Tal's Spacebar

Map of the Continent:

Content warning: This novel contains depictions of enslavement, trafficking, dehumanization, religious and institutional abuse, coercion, psychological manipulation, child abuse in backstory, emotional and physical abuse, medical neglect, starvation, discrimination against nonhuman people, captivity, public cruelty, humiliation, sexual content, sexual violence, trauma-related dissociation and panic, graphic injury, and violent death. These topics are handled carefully and are not intended for shock value.

This is the original teaser.

This is a link to the Miren Discussion Thread! Discuss her story there or on Discord so I can keep the main thread clean!

Chapter List
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One
    
    I don't have a soul.
    That's what everyone says. The priests, the townspeople on the street, and the ledger in Rurik's bedroom. The people that come into Rurik's little smithy in the town of Falkenbruck believe it too. Sometimes they grab my ass, or pull my tail, or talk about how I'm of "breeding age" like I'm not in the room, and I just want to shrink into the shadows and disappear. My whole life, all I've heard is that I'm not a person, just property. "Stock" is what they call it - a pretty name that sounds good on taxes and in the mouths of clergymen.
    My mother disagreed. Before the farmhands took me away from her when I was little, she told me over and over to remember that I had a soul. I still remember when they took me out of her stall, collected others my age, stripped us and lined us up for inspection, checking teeth and joints, splitting us up for different tasks - some for breeding, others for sale, and others unfit to continue.
    But the farmhands said she was wrong, becoming the first in a long line of likeminded teachers. After almost twenty years, you start to listen; it's just how the world works, isn't it?
    So it shouldn't have come as a surprise that Rurik would bundle me with a sword for a bit of silver, but it did, because it meant the dull, slow slide of my life had finally tipped over the cliff.
    
    Really, I guess it's been heading this way for a while.
    Rurik was already old when he purchased me at an auction; I'd overheard him tell a customer he was 53, and that was eight years ago. He wasn't kind - not really - but he usually didn't beat me when I stole bread, and he never touched me except to cuff or slap. I learned his moods, learned when to be bold, and when to disappear into a corner. Sometimes he even stopped customers from harassing me if they got too aggressive.
    And he asked me my name. He didn't have to. No one else had, and the ledgers certainly didn't care: "stock, caprine-type, female, breeding age". Usually he still called me "goat", but when he was in a good mood, he called me Miren.
    I considered myself lucky.
    I even began to enjoy it, sometimes - the warm heat from the forge, the way it roared and left me to my thoughts. I would haul coal, keep the bellows, tidy the workshop, clean his tools, cook his stew, and scrub the floors when they needed it. It was calm, predictable, and grounding.
    Sometimes there were kindnesses, too: once, someone left me a piece of bread with real cheese and it lasted me a week. Another time, an old woman left me a needle and thread and told me to patch my dress. Rurik grunted and let it be. Sometimes he was nice too; occasionally, after a good sale, he might give me better food for my daily meal.
    At night I would climb the ladder to the loft above the forge, smelling of metal and smoke. Most nights, I would fall asleep quickly, but some, I would practice stitching, embroidering little leaves onto scrap cloth by the light of the fire down below, and, later, onto the collar and sleeves of my dress.
    But Rurik was aging. His hands grew knobbly and began to shake, and he acquired a worsening cough that took over his evenings. He began to work less, cutting down on orders, and that meant less work. And… that was different. I've never had a problem finding things to do - but without the forge going every day, I was finding myself idle.
    I was still in his ledger. Stock are taxed. If I wasn't helping him earn coin, I was a hole in his purse. I tried to make myself useful - working harder, rescrubbing floors until they shone, polishing the tools in the forge, but there were only so many things I knew how to do. His muttering about taxes became muttering about guild rates, and that became mutters about "dead weight", his eyes settling on me as he spoke.
    And then I did something extremely stupid. I talked back.
    
    It was fear, really; that one mumbled phrase reminded me in an instant of how much worse it could be. Images flashed through my mind of auctions, people checking hips and teeth, grasping hands, corrupted half-humans burned on the Church's Night of Cinders, the hatred I saw in some people's eyes, and dead-eyed Edurne at the Falkenbruck well. It poured into a single angry outburst:
    "I wouldn't be dead weight if you taught me more I could do for you."
    His hand lashed out and caught my face faster than I could see - I hit the stoneworked wall behind me, metal collar clanking against rock, and the next thing I remember was him hauling me off the floor by a horn, then driving the back of my head into the stone again. He clamped my cheeks tight in his hand until my teeth cut into them and I tasted blood.
    "You think you can talk back to me?" he growled, his jaw trembling with wrath. "After all I've done for you? You already do all you're capable of doing, you fucking goat," he spat out, spittle flying in my face. "And now you're eating from my table without giving anything back."
    I winced, trembling but trying to stand still. The room felt dark and distant, and his hands still had all the steel of when they swung the hammer at the anvil. "Yes sir," I whispered, voice shaking. "I'm sorry, sir." Then, even quieter: "Please…"
    For a long moment I was sure he would strike me again, but finally he shoved me sideways. As I stumbled, he straightened, regaining his composure, and said the words I'd always dreaded to hear: "I'm selling you." Then, worse: "To the next man who comes in for a sword."
    I quickly got to my feet, hiding my shaking hands behind me, ears flat, tail curled in fear around my thigh. I couldn't have spoken if I wanted to; my whole body had gone empty and cold.
    "Get up to your loft," he muttered, voice gone quiet again. "I don't want to look at you tonight."
    My feet moved before I knew what I was doing. By the time the thought of dinner occurred to me, I was already climbing the ladder, bare toes slipping on the rungs. It was probably better I didn't ask.
    
    I didn't come back down that night. I was afraid to. My stomach twisted, but hunger was familiar; the unfamiliar was coming in the morning. I laid awake for much of the night, thinking through Rurik's usual customers as my heart slowly spiraled. There were a few I might not mind being sold to, but they weren't the regulars. Rurik attracted soldiers of the Church's Order of the Ashen Vow for the cheaper blades, and haughty nobles for the rest, and neither option promised a good future.
    And it could always get worse from there. Men from the Voryat Principality, just over the border to the east, are positively cruel to half-humans. Men from further out in the country - my country, Kesselgard - aren't much better. Other countries have magic; the Church views magic-wielders as heretics, and if they get caught using it in public, the Church can legally seize their property as corrupted goods. The pyres burned in my mind as I finally drifted off to sleep.
    My best hope, then, was to pray that Rurik wasn't serious.
    
    The next day began as early as usual for me; at dawn's first light, I climbed down the ladder, ready to begin… whatever work I could find.
    The collar on my neck seemed tighter than usual.
    I checked the kitchen first for something to eat, but found nothing; Rurik had it all locked away in the pantry. That was fine; I barely felt like eating anyway. My mind was racing, going through all the potential buyers and how to best protect myself - or at least brace myself.
    I finally took a water pail to the entryway where Rurik conducted his business and began scrubbing yesterday's bootprints off the floor. The task was soothing; as the first hour passed, I gradually calmed, repeating in my head that whatever happened, I would survive.
    The calm was abruptly shattered by a knock at the front door. After startling and nearly upsetting the water bucket, my body moved before I could react, tuned to obedience: if there's a customer, I must be prompt. I rushed to open it, almost slipping in the spilled washwater, and when I had the door unlocked and opened wide, a man filled the doorway immediately - tall, lean, muscular, with shadowed eyes and thick, dark hair.
    "Good morning," he said absently, stepping past. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, all I could think about was his accent: he was from Valen, a country to the far west. Valen sounded like war and horror: all the men were magic-wielding soldiers, their battlefields stalked with Knights with the power of a hundred men. And worst of all: according to customers, most of them were heretical.
    I just stared at him in terror. Please, no, not him. Please not him. I didn't want to be seized and burned.
    He turned, glancing toward me when I didn't speak. "I need a sword, girl. Today - now, if you can. I have a beast contract waiting." He spoke slowly, like he thought it would be hard for me to understand, but didn't look at me directly, watching the doorways. "Where is your master?"
    A plan formed in my mind, reckless and wild, fueled by fear: I would sell the sword. Anyone would be better than this, and I couldn't risk Rurik following through. "He's asleep," I said, my voice quiet. "He'll wake soon. What kind of sword did you want?"
    The man hesitated, perhaps weighing the conspicuous fact that I hadn't hurried to fetch Rurik. He turned to look straight at me, eyes taking in my face, at the bruise I could feel on my cheek. He tilted his head in thought, his gaze lingering for a moment. "Mana-veined," he finally said. "I was told Rurik is the only one in the East Fens who forges mana-veined blades."
    Nodding, I headed into the workshop next door, my feet padding across the cool stone. "Yes sir - of course." I reached for the first, pulled it down from the wall, and returned to him.
    My voice was soft. "There are two," I said, carrying it to him delicately. I tried to describe it like I'd heard Rurik describe so many others; the words came easily. "This is the sort the Ashen Vow soldiers favor. Broad in the blade with a little more weight toward the tip, so it bites hard when you cut but still sits steady in the hand." I passed it to him, bowing my head, not daring to meet his eyes.
    He took it from my hands and didn't even bother to give it a practice swing; he merely turned it over like he was inspecting it. "Won't do," he finally said. "It's mana-veined, yes, but the heft makes it worthless beyond a novelty. You said there were two?"
    I took the sword back from him, a little confused. Rurik's most popular swords were made like that. "Y-yes, there are two," I said, hurrying to put it away. Moments later, I returned from the workshop with the second blade. "It's… different," I murmured apologetically. "It's forged like a noble's sword. Narrow, tapering towards the end."
    "Mmm," he grunted.
    I dared a look at his face; he seemed… pleased. He took it from my hand, turning it in the light as he turned away from me. "Decent balance," he said quietly, giving it a slow twirl. "Strong steel, too. My last blade lasted me four years. Will this last, or will I be bringing it in for a repair next week?"
    "Rurik gets his steel from the Iron Marches," I offered, hopeful.
    He ignored me, instead lifting the blade like he was about to duel. He stared at it for a moment, as if deep in thought, and then suddenly cut the smallest flourish into the air.
    The room shook. It felt like a door slamming in my face; dust fell from the rafters, bowls and trinkets on nearby shelves clattered faintly.
    I could barely breathe. My tail twisted tight against my leg. The Valen swordsman actually knew magic. And worse than that, he used it in town. And worse than that -
    Rurik's loud cough sounded in the hall, and in moments, he was at the doorway. "What's this then?" He asked suspiciously, glancing between me and the swordsman. "Who are you? Is my stock giving you trouble?"
    I winced, my ears flattening at the word as much as the fact that I'd been caught.
    "No, no trouble, smith. Rurik, correct?" the swordsman asked. "Your girl was showing me your wares in preparation for your arrival." He gently placed the sword back into my trembling hands.
    I backed away towards the wall, afraid to go too far, and afraid to stay.
    Rurik smirked at the accent. "In the market for a manablade, eh, Valen?" he asked. "It's a good one. One of my best. Forged it two years ago."
    "It's not a bad sword," the stranger conceded. "My main question is its durability."
    Rurik nodded, looking over at me with a deep sense of satisfaction. "This won't break easy," he said, looking back at the customer. "The iron is imported from the Iron Marches, one of the western provinces of Kesselgard. Can't go wrong with it. Worked the veins myself - was taught by a Valen smith in my younger days." He followed this up with another violent cough.
    He seemed in a good mood. My chest was starting to unclench. Is he not mad I was selling his swords? I wondered in confusion.
    The man nodded. "What's the price?"
    Rurik pretended to think - he always did this with new customers. "Well, it's a high-quality sword, but… it's been hanging on my wall for a while. I'll put it at… 80 marks."
    My ears twitched flat against my head, my stomach twisting. For such a blade, 50 to 60 would make more sense. And that could only mean that Rurik hadn't forgotten. The world seemed to go quiet, my blood leaving my head, the room going dim. It was too many marks, entirely too many.
    The stranger seemed to agree. "That's a high price for a manablade," he grumbled. "Are you expecting me to haggle?"
    Rurik shook his head. "No, you're taking my stock with you."
    I looked up at the newcomer in fear and horror, and for his part, he looked at me in what I could only assume was disgust.
    "You're trying to force me to take her with the sword?" he spat out, incredulous. "I have no need for her." He stepped back a pace towards the door. "I have no work for her to do. She'd be -"
    "Dead weight?" Rurik asked, grinning. "Maybe. Take her to the auctioneer's or resell her yourself, I don't care. You'll get back what you lost. Or make her useful in other ways - she's never been bred. But you're not leaving with my sword unless you sign for the stock."
    I felt sick. I stepped back a little further into the shadows, dizzy and scared. The stranger looked like he was ready to carve up Rurik - and me - himself.
    A tense moment followed, and at long last, the swordsman growled and stepped towards Rurik, digging in his purse. "Fine. Get your ledger. If it wasn't the only manablade in town…"
    Rurik smirked. "Wise choice, Valen." Then, coarser, to me, "Goat! Get the scabbard. And then your things."
    I nodded blindly, rushing back into the next room. My eyes blurred. I couldn't cry. I would not cry in front of this strange man. Weakness means punishment. Silence isn't safety. I pulled the scabbard down from the wall, carefully sheathed the sword, and hurried back to Rurik. He had already returned with his ledger, and they were signing the sale, bending over the table.
    Line item: One manablade. Line item: one stock; caprine, female, breeding age.
    I laid the sword on the table and rushed back to the workshop.
    For the last time, I climbed the ladder, hands shaking so much I could barely grip the rungs. At the top, I gathered my things: two thin blankets, a spare dress, and a spare shift. A piece of cloth where I practiced embroidery. A smooth river stone from when Rurik took me to the river and let me play. A copper thimble. A needle - the most precious thing I owned - and forest green thread. I hid the contraband items in the middle of my blankets and prayed the swordsman from Valen wouldn't check, while I carefully threaded the needle through my dress near the waist; I couldn't stand the thought of it getting confiscated.
    I was certain he was going to sell me, or worse - maybe rape me. Maybe frequently. Customers always talked of Valen like its inhabitants were wild barbarians - and so they must be - I just watched a Valen swordsman use magic in town. Not just any swordsman, I thought bitterly, my new owner. But for how long? Worse - it was entirely possible for him to just… remove my collar and set me loose. I would be captured as a stray and rehomed if I was lucky - and made an example of by the Church if I wasn't. They'd assume I was a runaway without listening to my pleas.
    I hurried down the ladder with my things. The swordsman was just in the process of attaching his scabbard at his waist, and he turned to me, seeming tired and deeply annoyed. "Purchase is made. I have the papers." He stepped closer and tied a short length of rope to my collar to serve as a leash.
    I kept my head bowed, trying to act as obedient and willing as possible.
    "Come on," he muttered as he led me out of the smithy, collar tugging at my neck. "Don't do anything stupid."
    Like I'd really do anything stupid. Faint and dizzy, I stumbled after the man from Valen, my belongings in a pitiful pile in my arms. I didn't dare keep my eyes anywhere but forward.
    As we rounded the corner, I heard Rurik call after me, his voice dismissive, "Bye, goat."
    My mind was in fog; my only real thought was that I missed when he called me Miren.
    

Chapter Two

    The humid late-summer air felt oppressive compared to the familiar heat of the forge.
    I followed behind my new owner obediently, staring at the back of his brigandine armor, the collar tugging at my neck whenever he pulled the rope. He walked quickly and with a purpose, almost as though he had the priests tailing him already. It was hard to keep up.
    I will be okay, I repeated in my head. I will be okay. I knew Rurik wasn't forever. I won't cry. If the priests treat him like a heretic, I'll beg him to rehome me rather than risk them seizing me. He doesn't want me anyway, so why would he care?
    I tried to keep my eyes on the ground, but found myself watching the townsfolk despite my efforts. Women carrying baskets, men arguing or laughing among themselves. Often there were other stock - caprine, like me, or cervine, and occasionally bovine - usually carrying something heavy, never dressed half as well as their owners, and wearing a leash as legally required. Eye contact with them was hard, and sometimes mixed with bitterness or even hatred if they looked at all.
    More than once we passed patrols of the Order of Ashen Vows, the Church's Silver Flame emblem on their surcoats, helmets glinting in the early morning light. I kept my head down around them, but could still feel the tension as they passed my new master. They clearly regarded him with suspicion.
    We were leaving the part of Falkenbruck I was familiar with, headed towards the side of town with the temples and breeding farms. I could hear the priests shouting their sermons - sermons I'd heard too many times, especially on the Night of Cinders when owners would take their stock to the temple for the festival. "Embers in the ash," they would say. "Cause of the weakening of magic in the world." The histories say that in olden days the great masters could call storms and shape cities of stone. Then they created us, and as we multiplied, the world's magic diminished like the drying of a well. Too useful to destroy, too dangerous to be left to our own devices.
    The closer he led me to the temple district, the more I spiraled. If he left me with the priests, the Church would rehome me to someone devout, and if it was the breeding farms… my stomach twisted and I felt sick at the very thought. Don't cry, don't cry. Deep breaths. But my breath quickened anyway. As soon as my eyes blurred, I stubbed my toe on a piece of raised cobble, and a tug at my collar caused me to almost drop my bundle outright, my river stone clattering to the ground. 
    The swordsman slowed, allowing me to pick up my dropped belongings, watching me with an impassive frown.
    Face blooming with heat, I scooped up my river stone and put it back in my bundle, then looked up at him as I rose to my feet. The little rock being so precious to me felt humiliating without context, but I noted he made no comment on it. He didn't seem… cruel - not exactly - and this spurred a whispered question against my better judgment: "Where are you taking me?"
    He looked alarmed, scowled, and turned away. "Don't speak in public," he hissed. "Weren't you taught better?"
    He's right. Don't be stupid, Miren. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
    We continued walking at the same pace as before, but I kept a better hold on my bundle.
    Priests were more common in the temple district. I kept my eyes down, feeling their stares. I watched the Valen man's leather boots as he kept his brisk pace, being careful to avoid further incidents. Gradually, we passed through them, leaving them behind as we entered a quieter part of town, the houses growing further apart.
    Not the temple, then, I thought to myself, numbness creeping in. I don't know where the breeding farms are, but…
    "We're going home," the swordsman said under his breath, interrupting my thoughts. "I don't have time to deal with you this morning. I've my beast contract to fulfill, and bullwolves are only active well before noon. We'll talk later. Not in public."
    His words broke the spiral enough for me to focus. Not today, then; I'd have at least one night of peace… assuming he wasn't planning to use me like Rurik suggested.
    The cobble ended and faded to dusty roads, dry under the hot morning sun. As we continued on, the houses we began passing were wooden, aged, sporting thatched roofs - usually one story, sometimes two. They had yards, some fenced in - gardens, small animals, sheds. Chickens clucked and scattered out of the path into the bowing green grass, and my eyes followed them, my ears tilting up warmly - precious little creatures living their lives without fear. I rarely saw animals at Rurik's.
    "Here," he finally said, stopping in front of a two-story, narrow cottage with a fenced-in yard, with a goat shed and a chicken coop in the back. "Up the steps, go inside." He turned to me, his face unreadable, and put the leash in my hand. "I'll be back in the evening. Your room is the second door upstairs. Don't go in the first door upstairs and don't get into trouble."
    Without another word of instruction, he turned and strode quickly away, much faster than he'd walked with me. I felt half stunned, my ears twitching forward to listen as I watched him disappear over the next rise, just like that.
    I looked down at my hand, trying to process the fact that I was holding my own leash. It didn't feel real. "He really is a heretic," I whispered, feeling a weird mix of fear and… a flicker of something brave and yearning in my chest.
    I didn't have much time to think about it; I heard a cart down the road and rushed inside, closing the door behind me and leaning against it as I tried to steady myself. Being seen holding my leash would be disastrous.
    The downstairs was cramped compared to Rurik's smithy, and seemed to be all one room - something like a kitchen, dining area, and living space rolled into one. There was an armor stand on the right, with a fragmented manablade of exceptional quality on the wall nearby. In the center was a wooden table - long, meant for four to six people, but only three chairs. One was turned towards the stone hearth and fireplace on the back wall, another towards the table, and the third sat dusty. That told me a lot in itself: he cooked sitting by the fire, too tired to stand.
    The left wall had a long, low cupboard, covered in odds and ends - a mess of tools for repairing armor, a book, and bottles of various liquids. There was an alcove at the back left; I assumed that was the entrance to the staircase. The back wall, above the hearth on the fireplace's stone held a long mantelpiece with various bowls and jars, perfectly cluttered, and there was a tall cupboard with open shelving in the back right corner, food sitting in the open: bread, apples, cabbage and more.
    I couldn't make myself move. There were no rules - no chores, no tasks. What was I even to do? I tried to remember what little he'd said to me - up the steps, go inside, back in the evening, and -
    He said I had a room, I suddenly realized, and the thought sent a rush of dizzy excitement through me. My legs moved swiftly, bundle swaying in my arms against my chest as I hurried towards the alcove in the back. The stairs were tall and narrow, and I leapt them two steps at a time. The hallway was narrow too. The first door was shut, the second door ajar.
    I pushed through the second one without hesitation and almost fell to my knees.
    Against the back wall, under an actual window, was a bed. A large chest was pushed up to the foot of it. Sunshine streamed in through the window, giving the room an even more unreal softness as I took in the nightstand, the oil lamp, the blankets, the polished tin mirror on the wall.
    I felt dizzy. This couldn't be real - he would get home and say I took the wrong room. Your room is the second door upstairs, he'd said. The room was dusty, cobwebbed, like no one had used it in months at least. Maybe he actually meant it? It was what he said. Maybe he doesn't have anywhere else for me. If nothing else, it means he doesn't expect me to share his bed tonight.
    My bare feet padded across the floor, tail swishing with the faintest hint of something approaching hope. I knelt beside the trunk, lifting the heavy lid, and peered inside: it contained clean linens, but nothing else. Carefully, I deposited my little bundle at the bottom. Everything I owned barely took up a corner. My needle I unhooked from my dress and laid on its own like a tiny treasure. The rope I untied from my collar and carefully coiled on the linens like it belonged to me.
    "This isn't permanent," I reminded myself out loud as I stood, closing the lid. "He said he just didn't have time to deal with me." But he also gave you a room with a bed, a little voice whispered back. That implies something more than just a day. He said 'your room', not 'you can sleep there tonight'.
    I frowned, then let out a soft huff. "Yeah, but he's also a heretic."
    All that was left was the dusty mirror. I'd seen myself from time to time, but the thought of having a mirror of my own, even for a night, felt laughable - like I was playing make-believe in someone else's life. Mostly I just wanted to see the bruise.
    My face was just like any human girl's, though my cheeks were gaunt, and the right cheekbone was deeply bruised and abraded from Rurik's strike the afternoon before. I reached up, touching the raw skin tenderly. It will heal, I reminded myself. It has before.
    A flicker in the corner of my vision made me glance up at my ears: long, furry, shaped like a goat's, standing out sideways like little bird's wings because I felt pleased by my temporary bedroom. 
    Below my face was the ugly, shameful collar - a circular ring of Church-forged silver-plated iron that would open with a key. As I looked at it, my ears lowered. I sighed. It didn't even matter that the rest of me was human - no one would ever look past the horns, tail, and fur on my forearms.
    Half human. All stock.
    I turned away from the mirror, tying my hair back into a low bun, and decided to see what I could do to make myself useful. But just before I stepped out into the hallway, I realized something completely alien: my door had a lock on the latch, and it locked from the inside. I didn't even know what to do with that information. Probably nothing - everything else seemed half a mistake, and this was definitely an oversight. It was unnerving. I decided it was best to pretend I hadn't noticed. Given how he scowled every time he glanced at me, I deeply suspected he'd be rid of me in less than a week anyway.
    Unless I could prove I wasn't dead weight.

Chapter Three

    I headed downstairs.
    First, I did an inventory check of the kitchen - I found eggs, bread, an assortment of vegetables, and even a bowl of early-season apples. Mushrooms, hard cheese, goat cheese, and a very small bowlful of wild berries that were almost bad. There was even fresh goat milk in a jug.
    He wasn't lacking for food, which was a good sign, at least - but I didn't dare eat any of it, even as my stomach growled to remind me I hadn't eaten since two nights ago. Instead I began to take stock of the rest of the main room: dirt all over the floor, and dirty rags in the corner behind the tall cupboard along with a pair of torn, bloodstained trousers. The dishes in his cupboard weren't clean either; they looked like they'd been lightly rinsed and nothing more.
    The longer cupboard on the left held more of interest: cleaning rags, a washing line, various tools I didn't recognize, a block of soap, a shovel of all things, and - surprise - more dirty dishes.
    The part that worried me the most was a strange, acrid smell that permeated the room; something rotting, perhaps, but I couldn't find the source.
    I closed the cupboard back and made myself a list of tasks: everything needed scrubbed, everything needed washed, and my new master was a liar. Dead weight, indeed, I mused. Assuming he doesn't get rid of me the very next day, I can make his home pleasant to live in.
    But before I started properly, I wanted to check on the animals; I suspected he hadn't checked up on them in the morning, and the way a man treats his animals tells you more about his soul than anything.
    With some initial trepidation, I headed outside through the front door, walking over to his fence gate. This act alone felt tremendous to me; at Rurik's, going outside without explicit permission wasn't even something I had ever been foolhardy enough to test. But nothing bad happened; the air outside town was sweet, the wind fresh, the grasses bowing in a gentle breeze. I let myself in through the fence gate and stepped into his yard.
    It felt like stepping into an entirely different world.
    The goat came to meet me immediately - brown and white, moderately furry, with silly goat eyes that stole my heart away at once. You lucky little fool, I thought, amused as he nosed me for food. You get to be a goat and nobody expects anything from you. Then, suddenly: "Hey! Stop!" I laughed, as the goat tried to chew my sleeve. "That's not food!" I had to dance away from him. "You have plenty of grass in here - eat some of that. I need my clothes more than you do."
    After escaping the goat, I wandered further into the yard. There was another shovel along the wall of the house, a few buckets and barrels for collecting rainwater - most of them full. The goat was clearly drinking from some of them. There was also a chicken coop around the back, and a shed for the goat. Everything looked well kept, so that answered my question about animal welfare. There were even fresh eggs in the coop; I gathered these delicately and carried them with me.
    As I walked back around to the front of the house, I found my path blocked - not by goat or chicken, but by a little black cat. I paused, hesitated, and slowly knelt down, offering an outstretched hand. A cat had visited Rurik's back window from time to time, and when there was time to spare, I had befriended it.
    "Hello," I said softly. "Who are you, little friend? My name is Miren."
    The cat watched me, skeptical, and then turned and bounded into the tall grass.
    I sighed and stood, straightening my skirt. "That's all right, I wouldn't trust me either."
    I picked up one of the water buckets; I'd use it to help with washing.
    
    Back inside, I put the fresh eggs with the others, got a cleaning rag, and began working to clean the floor. As far as I saw it, the best I could do with today was clean to please him when he returned, and enjoy the gentleness of the day. It was, by far, the most peaceful day I'd experienced in a long time - though I still dreaded his return, because one further question hadn't been answered: would he touch me?
    But the work was grounding and calming, and the hours passed quickly. I finished up with the floor and moved on to the table, cleaning it until there was no trace of mud, food, or blood staining its surface. Then, I started on the dirty dishes everywhere.
    
    And then, in the evening, the door opened. I jumped up from scrubbing dishes beside the hearth immediately, hands wet, and faced the door, fear shooting back into my bones in an instant.
    My owner appeared like a dark stormcloud - tired, hair mussed, eyes shadowed, fresh blood on his brigandine. I sensed it wasn't his.
    "Good evening, sir," I said quietly, hands clasped in front.
    He stared blankly at me for several moments, like he'd completely forgotten I existed. "...Right," he finally muttered. "Fuck."
    That answers a few questions at once, I thought. I turned my gaze to the floor. My tail curled around my thigh in a mix of shame and fear.
    I felt his gaze on me for a time before he closed the door behind him, and I tried not to tremble. I heard him hang his sword up on the wall and dared to glance up in time to see him shrugging out of his brigandine, hanging it on the armor stand.
    I frowned. I didn't want the evening to start on a sour note - I couldn't afford that. This is why I cleaned. "Sir, while you were gone, I -"
    "Don't," he interrupted sharply, turning. "Do not call me sir." He set a heavy purse down on the table, clinking with coins, and shrugged out of his boots and various other pieces of gear. "I am Everet. Just Everet."
    I nodded quickly. "Yes sir - er - Everet, sir." He looked at me with a glare and I swallowed. "Everet. Just Everet, I mean, si-... Mister Everet."
    An annoyed frown twisted his face. "And you? Your name?"
    A breath escaped me, short and stunned. Don't get excited. "M-Miren, s- Everet. Just Miren." It was the only name I had, but - "Miren Hartfell," I added quietly. The second was an addition of my own design - an attempt to feel more… well, like a person. I reddened, feeling equal parts ashamed and overwhelmed. He asked my name. On the first day.
    "Miren Hartfell," he murmured, tasting it, walking past me to the cupboard with the food. "Have you eaten, Miren?" he asked, looking through and quickly taking stock. I hadn't touched or moved any of the food, and he seemed to realize that. "You look faint, like you didn't eat all day."
    "I… I didn't know if I was meant to," I explained. "I hadn't been given permission, and -"
    He scowled. "Permission? What, are you used to going without food? Or are you used to only eating at dinner?"
    Heat rushed to my face as I shrank back slightly from his expression, trying to steady myself. There was no easy way to say it - no way to soften it so it didn't reflect badly on Rurik, and I didn't know Everet well enough to know if he'd be offended if I criticized a human. He probably would. "I… at the forge - at Rurik's - I ate when the work was done. When he said. Sometimes not, if there wasn't enough." Or sometimes he forgot, I thought. Or sometimes he was angry and it was safer not to ask. "I didn't know your rules yet. It felt proper to wait."
    This made him scowl again. "When there wasn't enough," he echoed, frowning as warmth flooded my cheeks again. He clearly wasn't fooled by that one. "Are you afraid of me, Miren?"
    Trap question. These come before violence. "I only want to please you, Everet," I said carefully, maintaining my composure as I made a mental note that he was disturbingly perceptive.
    And then my composure shattered in an instant as something flew through the air towards me; I scrambled away in a panic, hands cold, heart racing, as I slowly realized he'd tossed me the apple that was now rolling into a corner. I knelt, trying to grab it, glancing back at him half in fear.
    He watched in seeming disappointment as I crawled for the fruit. "Here's my rules," he said plainly, counting them off on fingers. "You do not go in my room. You can take care of the animals if you want, and tell me when you don't. The rest of the day is yours. And you will eat when you're hungry. I don't want any more of this 'I didn't eat' bullshit, and you look starved."
    It was dizzying. Bewildering. Eat when you're hungry, he said. The day is yours. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works. My ears went flat against my skull; I felt like I was waiting for a trapdoor under me to open. "Yes sir," I murmured, getting back to my feet. "Everet, rather - yes Everet."
    He grunted, grabbing an apple and chunk of bread for himself and heading past me for the stairs. "I can't keep you forever," he said, finally pausing on the bottom step. "I'm headed back to Valen in two months, and I don't think you'd survive the trip." Without another word, he turned and climbed the steps.
    My head cleared. This is how things work. Stock gets sold. It's the oldest rule of the world. So I would have two months here before my world changed again.
    "Wait -" Against my better judgment, I moved to the bottom landing, looking up at him as he reached the top. "Sir - what will you do with me then?" I asked.
    He stared at me for a long moment, like he was trying to decide. "Sell you, I guess. I'll try to find you a decent owner, but if I have to leave quickly…" He shrugged, and turned away, seeming bitter or resentful. "Consider this an island of normalcy in your life."
    He disappeared from view; I heard the first door of the hallway open, and then close.
    My voice was barely a whisper. "Normalcy," I echoed, half in disbelief. It felt like a word out of a soldier's tale. A word that wasn't really mine. I looked down at the apple in my hand - dented and bruised from where it hit the hearth, but still fruit. Rurik never let me taste fruit beyond berries, and Everet tossed it to me like it was nothing.
    I bit into it and almost sobbed - fresh, sweet, crisp - positively heavenly.
    Eat when you're hungry, he'd said. I looked back at the cupboard and moved to it, opening it up, and - partly horrified with myself for my brazenness, pulled a chunk of bread away from the same loaf Everet had taken from - hard shell, but soft and pliable in my hands. Good bread - not stale crusts. It was a small treasure. My ears perked up, tail giving a gentle swish of its own accord.
    I carried it up to my room with me, making plans. I would keep a close eye on Everet, to see if he was actually kind or if he really didn't understand how stock should be treated. If he seemed truly safe, I would try to make myself indispensable to him. And then I would try to prove I could handle the trip to Valen.
    I left my door open that night, still afraid to close it, but for the first time in many years, I was comfortable, sinking into the soft blankets on the bed and yet feeling like they couldn't possibly belong to me.
    I needed to extend this "island of normalcy" at any cost.

Chapter Four

    "Normalcy" was hard to get used to.
    The next morning, I awoke early, with dawn's first light. My eyes opened in the dimness, and my first instinct was panic: darkness meant the forge had gone cold. Rurik would be angry. I started to roll to peek off the side of the loft, but only sank into the linens. This strange comfort woke me up the rest of the way. The events rushed back in an instant:
    Rurik sold me.
    I'm in Everet's cottage.
    …I slept on a bed.
    The third fact felt so wrong that I had to sit up and check, just to be sure: four posts, soft blankets. I'd never slept on a bed before - not once in my entire life. That alone felt like a fairy tale. Combined with 'the day is yours' and 'eat when you're hungry' - it felt utterly impossible. It didn't feel like my life. It felt like some impossible miracle that I would have landed in his life, heretic or not.
    Good things don't come without a catch, I reminded myself. And there was a catch: he was leaving in two months - without me, if I couldn't prove I was worth the trouble. He said he didn't think I'd survive the trip. My brow furrowed and something lit in my chest like a spark of heretical rebellion. I'll prove him wrong.
    I wasted no more time in getting out of bed, running my fingers through my hair to detangle it as best I could, and put it up in a bun, ready to face the world.
    Downstairs, I got out one of the pans I'd cleaned the day before and stoked the embers into a fire, beginning to cook. I chopped potatoes, softening them in the pan over the flames, then onions, mushrooms - settling into the familiar routine. From the burned residue I scrubbed off his dishes yesterday, I knew I could outcook him; I wanted him to taste it.
    Fresh hen eggs completed the mix, creating a dish that would satisfy Rurik and still leave a tiny bit for me.
    Taking the pan from the fire, I stirred it once more with the wooden spoon and dished most of it out into a wooden bowl, grabbed a spoon, and then carried it to the stairs.
    On the first step I was confident, even a little eager, but by the top landing I was swirled with doubt and shame. You're narcissistic enough to think you can outcook a human? the voices whispered. What if he doesn't like it? Not everyone likes eggs and vegetables. He'll be mad you used his best food without asking. He'll take away your bed and make you sleep by the fire like a dog. But it was too late to back out now: I'd already used his food, and the deed needed to be seen through to completion. If nothing else, it would show me a little more of what kind of man he was.
    I knocked on his door.
    "Sir? - or, Everet?" I asked, calling softly. "I made breakfast for you." My ears perked up, listening for any sound, then flattened again as I wondered if he wanted to sleep in. "Everet?" I called again, knocking a little harder.
    I stood there for several moments, and then finally moved a quiet, cautious hand to the door latch, sliding it aside, and then slowly, cautiously pushed the door inwards to reveal his bedroom.
    His bed was empty, blankets hanging over the side and pooling messily on the floor. Everet was gone.
    I stood there for a moment, feeling stupid as I surveyed his room - a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, all sorts of odds and ends on his cabinet, liquor bottles, a cheap sword, a small pile of gold coins, a crossbow near the bed with bolts next to it, more dirty dishes, and a dozen or more things I didn't even recognize.
    I closed his door and frowned. Stupid girl, Miren, I chastised myself. You should've checked first to see if he was even home.
    And now I was holding a bowl of steaming food that I'd cooked for a human.
    I carried the bowl downstairs, set it on the table, and then sank into a chair, staring at it blankly while I struggled to decide what to do with it.
    I eventually ate it, of course, and cried while I did, feeling like a mess - a weird mix of happiness and shame. Happiness because it was warm and delicious and I'd basically cooked it for myself, and I wasn't sure, but I didn't think he'd be mad if I explained why the food was missing. Shame because I was wasting his good food, and I was sitting in his chair and sobbing like a little human child. I vaguely realized the tears were for more than just the food; it was an outpouring of emotion I wasn't allowed to have over the past three days, and maybe longer.
    And I couldn't even finish all of it. I ate until my stomach almost hurt and then decided I would have to save the rest for later.
    
    The second day passed quickly. Feeling energized, I poured everything I was into cleaning Everet's house. I washed the table, the cupboards, every single dish and collected them all to put in the cupboard by the table. I scrubbed the crusted soot off of the hearth and chopped vegetables for a stew - something hearty and thick. Then, as it cooked, I continued cleaning. Everet's cottage was so incredibly dirty I felt I could be cleaning for a week before it was properly tidy.
    I also checked on the animals outside and made sure they were all right. The cat showed up again, but I had no luck in convincing it I wasn't a terrorist. The goat probably needed to be milked, but I had no idea how to do it, and my attempts with an empty bucket only led to the goat trying to chew on my hair and knocking me over in the grass. It felt silly and playful - so different from… anything else in my life.
    
    And then Everet was home.
    The door opened and he entered, scowling.
    I spoke first, standing by the hearth, ears tentatively up as I clasped my hands in front. "Good evening, Everet," I said softly.
    "Miren," he murmured with a grunt. Then he looked up, almost in surprise. "Is that - did you cook?" The door closed behind him with a gentle slam as he hung up his sword and began to remove his armor.
    "I did," I affirmed, hesitating, unsure if I should say more. "I made you stew."
    Undressed down to his shirt and breeches, he walked over, curious. "It smells good." He looked into the pot, cautiously poking at a vegetable on the surface with a finger like he was suspicious of it. "Doesn't look bad, either."
    I looked down at the floor but said nothing. I truly wasn't sure what to say, but my tail gave a gentle swish.
    He moved to the cabinet in the corner to get out a bowl and paused. "You washed everything," he murmured. "All the dishes."
    "Yes, I did. And I brushed your goat."
    "I'm sure Thira appreciated that. - And you ate some of the eggs. I thought you looked less faint."
    My chest tightened anxiously and I looked up, my stomach twisting. Too perceptive. Much more perceptive than Rurik. "I thought you were here this morning," I explained, feeling ashamed and slightly fearful. "I tried to cook you breakfast, but when I knocked on your door -"
    "I had a contract," he interrupted, waving the thought away as he started to dish out some of his stew into a bowl. "And you thought I was here."
    I nodded. "Yes."
    "I'm glad you didn't waste the food." He straightened and looked at me for a moment, like he was trying to discern something about me. "I have contracts most days, Miren. I won't be home much. I have one for tomorrow, and one for the day after."
    "Killing beasts with your magic sword," I speculated, glancing over at where it hung on the wall.
    This caused him to hesitate. "The sword isn't magic," he corrected me slowly, glancing back at me. "If it was, Rurik would be in trouble with Kesselgard's Church." He blew on his spoon, bowl close to his chin, and then motioned toward the cupboard with his head. "Get a bowl, Miren. You're allowed more than one meal a day."
    Obediently, I moved to the cupboard and got a bowl and spoon for myself, but when I turned around to ask him more about magic, he was already on his way up the stairs.
    I didn't understand him at all: one moment he acted almost caring, and the next minute he was cold and gone.
    
    The days settled into a routine. I woke up in the morning, knocked on his door to see if he was home, and when he inevitably wasn't, I would make something small to eat. It was such a rare and wonderful thing to be able to cook for myself, which made Everet's intentions hurt even more.
     Through a lot of trial and error, I learned to milk the goat, Thira - but the cat was still unapproachable. I tried tempting it with different foods, but to no avail, and I was almost mad at the little kitty because it was so cute and wouldn't let me close.
    More than once, Everet came home with food in a large sack - vegetables and bread and other goods. I helped him put everything away, but dearly wished I could go to the market with him. I didn't bother asking. He would barely speak to me; our conversations lasted a few minutes at best before he retreated to his room.
    After a week, I ran out of things to do, just like at Rurik's forge. Everet's house was spotless. All the cupboards were arranged. I felt deeply out of sorts; some part of me feared he would tire of me early. But Everet noticed I was anxious and reassured me, reiterating that the day was mine, and I didn't have to clean if I didn't want to. I explained it helped calm me, and asked if he had dirty clothes. He did, of course - I'd seen them that second morning - and I washed them for him. He began leaving them outside his door each morning.
    Everet noticed my hard work and, while he didn't praise, he did offer thanks. Not much - only just enough recognition to feel addictive. He didn't seem to care too much about how clean the house was, but it was clear he loved my cooking. I began trying to outdo myself, experimenting in small ways to make it even better - though the ingredients on hand often felt picked at random rather than deliberate. 
    Eating without being prompted still came with intense feelings of shame, but Everet had laid out his rules clearly, and he seemed less annoyed when it was clear I'd eaten something during the day, so I started eating a little more. I didn't entirely understand his insistence. Ultimately, I chalked it up to him being a heretic from Valen. Through that lens, most things made sense.
    But not everything.

Chapter Five

    I'd lived there two weeks before I managed to catch him before he left, determined to be there in the morning. The problem was that while I would usually wake up when he shut the door downstairs, he was so quiet that I rarely woke beforehand.
    I've never slept well, but that night was worse than usual. After waking shaken and trembling from the third nightmare, I decided to stay awake. I kept track of the sky through my window, and when it first showed signs that it would brighten, I went downstairs.
    The plan was to make Everet breakfast. Rurik always appreciated a good breakfast better than he did dinner, and if I wanted Everet to find me indispensable, this felt like a solid angle. I was quiet with the pan and chopping so I wouldn't wake him, which slowed me down a little - but it wasn't like my sleep-deprived hands were moving quickly anyway.
    After the vegetables finished softening in the pan - the eggs. I knew I could cook well - the eggs-and-vegetables I'd accidentally made for myself had been delicious, and I wanted him to taste it too. I stirred it all together and added a little cheese.
    When it was done, I moved it most of the way off the fire so it would stay warm, and then sat down in the chair next to the hearth to wait. But my pitiful little self fell asleep.
    I awakened to the terrifying sensation of a hand on my back. Before I processed what was going on, I panicked, jumping up and backing toward the hearth.
    "Easy, girl," a voice whispered in the dark. "Miren, why are you downstairs?"
    I looked up at him, my eyes blurred with sleep, trying to calm my frantic heart. "I made you breakfast," I murmured. "I always wanted to, but you leave so early."
    "Yeah, I can see the breakfast," Everet muttered. "It smells good. But you fell asleep."
    "I didn't mean to," I whispered, stifling a yawn. "I'm sorry."
    He grunted, heading over to his armor stand. "Don't be sorry." 
    I braced for "be better" to follow those words, but it never came. I took a bowl from the cupboard and scooped the eggs into it. "Will you try it?" I asked, offering it to him. "Before you go?" They were still warm and fluffy; I couldn't have been asleep for more than a few minutes.
    Everet hesitated, and it felt like he was weighing something in his mind. His eyes flicked to me, dimly illuminated by the firelight. "All right." Gently, he took the bowl from my hands. As soon as the spoon met his lips and he took that first bite, he seemed to soften, his shoulders falling. "Miren, that's wonderful," he managed around the food.
    My ears perked up at that. My tail swished, and I think I might have smiled. Just a little.
    He ate a couple more bites, and then waved at the hearth as he sank into a chair. "Aren't you going to eat?" he asked, and then noticed the pan was almost empty. Disappointment etched lines into his face. "Why didn't you cook any for yourself?"
    His tone stung like a slap. My tail tucked to my leg but I kept my expression clear. "It was for you," I said simply, standing straight and looking down at him.
    His eyes narrowed, but he kept eating, watching me. It felt like he could read me as easily as I used to read Rurik, but he finally just sighed and said, "I'll let it be. Thank you for the food, Miren." We were silent as he ate, but watching him enjoy it felt like praise. Finally, he set the bowl down on the table and stood. "Don't neglect to eat. I've got a nest of woodwights to destroy today. I'll be back this evening."
    He donned his brigandine, grabbed a small bundle of supplies, and retrieved his sword. After opening the front door, he hesitated, watching me. A long moment passed before he said, "You don't have to cook me breakfast. I'm not used to eating in the morning. I'm no stranger to hunger, either; I know why you don't eat. You don't have to be afraid. The food isn't going to run out."
    I almost laughed, letting out a quiet huff. "That's not why it's hard to eat," I admitted in a soft voice, then felt a deep wave of shame for disagreeing with him. I stared quickly at the floor, tail curling against my thigh.
    But he didn't seem bothered. "Why, then?"
    I swallowed. I didn't know how to answer without -
    "Rurik," Everet guessed in a flat voice, saving me the trouble.
    I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Too perceptive.
    Everet only grunted. "Well, you've got a bit over a month. Eat your fill, Miren."
    My ears pinned flat. A bit over a month. I felt so dizzy I had to lean against the chair for balance. Everything you did was for nothing, the voice whispered in my head. My mind swirled, and the room felt distant.
    Everet stood there a little while longer like he was waiting for a response. When he didn't get one, he left, closing the door behind him without another word.
    I must've done something wrong, I thought, my mind spiraling. I worked so hard. His house is spotless. I cook him dinner every night. I take care of the animals. I even learned to milk the goat. What am I doing wrong?
    
    That day was terrible; I felt lost in a fog. I cleaned and tidied but felt forgetful; it took me three tries to remember why I was outside when I went to milk Thira. I found myself standing in the kitchen with a water bucket, staring blankly at the wall. It wasn't until mid-afternoon that things started turning around: I thought of my mother.
    One of the things she taught me was to sit, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. I sat down in a chair in the kitchen and used my words to soothe myself: "I will be okay. I still have a month and a half to convince him. I will be okay." The more I said it, the more I felt like it was true. "I will be okay."
    And I cooked us both a meal.
    
    He came home when he said; just after sunset, as the skies were turning twilight. I stood from the hearth where I was embroidering my little scrap of cloth. "Good evening, Everet."
    "Good evening, Miren," he replied, kicking off his boots without looking at me.
    I took a step forward. "Did the woodwights go well?" I barely knew what a woodwight was, beyond a magical animation of rotting wood and grass.
    He nodded, dropping his bag on the table as he removed his brigandine. "They were a little more dug in than the contract said, but I took care of them," he assured me. "And I bought you something." He looked over his shoulder with a little smile.
    My ears perked up so fast it almost hurt, then flattened again in confusion. "You - what?" That's not right. That can't be right. "You bought me something."
    He nodded, walking over to the bundle and untying it. Inside were remains of lunch, a water flask, coins, and then he picked up -
    Here it is. The catch.
    I felt myself pale, my tail curling tight as I realized what he held. He walked closer and I stepped back, my calves brushing the hearth. "Sir," I whispered, breathing quickly. I knew he could read the terror on my face and tried to clear my expression.
    But he slowed and lowered his hands. "What's wrong?" His voice was gentle, but that did little to soothe me. "That's… not the reaction I expected a girl to have to a comb," he said in quiet confusion.
    Not a girl. Just caprine stock.
    I swallowed, glancing between the comb and his face. I couldn't speak. I was trying not to hyperventilate. I could tell him something easy, but he'd probably know if I was lying.
    "Tell me, Miren."
    I nodded. Gentle or not, that was a direct order. Please don't hit me, I whispered in my head. Please don't feel insulted. Please don't ruin what you've built. "When… when men in Falkenbruck want their stock to look nice," I managed slowly, every word feeling wrung from my chest, "it usually precedes…" I trailed off, unable to finish the thought. My eyes wouldn't leave the floor. I was bracing for the strike.
    There was silence for a moment.
    Finally, Everet huffed. "So that's what it is," he murmured, and then sighed. "No. I felt bad this morning. I saw that bringing up… me leaving… upset you. I felt guilty and I wanted to make up for it, and I thought…" He paused. I glanced up at him in time to see him shrug, his gaze tracing the cupboard in the corner. "I thought you'd like it."
    I said nothing. I couldn't. When he turned his attention back to me, my eyes fell to the floor.
    "Miren," he said quietly. Then, when I didn't look, he said it a little more forcefully: "Miren. Look at me."
    I complied immediately.
    His gaze was solemn. "I swear on the three wraithtrees of my homeland - and Princess Sarine - I will not touch you." He again held out the comb. "The comb is an apology that I hope that you accept and enjoy. But…" he paused, seeming a little awkward. "If… if there was a gift I could give you that you would appreciate more, what would it be?"
    I hesitated, but when he continued holding out the comb, my hand crept forward, fingers wrapping around the unadorned handle. I looked up at him. "Stock aren't -"
    "Aren't what?" he interrupted, his gaze turning into that needling disappointment. "Allowed to want? No - Miren, I order you to tell me what you want. And to start telling me when you want things in the future," he added, seeming pleased by his "cleverness".
    My ears tilted up, just a little, in pessimistic amusement. "It's not as simple as that. You can't just… command me to want things," I said softly. "But… I would enjoy... if… you took me to market?" Shame and embarrassment flooded me immediately, but I pressed on when a glance at his face just revealed he seemed curious. "And more thread," I added quietly.
    Everet smiled.
    
    That evening was a weird mixture of fear and the first vague sense of what Everet called "normalcy". I slept poorly even so. I was awake when he rose the next morning, but I stayed in bed, watching the hallway.
    His form soon appeared in the hall, a dark shape beyond the pooling moonlight. He came to my door, watching me quietly.
    I tensed. Please don't, Everet, one voice whispered. Another argued, But he swore he wouldn't touch you. Neither won, and my heart pounded in my chest.
    He stood there for a little while, and then quietly shut my door.
    I felt myself relax, tension leaving my body like a held breath.
    I kept waiting for the peace to break - kept waiting for Everet to slip up and show his true self - kept waiting for the catch. Maybe the real catch was that I never deserved something this nice to begin with. I still felt it would be taken from me at any moment.

Chapter Six

    Nothing took the peace away.
    In fact, as the days passed, I was starting to feel like I belonged, which felt terrifying and wrong.
    Things slowly changed. I grew to trust him, and living became easier. I ate more even though it felt like guilt and shame, and I spent more time with my stitching. His sparse and scattered compliments started to mean more. A distant part of me realized I was seeking praise from him in a dangerous way, but the rest of me didn't care.
    I started to take care of myself, which was strange because I'd never done more than the minimum. I started washing more, and started brushing out my strawberry-blonde hair with the comb, putting it up in a nicer style than my usual low bun. One night, he smiled and said I looked pretty before he went upstairs. For a heartbeat a part of me waited for something crude, but nothing came, and I realized how different it felt coming from him than Rurik's customers: less like hollow dread, more like gentle sunshine.
    And then one morning, when I awakened and went downstairs, he was sitting at the table and reading his book. I froze, feeling my heart skip a beat. "Good morning, Everet," I managed in a soft voice.
    He frowned. "Did I startle you?" he asked.
    I hesitated. "I startle easily," I admitted, my voice timid. "And you've never had a day without a beast contract."
    "That's true."
    I glanced at the hearth, then back at him. "Would you like breakfast?"
    He smirked. "You know I don't eat breakfast. Would you like breakfast? Or would you prefer we hurry up to the market?"
    When I realized what he'd said, my breath caught in my throat. "You mean -" My eyes widened, and my tail absolutely betrayed me with a few happy swishes back and forth. "You'd really take me?"
    He leaned back and grinned. "That was one of your requests, wasn't it?"
    I swallowed, feeling a weird mix of anxiety and excitement. This is it, the little voice whispered. This is where you prove you can travel with him. Don't be stupid and ruin it. I nodded decidedly. "Yes. I would very much like to go to market with you, Everet."
    "Then let's go," he replied, setting his book down on the table. He stood and rolled his shoulders. "Get your rope, Miren."
    I nodded rapidly, ears up. "Yes, Everet." I turned and bounded up the stairs, rushed to my room and threw open my chest, retrieving the little coil of rope. I slammed the chest shut and rushed back downstairs, hurrying across the little room to him, and I placed the coil in his hands. 
    I stood prim and straight. As he stepped close to me, I swallowed nervously, tilting up my head to offer him access to my collar. I flinched as he moved his hands, but he was slow, careful, and gentle. It should have felt demeaning. It should have felt like fear and sin and shame - and it did - but it also felt… uncomfortably intimate, as his fingers brushed my throat while he tied the knot. I was suddenly very aware of both him and my beating heart; my gaze traveled up to his face: blue eyes tired but full of life, small scars on one cheek, rough stubble.
    I glanced back down, suddenly embarrassed.
    "There," he said, satisfied. "Knot will hold. You know the rules for stock being out in public?"
    My ears flattened at the word, but I nodded anyway, still looking at his boots. "I follow close, I don't speak, and I keep my eyes down around priests."
    "Good. We can't afford them thinking I'm any more heretical than they already do. And…" Everet paused for a moment, stroking his face in thought. "I think we need a way for you to communicate that isn't speech."
    I thought about this for a moment. "If I don't like something, I take a step back, and if I do, I'll step forward."
    The swordsman raised an eyebrow, his expression difficult to read. "That didn't take you long."
    "I've been 'stock' my whole life," I murmured, with the faintest hint of bitterness. "I know how to communicate without speaking."
    "You don't like that word." Not a question.
    My face flushed, but I looked up at him and pressed on anyway. "How could I?" I asked. "It makes me feel like…" I paused, trying to think of how to convey it. "It feels like I don't deserve to be called 'Hartfell'."
    Slowly, the man nodded. "I may still have to call you stock in public if someone asks," he mused, "but I'll be sure not to do it in private again."
    I looked down at the floor, feeling my muscles relax ever so slightly. "Thank you, Everet."
    
    The marketplace was chaotic, but with Everet there, it felt navigable. Dozens of stalls stretched out across the busy market square of Falkenbruck, each with a vendor hawking a specific set of items: orchard fruit at inflated prices, stalls with hunted game, fish from the river, various bits of cloth, and vast amounts of vegetables from the early Autumn harvest.
    I followed dutifully and obediently behind Everet, not missing a single step. For his part, he was playing the part of the average owner, but I could tell he was paying very close attention to how I handled things.
    It was far from my first time being out; Rurik used to take me to carry food home as well, but it felt so different from being with Rurik. I wasn't afraid of a cuff or a slap, but that wasn't all - the most bewildering thing is that my opinion truly mattered. When Everet stepped up to a table with tomatoes that were clearly past their prime, I took a step back. He felt the tug on the leash, and instead of a cuff, he turned away to move to a different table.
    That alone was almost enough to make me cry.
    The basket slowly filled with food - vegetables, cheese and mushrooms. Fruit not because I asked for it, but because Everet saw me eyeing it and bought it without me having to step close.
    A group of Ashen Vow soldiers did wander through on patrol more than once. The first time, they seemed to ignore us entirely - or perhaps they simply didn't notice us. The second time was different.
    "Taking your stock to carry the food basket, eh, Valen?" one of them taunted. "Couldn't carry it yourself?"
    I kept my eyes on my toes. My tail tucked tightly between my legs.
    Their question demanded an answer, and I heard Everet respond without emotion. "Pulled a muscle in my shoulder fighting a bullwolf," he said smoothly. "Wanted the stock to take care of the basket for me to give my arm a rest."
    "Man like you couldn't kill a bullwolf," one of them retorted. "Takes four or more to take one of them down."
    The leader stepped closer; I could practically hear the sneer: "Unless you use magic, eh, Valen?"
    Everet's response was practiced and monotonous. "I abide by the laws of Kesselgard and the guidance taught by the Church of Silver Flames."
    "So you say," the man muttered. "But the word of a man from Valen is worth less to me than a common thief. Come on, men. Let's leave him and his precious stock."
    As they passed, one of them hit me in the back with the shaft of their pike, muttering something about soulless beasts. I stumbled forwards, but kept silent, eyes on the ground. Everet's knuckles whitened around the leash, but he said nothing. I didn't expect him to. Some small part of me wished he had, but the rest of me knew better than to hope for that.
    The rest of the market went smoothly, though I was rather shaken and I could tell that Everet was, too.
    
    Back at home, after we were back inside, Everet took the food basket and handed me the leash. "I was worried something like that would happen," he muttered, carrying the basket to the food cupboard. "Fucking church soldiers." He opened the cabinet doors and knelt.
    "We handled it well," I offered, untying my leash from my neck. "I did well, didn't I?" It was brazen, and my chest felt tight. Stay steady and calm, Miren, I told myself. This is where he changes his mind. "I'm very good at playing obedient stock," I offered.
    Everet grunted, his voice wry as he put away the food. "You've had a lot of practice."
    "Yes, but -" He's not wrong. "But if you take me with you to Valen -"
    He put the basket down, a little harder than he needed to, and stood, seeming pained. "Do you think I don't want to, Miren? Do you think I like the idea of selling you off?"
    I flinched at the sudden change in his voice, shrinking back against the wall, ears so flat it hurt.
    But he didn't slow. "Today was proof it's necessary. Out on the road, away from cities, the Church can get away with anything. And - being obedient does nothing if you've got a woodwight trying to flay you. If the soldiers don't get you, the beasts will. I wish there was room for you in my world, Miren, but there's not."
    I swallowed, tight against the wall. "Yes sir," I managed to say. Then, with some effort I added a whispered plea: "Please don't yell."
    He looked confused and defensive. "I wasn't yelling."
    "It felt like you were…"
    At that, Everet calmed, just enough. "Sorry," he muttered. "Look, Miren, I didn't want you to get stuck with me. But if nothing else, I can try to find you a good home. I've been looking around Falkenbruck and I have some candidates - people that will treat you better than Rurik."
    The words burned. It was all for nothing, I thought, wincing. He really doesn't want me. - Of course he doesn't want me, why would he? At the same time, a smaller voice whispered, That's not what he said, stupid, but the louder voice couldn't be quieted: Dead weight, dead weight.
    He watched me, reading me like he always did, and then began walking forward. "Miren, I -"
    My legs slid me a little further along the wall before I could process it. My heart was pounding in my ears and I was all but certain I was going to cry.
    Everet stopped, hesitating, his face wrought with disappointment. Finally, he sighed. "Miren… I know you're good, but that's not what I need. I don't need blind obedience and servitude. You could be the most gentle, most dutiful, most obedient girl in the world, and I wouldn't take you to Valen's courts with me."
    Not good enough, Rurik's voice echoed. Only worth twenty-five marks. Tears pricked at my eyes and I tilted my head forward, my hair falling in a protective curtain.
    He continued unabated. "It's two, maybe three months of constant travel. The fastest roads are swarming with beasts and highwaymen. And, if you didn't notice, the Church of Silver Flames doesn't like me. And neither does Kesselgard."
    Because you're a heretic, I thought bitterly. Out loud, I only whispered, "Because of the magic."
    He huffed. "I wish that was the only reason," he muttered under his breath. "But, no - I suspect that you being on the road would only complicate things." He looked troubled, his face stony, and finally turned back to the food basket. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, Miren," he offered. To his credit, he sounded genuinely regretful, but ruined it by adding, "But… you knew this was coming from the beginning."
    My stomach twisted and I looked down at the floor. It was several moments before I managed a barely there, "I did." Then, quietly, I added, "May I be dismissed, Mister Everet?"
    I heard a sigh, and then the shuffling of feet. "Go on, Miren," he murmured, and said nothing more.
    I moved with careful swiftness to the stairs, up the steps, and to my room. I closed the door behind me, and after a tense, uncertain moment, slid the bar to lock it. I leaned against it, tears flowing freely now, and sank down to the floor, burying my head in my arms as I curled up.
    "I tried so hard," I whispered, voice shaking. "I wanted to be good for him."
    It felt like he was already gone, though I knew I still had a few weeks left.
    I didn't leave my room that night.

Chapter Seven

    A week passed. The rift slowly healed, but a quiet awkwardness had entered my brief conversations with him. As the days melted away in the early autumn heat, it felt very clear that we were both thinking about how there was less than a month remaining. With that on our minds, it was hard to talk. I'd ask about his day, he'd tell me a little about what he had killed: barrowgaunts, lichhounds, oakshades, briarmucks and other creatures. The names blurred together, but the story was the same: the beasts were growing more challenging, the pay was getting worse, and the Church was more openly despising him.
    Not much changed until he came home one night with an extra bag in addition to his usual bundle.
    "Good evening, Everet," I said, as I always did. "I made stew."
    He nodded. "Smells good, Miren." After hanging up his sword, he dropped a bag on the table and removed his brigandine, putting it away. "I brought you something."
    At those words, my ears tilted up despite myself. My eyes were hopelessly drawn to the blue-gray bag on the table, fixated on the lumps and folds as though I could discern what it was from sight alone. My feet ached to move, but I stayed by the hearth.
    After removing his boots, he watched me for a moment. "Well? Are you going to open it?" he asked expectantly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "Or just stare at it?"
    I glanced up at him to check his permission, feeling a slight warmth rush to my face as I moved forwards, my fingers falling to the bag's tie as I slowed beside the table. I untied the twine carefully, and inside was such a wealth that I almost choked. 
    The room seemed to dim and I felt a little lightheaded. This is temporary, a voice warned in my mind. This is temporary. You won't get to keep this for long. But as my hands sifted through the different skeins of thread - all thicknesses, all colors - I bit my lip. "It's so much," I finally whispered, struggling to keep my composure. My eyes swam as I glanced up at him again, ears alternating between pinning and tilting forward as I tried to process it.
    He was smiling - just a little - the faintest hint of one. "It's what you asked for," he said, tilting his head. "Isn't it?"
    I couldn't hold his gaze. I laughed softly, my heart doing flips. "It's lovely, completely lovely." I lifted three of the two dozen skeins into my hands, cradling them gently - one a soft gold, another vivid red, another a pale blue - all of them of consistent thickness and quality. "This could last me years, I -" 
    At the mention of time, I glanced up in time to see his face set in something akin to guilt before he schooled it into something more neutral. No, then - he still doesn't intend to keep me. This tempered my excitement, but not as much as it might. I can still hide a lot of this in my blankets when I'm sold, even if I don't find a way to convince him.
    "You'll like the bag, too," he said, as he passed behind me to get a bowl for his stew.
    And that's when I realized the gray-blue fabric wasn't a bag - it was a new work dress. My breath caught and I made an embarrassing little noise between a laugh and a sob. Not a hand-me-down, I realized. Not from a Church charity or trash pile. It was pretty, durable fabric with a good length and long sleeves, and it tied at the waist. The skeins fell forgotten to the table as I lifted it into my shaking hands. The collar was wide, and the cuffs at the sleeves - and the hem - were perfect for embroidery.
    A tear fell before I could stop it, and feeling ashamed, I quickly wiped my face with the back of a furry forearm. "It's too much," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. He's trying to mend the gap between us, to fix what's broken so my last three weeks aren't miserable. The thought rippled through me like rain and sun, and I clutched the dress to my chest.
    But I don't want him to leave.
    I spun to face him as he finished filling his bowl. "Everet," I said, new dress held tight. "If I might ask… could you tell me about Valen? Is it… Knights and bloodshed and magic?" I asked. "Like the soldiers say?"
    At the mention of his homeland, the swordsman's face gentled. "Bloodshed," he chuckled. "Tell me what the stories say." He got a second bowl out of the cabinet and began to ladle stew into it.
    I swallowed, watching. "They say Valen trains Knights with the power of a hundred men," I began. "That everyone uses magic, and that they're all heretics. They all live in tall stone castles. All the men are trained as soldiers and they…" I paused abruptly, realizing how ridiculous all of this sounded. I looked down at the floor as I continued, tail tight against my thigh. "...they eat… babies. The weak ones."
    He snorted. "Most of it's lies," he said, handing me the filled bowl. One hand moved to take it as though it was an order, while my other still clutched my dress. I looked up at him as he continued, "We do have castles, though, dotted around the country. And some soldiers do train in magic, and we do have Knights like you say." He turned and walked towards the stairs. "Valen is very small compared to Kesselgard. We have relatively few people, but vast vineyards. If it wasn't for our Knights, any other country could overwhelm us."
    I cradled the bowl in my hand, the warmth seeping into my fingers. "Have you ever seen a Knight?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. I suddenly blushed, tilting my head down; my hair fell into my eyes, shielding my face. "I'm asking a lot of questions."
    He paused at the bottom step, looking back at me. "Yeah, I've seen a Knight," he said carefully, nodding. "I lived in Aurelac for a time - the capital city of Valen, on the shores of Lake Cuvette. But I spent my early life in Solenne - a quiet town in a valley to the northeast, in the foothills of Kesselgard's Hartsteil Mountains."
    I nodded, but sensed there was more he wasn't telling me. "Have you ever seen one fight?" I followed behind him with my stew, not wanting him to leave.
    This brought a longer hesitation. "Once, at a tournament in Aurelac, I fought one," he said finally. "Got my ass completely handed to me." He smirked. "Too cocky for my own good." Then he turned and climbed the stairs to his room.
    
    With the rift healed, the next several days were pleasant. On one of the evenings, Everet came home with a slash on his brigandine from an oakshade he hadn't anticipated. I stayed up half the night and repaired his brigandine with my new thread, making sure the leather was flush and even so that nothing would catch on it.
    Another night he came home with a pastry from a different village - it was a strange little thing - made like wispy bread, but sweet and filled with jam. I refused to eat it before he revealed he'd had one for himself on the way back home.
    Another night, I showed him my new embroidery - I was putting a little twisty vine with silver-green leaves on the sleeves of my new dress, with little blue and red flowers. He seemed mildly impressed, and said he was very glad he got me the thread.
    And then one night he didn't come back at all.

Chapter Eight

    It was a deceptively gentle evening. I cooked a thick soup for him, the cottage spotless. While it simmered, I brought the washing inside from the line. After Everet's normal wear, the rest of the laundry was mostly cotton cleaning rags that I'd boiled to remove stains, and I sat at the table and folded them.
    After putting the cloths away in the cupboard, I moved to the front window, looking outside. It was getting dark. He usually arrives by now, I thought. Perhaps he had more business in town. Or perhaps they were trying to underpay him again.
    I went up to my room, kneeling in front of my chest. After a moment's thought, I took the comb and moved over to the mirror. My hair hadn't been dirty and tangled in weeks. I combed my hair again and put up part of my bangs in two braids, coiling them around to the back of my head - under the horns, over the ears - using a length of ribbon-like cloth to tie it together at the back.
    I'd rarely braided my hair since playing with the other girls on the farm, but Everet sometimes lingered downstairs a little longer if I looked nice. Or… perhaps that was in my head.
    I put the comb away and gathered a few skeins of thread, my nicer dress, and my precious needle. Then I closed my chest back, stood, retrieved my oil lamp for light, and went downstairs. After setting up my little station - thread and oil lamp so I could see properly - I began to embroider more looping vines and flowers onto the sleeves.
    It was some time before I looked up, realizing how much time must have passed to be so much further in the pattern - at least an hour, maybe two or more.
    I glanced at the front window. It was completely dark outside now, apart from the faint light coming from the sliver of the moon above.
    He was already much later than he'd ever been, but with no recourse, I continued to embroider.
    But my anxiety spoke up. He's not coming, my mind whispered. He used magic in Falkenbruck like he did when you met him, and they arrested him. They're going to come to seize his corrupted property and that means you, Miren. You should've begged to be rehomed. You got too comfortable. Now it's the pyre.
    I let out a little huff. "No, he wouldn't be so careless," I whispered aloud. "He's just being kept late in town. He'll come back. He always does."
    But the door stayed shut. As the fire began to burn low and it got harder to see my embroidery, I began to truly worry that something had gone wrong.
    Eventually I grew frustrated and impatient with my embroidery. My vine was starting to curl wrong and I couldn't focus. There was a tightness in my chest and I couldn't sit still, and instead of focusing on my work, I kept thinking about him. I put my work aside suddenly and stood.
    I went over and checked the soup. I stirred it to break up the thick film and set a couple more logs of firewood to burn so the room would be brighter. It wasn't enough to relax me; I lit several candles as well, on the table and on the cupboard.
    Then I went to the window, opened the shutters, and looked outside.
    Silence. Not a soul on the road. I perked my ears up to listen, but heard nothing, and they flattened back down again.
    Maybe something killed him, my stupid mind whispered. He said he had a bullwolf contract. He said those are bigger than a cow, with horns and claws and teeth.
    I frowned. That was better than being arrested for being a heretic: I'd be rehomed instead of burned as corrupted property. But my anxiety didn't lessen, and it was several moments before I understood why.
    It's not about the Church, I realized, half-horrified as I understood what it meant: I don't want to be rehomed. I want to be Everet's caprine that he comes home to. He was clumsy and stupid, and often distant, and he said all the wrong things, but he was kind. The mere thought of belonging to someone else made me feel miserable.
    Tears pricked at my eyes and I bit my lip. He's dying out there, the voices hissed. He's dying out there and he needs your help and there's nothing you can do because you'll be arrested just for walking down the road. He's bleeding out and you could save him if you weren't useless stock. You'll be auctioned to one of Rurik's customers or worse.
    I hyperventilated, eyes pinched shut. "No, no, no," I whispered, fighting the voices as I hung my head out the open window. "No, he's okay. You're panicking, Miren, calm down. He's not dying, and worrying isn't going to make him come any faster."
    But I couldn't calm down.
    I'll go to bed, I decided, turning towards the stairs. I'll bring my blankets downstairs to the hearth and I'll sleep in front of the fire so I wake when he arrives. I can't panic if I'm asleep.
    I ascended with deliberate steps and walked the hallway to my room, barely holding back the voices. After gathering my blankets, I went back down and made myself a little bed in front of the fireplace. I stoked the flames again to keep the room bright, and then curled up.
    I was exhausted, but sleep would not come. I lay there for a long time, but every time I closed my eyes, my mind offered me blood, teeth, priests, and pyres. I tried to think of good things instead - his smile when I loved the thread, the oath on his Princess Sarine and the wraithtrees, even Thira - but even that made it worse. Every comfort I reached for only reminded me how much I had to lose.
    Suddenly I moved without thought, throwing the blankets aside and rushing to the door, flinging it open. The moon had moved far across the sky, and the night was dark as pitch, and there was still no sign of the Valen swordsman.
    I hastened back to the cupboard, grabbed a candle, and went out, closing the door behind me. I entered the yard and shut the gate, and then set the candle on a fence post against the road: a tiny beacon of light.
    And I stood vigil, waiting, hoping, and praying to every foreign god I'd ever heard of.
    
    The candle burned low, the moon drifting lower in the sky as clouds gathered. I tried to keep my ears up, listening for any sound, and the hours passed slowly.
    My eyes ached, but I held.
    "Please come home," I whispered. "Please come home, Everet."
    
    Eventually, just as the sky began to brighten at the edges, just as I was truly losing grasp of every sliver of hope, I heard it: heavy breathing, boots dragging on the road.
    At the end of the lane, coming over the low hill, I saw a lone, staggering silhouette.
    It could only be him.

Chapter Nine

    I was climbing the fence and leaping over it before I could stop myself, legal or not. My feet carried me to him like wings, tears of frantic relief slipping free. "Everet!" I cried as I neared him. "Oh, Everet!"
    He looked up, almost in alarm. "Miren? What are you doing outside?" His voice was tight.
    "Waiting for you," I managed, slowing in front of him as I struggled to keep from sobbing in relief. "Everet, I thought - I thought you were dead, or the Church got you, or -"
    "I'm fine. Don't be scared," he mumbled, trying to move past me. "Need to get in the house." His Valen accent was thicker than usual, his voice a little slurred.
    I nodded quickly. "I'll help," I offered, moving to his side. "You can lean on me. Are you hurt?" But as I tried to lift his arm, he jerked away and hissed, breathing heavily. His sleeve was stiff, covered in something dark, something like -
    "Everet, you're bleeding," I whispered with a bolt of terror, my palm red and sticky in the moonlight.
    "I'm fine," he insisted. "Just need to get inside."
    "It's a lot," I realized as I examined his sleeve. "Everet -"
    "I need to get inside," he repeated, almost growling. "Don't worry about me, Miren."
    I backed off obediently. "Right. Okay. Just… lean on me." I positioned myself under his other arm, and when he didn't push me away, I let him lean on me as we walked slowly, carefully to the cottage.
    "You're strong," he mumbled after we'd walked several paces.
    I huffed, biting my lip. "I lived at a smithy. What happened to you?"
    He didn't reply right away. Not until the cottage loomed close. "Bullwolf ambush," he muttered between heavy breaths. "Was fighting one already. Two were baited by dead sheep in the next clearing. Didn't see them until they jumped me."
    I choked. "Three?" I swallowed, processing it as I opened the door for him: the soldiers at the market had said it took at least four of them just to fight one. "You're lucky you're alive," I murmured, deeply alarmed.
    "I'm fine." He walked unsteadily towards the stairs, dropping his sword and scabbard on the table. "Just gotta get to bed." He hadn't even bothered taking off his armor.
    I slammed the door and rushed ahead of him, taking in the bloodied arm. By the firelight, I could see the real damage. Deep, deep gashes scored the upper left sleeve of his brigandine, the blood there still fresh, with teeth marks on his right shoulder only stopped by the studded plating. My heart rose into my throat. "You are not fine," I blurted in terror. "Everet, that's bad!"
    "I've had worse, Miren," he insisted, swaying as he stepped forward, catching himself on the cupboard.
    "It will get worse!" I cried out in protest, stepping close. "Everet, you -"
    "Miren!" he interrupted sharply. "Move. Let me pass."
    And then I did the most terrifying thing I'd ever done in my entire life.
    "No," I whispered, lip bitten in fear. My whole body trembled. Are you insane? You're stock. This is rebellion. I braced myself for the strike, but stood straight to face it. "I will not let you pass!" 
    The strike never came. He only watched me silently, mouth open slightly in surprise. 
    I pressed the advantage. "Everet, you will listen to me." I spoke slowly, my voice shaking as I pushed through the dizziness, trying to sound firm. "You will stop trying to go upstairs. You will take a seat by the fire. And you will let me look at your wound." I clenched my fists, trying to be brave because whether he realized it or not, he needed me to be.
    He stared down at me, stunned, and then finally, without a word, moved to the fire and sank heavily into the chair.
    There was a brief moment where my mind grappled with the enormity of what I'd just done: I'd commanded a human, and he'd obeyed - not yelling, not striking, but quiet obedience. It felt wrong.
    I swallowed and twisted my mind from it, grabbing the oil lamp off the table for extra light and hurrying to him. I held it close to the bite marks - not too deep, barely red - and then to the part I was afraid of. The gashes on his left shoulder were dark, crusty, and too bloody to make anything out. The trembling of the lamp wasn't helping.
    Images leaked into my mind of a girl from my stall on the farm - Maialen, a brunette cervine - who had a lash wound on the back of her thigh that festered and grew dark before the farmhands led her away. I could distinctly remember the smell and the way she shivered.
    My voice was faint but certain. "This needs tending, Everet. It's deep and split open, and it's still bleeding. I'll get my leash and we'll take you to the healer's temple in Falkenbruck."
    "I don't trust the Church not to poison me," he muttered. "The bullwolves were a planned ambush. They want me gone."
    "This can't go untended, Everet," I insisted, leaning forwards. "You could die from it!"
    He glared at me. "The Church is not an option," he said firmly.
    For several moments, I stared, wide-eyed and blank as I processed it. "Then it has to be me," I whispered in overwhelming horror.
    My mind raced. "Don't move. Please," I begged him, setting the lamp down and rushing to the cupboard. I got a sharp knife and laid it on the table. I moved the soup off the fire and put a fresh pot there instead, filling it with one of the water buckets, water sloshing over the rim. I added more logs to the fire and stoked it bright.
    "Miren," he said, his voice tired and pained. "Do you even know what you're doing?"
     A fair question. "No," I admitted. "But… Two years ago, Rurik slipped while putting a sword away and it sliced his thigh," I said, setting a stack of the clean cotton rags on the table. "It went deep. I shouted in the town for a healer and they sent for one. I was there while the healer cleaned him and put him back together." Then, haltingly: "And… the healer poured strong liquor on Rurik's wound."
    Everet grimaced. "I've seen it done."
    "Do you have any?"
    A grunt. "Up in my room, on my cabinet."
    I hesitated.
    He lifted a tired arm and waved at me. "Go. Get it."
    I turned, bounded up the stairs, and entered his room, finally breaking the one cardinal rule he'd set when he'd bought me. I rushed to his cabinet, grabbing a bottle that looked clear and unopened. I wiggled the cork free and sniffed; it burned the inside of my nose.
    I fled back down the stairs and set the bottle on the table, then grabbed the knife and began to cut the stitching on his brigandine.
    He yanked away, then hissed as his arm moved. "What are you doing?" he barked.
    I jumped back, trembling. My breath came quick. "I could hurt you if I try to pull it over your head," I managed, swallowing back my fear. "Please don't yell at me. I'll stitch it back, I promise. You know I will." I then added a tremulous, "Please trust me, Everet."
    He paused, then said with solemnity and encouragement, "I trust you, Miren." He nodded again and then looked away, seeming grumpy he needed my help at all. "Do what you need."
    Grumpy or not, total trust from a human felt shattering. I swallowed and stepped closer again. "Yes, Everet," I whispered. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath to steady my hands, and began cutting away his brigandine's stitches, and then the cloth beneath it.
    When the last of the cloth fell away, I let out a little involuntary sound like a mix of a gasp and a whimper. "Oh, Everet," I murmured. The brigandine had stopped most of the damage, but two claws had gotten through: one shallow scratch, and one long gash, deep enough to cut into the muscle. It was jagged, dirty, and still seeping blood. I almost started crying before schooling myself. I will not cry, I told myself forcefully. He needs you to be calm. Remember what the healer did. All the little rituals.
    I grabbed a few clean rags from the table and stepped close, holding his arm. "Stay still," I whispered in command as I grabbed his arm with one hand and pressed the rags into the wound with the other - harder than I wanted to, because the healer had done the same. My stomach twisted.
    Everet hissed and grunted in pain, but he stayed quiet.
    The rags turned red, slowly soaking through, and when they were mostly damp, I dropped them on the table and grabbed fresh cloths, pressing them into the wound.
    Slowly, as I burned through my rags, the bleeding slowed until it was only oozing.
    I threw the cloths on the table and washed my hands in a water bucket near the wall. The blood wouldn't fully scrub away, so I went back to Everet and took the oil lamp to look at the wound. It was still jagged, angry, and gaping, but the trickle had stopped.
    "I'm going to have to stitch this together like the healer did," I whispered. I cautiously picked the obvious debris out of the wound with my fingertips - bits of dead leaves, a shred of cloth. The world felt distant but I forced myself to focus. It hardly felt real.
    The man sat motionless and silent. He was watching me with a tired glint in his eye that was unlike anything I'd seen from him before - almost a keen interest.
    I tore my eyes away from his face and hurried back to the cupboard, getting a wooden bowl. I filled the bottom with liquor and dropped the needle in. I didn't understand and only half-remembered the healer's rituals - and I couldn't remember the prayers she'd spoken - but I hoped it would work the same anyway.
    "I'll be right back," I told Everet, and I rushed up the stairs to my chest.
    I chose the thinnest skein of thread I had - precious white silk, unsuitable for embroidery, chosen by a man who had likely never given thread a serious thought in his life. I rushed back down the stairs and put it in the bowl with the needle, soaking it.
    I dished some of the water from the pot over the fire - warm now, but not hot - and carried it back. "This next," I whispered, more to steady myself than him.
    Slowly, I poured the water over the gash, wincing as it flooded over the injury, rinsing away blood and debris as it splattered messily onto the floorboards. I cleaned the rest of the skin around the wound with a damp cloth, and poured the rest of the water.
    Then I reached for the liquor. I stepped close to Everet, my pulse hammering in my ears.
    "Everet," I said slowly. "The healer used spirits. About half a bottle."
    He glanced at the bottle in my hand, then at my face, and his mouth hardened. "Do it," he muttered, turning away and offering me his arm.
    I stepped close, and took gentle hold of his arm to angle it. I hesitated a little longer, then poured.
    Everet roared. "Fucking shit!" he shouted, gritting his teeth before letting out a growling, nonverbal sound between heavily panted breaths, shaking with the effort of staying still.
    I jumped back, shrinking, hyperventilating, tail tight between my legs. My heart was pounding so loud I felt it in my chest.
    He glanced up at me sharply, fully awake now. "Not at you!" he gasped, still panting. "It's not at you." He swallowed with effort, his fingers gripping his knee until his knuckles blanched. "Again," he commanded.
    I nodded quickly, tears on my cheeks, and stepped forward, holding his arm steady. It was harder to make myself go through the motions a second time, but I forced myself to pour, the bottle chugging.
    Everet ground his teeth. "Fuck!" he hissed, sucking in a breath before growling again.
    I cowered, starting to step away.
    "I won't hit you," he gasped. "Again."
    I shook my head. "That's as much as the healer did." 
    Everet nodded, too quickly. "Right. Good," he managed between rapid breaths. "Stitching." He nodded at the bowl on the table, then grabbed the liquor bottle from my hands and drank the rest of it. "Should've done that to start," he choked out, sputtering.
    I pulled a chair close and took the needle and thread from the bowl. I was shaking; I had to force myself to calm with deep, quiet breaths before I could even thread the needle.
    The stitching was agonizing. Flesh is thicker than cloth, harder to pierce, and it flinches and bleeds. From the very first stab, I knew my work would be uneven. I started in the middle, trying to bring the center closed. I pierced one side, then tried to pierce the skin on the other side at the same height, avoiding going into the muscle. I pulled, gently, clenching my jaw as I brought the two sides of skin together, and then tied a knot, biting the extra thread off with my teeth.
    The next stab went too deep - straight into muscle. He flinched and I pulled the needle back out immediately.
    "I feel sick," I whimpered, wiping away tears. "I don't know what I'm doing. I only saw it once."
    Everet grunted. "You're doing fine. Keep going. Compared to the liquor, this is nothing."
    I got through another two stitches before I had to take another break. "I'm sorry," I said. "My hands - they won't stop shaking. I don't want to hurt you."
    "Look at me, Miren," Everet ordered. I obeyed, looking him in the eyes, hand on his arm. "Your eyes are bloodshot. You're exhausted. I can do the rest." 
    But he looked haggard and pale, and I shook my head. "No, I'll do it," I insisted. "You're tired too. I just… I just need a minute."
    He waited.
    Deep breaths. My hands stilled. I started again.
    Everet watched me quietly as I worked. I suddenly realized how close I was to him. How, for the first time in my entire life, it felt like I was equal to a human - how it felt to be tending him like he was the small one, not me. It felt wrong - broken - but there was a small part of me that whispered, This doesn't feel that bad.
    I struggled to focus.
    Eventually, one stitch after another, the wound closed. Not well - not quite evenly - but enough. I could tell just by looking at it that it would scar, but I'd done my best.
    "It's done," I said in relief, leaning back into my chair. "It's over." I laid my needle on the table and stood. "Stay there. Please."
    I went up to my room again, my feet dragging on the steps, and got my old blanket from my chest. I carried it back down to Everet. I took the last clean cloth and put it over the wound, and then tied it on with twine. Then, after several attempts, I made a sling for his arm with my blanket. He cooperated, too tired to protest.
    "Come on," I urged. "Bed. But you can't move your arm. I don't want the stitches to tear."
    Everet grunted, standing and stumbling for the stairs.
    I stayed behind him the whole way up, steadying him. We reached the top, and I followed him into his room without permission, holding back the covers, then tucking him in.
    I went back downstairs and tossed all the bloody rags into the boiling water to remove the stains, then used other rags to dry up the floor, wringing out the mess into an empty bucket. My dress was filthy, covered in grime and smears of blood, but I was too exhausted to change.
    With the floor cleaned enough, I took my blankets up the stairs, step after heavy step, and entered Everet's room again.
    He was fast asleep. The dawn was visible through the slats in his window, playing across his blankets.
    I dumped my blankets on the floor at the foot of his bed and nestled into them, every motion feeling like a hard-won battle. The floor felt hard under me after a month of the bed, but it wasn't much different from Rurik's loft.
    For a time, I lay there, listening to the sound of his breathing - in and out, quiet, peaceful, and comforting.
    And then I was gone, too.