against her arm, not claiming, only near.
"What now?" she asked, voice small, the future a shadow beyond the candle's reach.
"Rebuild my estate till the sovereign calls," he said, gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling as if seeing distant banners.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowing at the weighty word: sovereign.
"I'm a paladin, remember?" he said, a wry smile flickering.
"He calls you for what?"
"Whatever he needs—slay a beast, fight a war," he said, as if naming chores, his hand flexing, scars taut.
"You're a free citizen," she said, confused, her cage's bars sharper in her mind.
"Such is life," he sighed. "We're all bound, one way or another."
"Could we go elsewhere?" she asked, voice trembling, picturing fields, freedom.
"Loyalty holds most lands together," he said, not unkindly. "Society's built on it."
"I don't want you to leave," she said, fear rising, his warmth suddenly finite.
"Not soon—likely years," he reassured, eyes meeting hers, steady as stone.
"Years?" she echoed, mind spinning—years with him, then gone, a void she couldn't face.
"I'm not fit for battle yet," he said, voice low, pained. "Demon wounds heal slow—body and soul. I feel them still, fresh as yesterday." His hand grazed his side, pink scars vivid, and she saw it—the hobble, the shuffle, not age but pain's deep bite.
Her heart clenched as she understood his faltering steps, the warrior's mask concealing wounds that screamed. The manor's hum swelled as if its stones mourned with them, binding their pain in the candle's dying flicker.
"You're going to need a real name," he said, smiling.