He rode just ahead of me. I followed, listening to the steady thud of hooves and wondering what would become of me.
The light burned against my eyes, and the stony path bit into my bare feet, leaving them sore and dust-covered. Still, my hand kept drifting to my throat, to the place where the collar had been.
He had removed it the moment he bought me.
Slavers never removed collars.
When he wasn’t looking, I glanced up at him, trying to understand what kind of master did such a thing. He wore a grey robe embroidered with gold, and his dark hair was streaked with silver. Wealthy, then. Perhaps noble.
But nobles bought slaves too.
My last owner sold me because he couldn’t afford to feed me, or that’s what he told me. Maybe this one would keep me.
The mage looked at me again and asked in a soft voice, “Are you all right?”
“I’m... fine, Master. Just... thinking about the stories they told us… About mages who burn their slaves alive when they make mistakes.” My fingers twitched at my sides, as if imagining flames licking at my skin.
I had learnt he was a mage at the market. My previous owner said that I needed to behave because a mage had purchased me.
He said with a soft, sarcastic laugh, “Is that right?”
My head snapped up, unsure whether the laughter was a good sign.
“You... find that funny, Master?” My voice trembled, just enough to betray me as I tried to hide fear. The road stretched endlessly ahead, and I wondered if it led to a pyre or a cottage.
“Not all rumours are founded in fact. We don’t ‘burn’ for punishment,” he replied.
I exhaled shakily, my shoulders relaxing just a fraction. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
“Then... what do you do, Master?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. I found myself bracing for an answer I might not want to hear. The wind carried the scent of wild thyme from the fields beside the road, a small comfort.
“We teach, with the hope of bettering people,” he stated.
My breath caught in my throat. For the first time since the market, I lifted my chin fully, not in defiance, but in hesitant wonder.
“Teach... me?” The word was fragile, hopeful. The road ahead suddenly felt less like a march towards an unseen horror and more like... a path. What would I know about magic? I chanced another glance at him. Why would he teach me?
My bare feet still ached. I barely noticed.
“Everyone is teachable. It depends on whether one wants to learn, whether it sticks or not,” he added.
My hands clutched at the hem of my ragged tunic, knuckles whitening, not from fear this time, but from the sudden, desperate need to prove myself.
“I want to learn! More than anything!” My voice was raw, earnest. I stepped closer to the horse, ignoring the stones biting into my bare feet. “Show me how to be worthy of your teaching, Master!”
He sighed. “We’ll see. I think the best thing for you is to settle in. We’ll be there soon.”
My fingers tightened around the horse’s reins as I walked, not to pull or guide, just to steady myself. The words settled over me like sunlight after weeks of rain.
“Yes, Master,” I murmured, softer now, almost reverent. The ache in my feet faded beneath the weight of something brighter: anticipation. I stole another glance at the mage, searching for clues in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, anything to tell me what this new life might hold. But for once, my fear didn’t twist the silence into something sharp.
The road curved ahead, and I walked a little taller.
“So, Amara, what is your age?”
My steps faltered for a heartbeat, surprised by the question after so much silence. I counted the summers in my head, not all of them worth remembering.
“Seventeen, I think, Master.” I hesitated, then added quietly, “Though the slavers said I looked younger when they... when they priced me.” The road ahead dipped into a shallow valley, where fireflies already danced in the gathering dusk.
“You’re young!” He seemed surprised at this. “Well, I hope you like your new home.”
The word "home" lingered in the air like an unlit candle, something fragile, waiting to be kindled. I watched the fireflies flicker in the valley below, their glow mirrored in the sudden brightness of the hills.
“I’ve never had a home before, Master. Just… places.” My voice was soft, almost lost in the crunch of gravel underfoot. Then, quieter still, “Do you think I’ll be good at magic?”
The question hung between us, tentative as the first star appearing overhead.
“Well, child, this is what we will find out,” he said after a short silence.
I stopped walking abruptly, turning fully towards the mage for the first time. The fading light caught the determination in my eyes, no longer the skittishness of a beaten slave, but the fierce hope of someone given a chance.
“Then let me prove it tonight. Not tomorrow, not next week.” I held out my hands, palms up, my fingers trembling, from the sheer force of wanting. “Teach me one thing. Just one. Before we even reach the door.” I didn’t want to be sold again. I wanted to belong.
“Magic, Amara, should never be rushed. Think of it like a fire. If you take the time to lay the stones around a campfire, it can be controlled. Should you just light the fire without these stones, it could grow into a wildfire and start consuming everything around it.” He looked directly into my eyes. “You will have to learn patience, Amara.” He said as he gave a reassuring smile.
My hands slowly lowered. I nodded once, sharply, though my jaw remained set with stubborn determination.
“I understand, Master. But...” I hesitated, then pressed on, voice dropping to a whisper, “Will you at least tell me what the stones look like? So, I can start gathering them in my head?” Was I pushing too much? He remained silent, but he smiled.
The road narrowed as we crested the hill, and in the distance, the first lights of the mage’s estate flickered into view. My bare feet left faint prints in the dust.
“Around the next corner is my cottage; let’s get there first.” He was looking straight ahead at the road.
I followed silently, my earlier eagerness tempered by the mage’s words but not extinguished. As we rounded the bend, my breath caught at the sight of the cottage nestled among ancient oaks. The windows glowed warm against the deepening twilight, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
“It’s… beautiful, Master.” The words slipped out unbidden, my voice hushed with something like reverence.
I hesitated at the edge of the path, suddenly aware of the dirt caking my feet and the sweat-stained tunic clinging to my back. For the first time since the market, I felt out of place, not as a slave, but as someone standing at the threshold of a world I had only dreamed of.
The estate consisted of three buildings: the main cottage, the stables, and a small shed. All three were painted white with dark trim, tucked beneath ancient oaks as if Kaelzura itself had hidden them there.
It looked safe.
That was what frightened me most.
The mage dismounted and said, “Can you please take my horse to the stable, feed and water her, and meet me inside?”
He then entered the cottage. As I watched him go, I wondered why he asked me instead of commanding me.
My hands tightened around the reins, turning toward the stable. The horse, a chestnut mare with kind eyes, snorted softly as I led her away, the air cooling as the sun began to set. I worked quickly in the stable, my movements precise even though I had never done it before. The hay smelled sweet, the water bucket gleamed in the lantern light, and for a fleeting moment, I imagined this was my own horse to care for. The thought sent a strange warmth through my chest.
At the cottage door, I hesitated. My fingers brushed the rough wood before I stepped inside. What would this be like? He didn’t seem to be cruel. There was a kindness about him. Why would he be kind to me? After all, he had bought me as a slave. Slaves were meant to work, not to be invited into conversation. I took a deep breath and stepped through the threshold.
“Ahh, there you are.” The mage was reading a book. At this, he pointed over his shoulder and said, “There is your bed.” I looked over at what was not a makeshift bed, but a proper one. On the bed lay a neatly folded blue tunic, trousers, and a pair of sandals.
I stood frozen in the doorway, my gaze moving from the bed to the clothes and back to him. The fabric looked soft, softer than anything I had ever worn. My fingers hovered over the tunic, unsure whether I was allowed to touch it.
“These… these are for me, Master?”
“Yes. I can’t have you wandering around the estate in rags.”
I ran one fingertip along the folded hem, half-expecting the fabric to vanish beneath my touch.
But it didn’t. It was real. He had given this to me. It was mine.
I turned abruptly towards the mage. I wanted to thank him, but I was cautious, fearful of upsetting him. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice thick with something unspeakable. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I added: "May I...” I hesitated, “Wash first?" before wearing something so precious. I waited for him to refuse.
He nodded. “There’s water and a bath out the back.”
I moved through to the back door like a shadow, my bare feet silent on the wooden planks. The bath was a simple copper tub, already filled with water that steamed gently in the cool evening air. I wondered who had prepared it, as I had seen no one else on the estate.
The water was scalding at first, but I didn’t flinch. Dirt swirled away from my skin as I scrubbed with the rough soap left beside the tub.
For the first time in years, I felt clean. Not the hurried, utilitarian cleanliness of a slave washed before the market, but properly clean.
I returned to the cottage in the blue tunic, the fabric whispering against my skin with every step. The sandals felt foreign on my feet, but I didn’t remove them. My damp hair clung to my neck where the collar should have been, but it was gone. I hesitated near the table.
“Master… may I ask what you’re studying?”
My voice was tentative, but my heart burned with curiosity. He put the book down gently before I had a chance to see it.
“Can you cook?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard. I glanced toward the hearth, where a cast-iron pot hung unused.
“I... can prepare basic meals, Master. Nothing elaborate. Should I make something now?”
The mage nodded toward the hearth. “Make some stew for us. You’ll find what you need.”
I hesitated for only a heartbeat before moving to the hearth. My fingers traced the edge of the wooden counter as I took inventory: onions, carrots, and a haunch of cured meat. The knife felt heavy in my hand at first, but the rhythm of chopping steadied me. I didn’t glance back at the book, though its presence lingered like a ghost at the edge of my vision. What was in the book? Was it a spell book?
The stew simmered, its aroma filling the cottage: thyme, garlic, and something warmer, richer. I stirred it absently, my thoughts drifting to the collar the mage had removed and the clothes that fit me. To the question I couldn’t ask: why? When I finally spoke, my voice was barely audible over the crackling fire. “Master... is there a rule about when I can ask about magic?” The spoon stilled in the pot, waiting.
“You are learning your first lesson now. Patience. Do not rush.” I was facing the pot at this, but heard him placing the book away. “Join me at the table when you are ready.”
My hand tightened around the spoon before I forced myself to relax. Eat at the master’s table? I ladled the stew into two clay bowls with deliberate care, no spills, no mess, and set one before him.
“Here, Master,” I murmured.
Then I stood there, bowl in hand. It wasn’t right. Slaves didn’t eat with their masters.
The mage gestured to the chair. “Sit, Amara.”
I obeyed carefully, balancing on the edge of the seat as though it might reject me. The stew’s warmth seeped through the clay into my palms. I waited, watching him.
“You may eat,” He said with a reassuring smile. “You don’t need permission anymore.”
I didn’t know how to take that. My fingers tightened around the bowl.
“Master?” I asked carefully. “May I know your name?”
His smile softened. “You don’t need permission to ask, either. I am Zorren Greystorm.”
My lips parted slightly.
“Zorren Greystorm,” I repeated softly.
The name sounded too grand for the small table between us.
“Do names always mean something?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes they are only names.”
My gaze slipped back to the book before I could stop it.
“And that?” I asked. “Is that magic?”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Another question?”
I lowered my eyes. “Sorry, Master.”
“I didn’t say you had to stop asking.”
I looked up again, unsure whether I had understood him correctly.
“Then… how do family names work, Mas—Zorren?” I stumbled over the name, unused to addressing anyone so familiarly.
“May I ask your surname?” he asked.
My spoon clattered into the bowl. For a moment, I could only stare at him. Why did he need to know my family? I didn’t have one. All I had were memories I tried not to touch.
“I don’t have one,” I said carefully. “Slaves don’t.”
My fingers brushed the bare skin where my collar used to be. The traders had called me whatever sold best. Amara of the Valley. Amara the Quick.
None of it was real.
I picked up my spoon again, though I no longer wanted the stew.
“Does that matter?”
“You have a surname. All people do. We will have to discover it together.” He continued to eat the stew, undisturbed. My spoon paused mid-air, a carrot dangling precariously. When I set the spoon down, my hands started to shake.
"Discover it?... how?" My voice was barely above a whisper, but the words carried the weight of a challenge. I leaned forward slightly, my shadow stretching across the table toward Zorren’s book. The scent of thyme and lightning filled the space between them. "Will magic tell you? Or—" I gestured vaguely toward my own chest, where a slave brand might have been. "Do I just pick one?" Anger surged through me. How dare he ask that? I tried to will the tears not to come. The stew cooled, forgotten as I waited, my bare toes curling against the floorboards.
“Well, it comes from your heritage. You were born; therefore, you have parents. Knowing who they are will help us know who you are.” He said with a tone of authority.
My breath hitched. “Parents.” The word felt foreign, dangerous. I pushed my bowl away with deliberate slowness, the stew’s surface now still and cold. When I spoke, my voice was tight, controlled.
“I was six when they sold me. I remember... a river. And singing. Not their faces.” My fingers traced the wood grain of the table, following invisible currents. The fire popped, sending a spark skittering toward the hearth. I watched it die before adding, almost too softly to hear: “Does magic remember what people forget?”
The question hung between us, fragile as the steam rising from Zorren’s stew.
“No, people do.” He took a spoonful and continued, “I also doubt your parents sold you. A parent’s love is very powerful…”
My hands clenched into fists beneath the table, and my nails bit into my palms. The scent of rosemary turned acrid in my nose. I spoke through clenched teeth, each word measured. I cut him off. “You doubt?” A bitter laugh escaped me, sharp as shattered glass. “Then you’ve never seen a harvest moon in the slaver’s compound. Parents sell. Children learn. That’s the first lesson they teach you with the whip!” I was upset now. My face was hot. Tears were welling.
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floorboards. The blue tunic hung loose on my frame, suddenly too large. “May I be excused…. Zorren!” The name was a blade between my ribs.
The fire guttered in the hearth, casting long shadows across his face.
He nodded, picked up the book, and placed it back where it belonged. He was quietly observing my next movements.
I turned on my heel and strode toward the door. Slamming the door behind me, I stepped outside. The night air hit me like a slap, cool against my heated skin. Fireflies still danced in the garden, their glow mocking in its steadiness. I gripped the doorframe until my knuckles were pale, then released it with a shuddering breath. Tears flowed freely.
I sat out there for some time. I looked into the sky. The stars were sharp that night. I counted them silently, forcing my pulse to slow. Behind me, the faint rustle of pages turned. A reminder: patience. The word tasted like ash.
My fingers found the absent collar again. When I spoke, it was not to Zorren, but to the dark. “They sang me a lullaby before they handed me to the traders. Does that sound like love to you?” I tried hard to hold back the tears and to force the lump in my throat to go down.
The silence stretched like a noose. I exhaled sharply through my nose, fingers digging into my own arms where the slave brand should have been. The fireflies blurred in my vision. When I finally turned back toward the cottage door, I stepped in slowly. My voice was raw. “Fine. Teach me how magic works instead. Since you seem to know everything else.” The bitterness cracked halfway through, revealing the desperation beneath. I didn’t move from the doorway, staring into the dark. “Or is that another thing I have to wait for?” I said softly.
Zorren put his book down. He didn’t seem fazed by my anger. “How about you go get some sleep, Amara. You have had a very long day, and the changes you have experienced are very tiring.” He spoke to me in a friendly, soft voice.
I didn’t move for a long moment, caught between the night’s chill behind me and the warmth of the cottage in front.
Then, with a shuddering breath, I stepped back inside.
My fingers trailed along the wall as I passed the table, avoiding Zorren’s gaze.
When I reached the bed, I sat stiffly on its edge, staring at my hands. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, plucking the courage from what was left of my energy. The words tasted unfamiliar; apologies weren’t permitted in the slave yards. My fingers plucked at the blue fabric of my new tunic. “I just... don’t understand why you’re being kind.”
The firelight flickered across his face, softening the sharp edges into something quieter, more caring. “Good night, Amara,” he said with a reassuring smile. He then immediately got up and walked to his room, closing the door behind him gently.
The door clicked shut behind Zorren, leaving me alone in the flickering firelight. I sat rigid on the bed’s edge until my muscles ached, listening to the ancient house settle around me. The blue fabric bunched in my fists, too soft, too clean. I should hate it. I should tear it off. Instead, I lifted a sleeve to my nose and breathed in the lavender scent until my vision blurred.
When I finally lay down, the mattress felt like clouds compared to straw pallets. I stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster like they were constellations. Somewhere beyond the wall, an owl called. My fingers drifted to my bare throat once more.
“Stupid!” I whispered to the dark.
The word didn’t stick.