The crackle of the hearth fire wormed into my consciousness first, followed by the heavy scent of wood smoke and roasted meat lingering in the air. My body registered its complaints next, stiff neck, sore muscles, the uncomfortable pressure of my horns against whatever was beneath my head. I kept my eyes closed, taking inventory through my other senses, a habit developed through years of waking in unfamiliar places.

  Beneath the smoke and food smells lay other odors: spilled ale soaked into wooden floorboards, unwashed bodies, the musty scent of old straw in the mattress beneath me. The low hum of voices drifted up from below, the tavern's common room still doing business despite the late hour. The rhythmic drip of rain against glass, the occasional creak of wooden beams settling, a distant rumble of thunder.

  And closer, the sound of steady breathing, not my own.

  Jacobi.

  I opened my eyes just enough to confirm what my other senses had already told me. The small tavern room was dimly lit by dying embers in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows across rough wooden floorboards and ill-fitting furniture. The single bed where Jacobi sat propped against the headboard was pushed against the far wall, his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. Despite the casual posture, his dark eyes were alert, watching me over the top of a small leather-bound book.

  "You've been awake for over a minute," he said, his voice pitched low. "Your breathing changed. Shallower. More controlled."

  I pushed myself up from the narrow wooden bench where I'd insisted on sleeping rather than share the room's only bed. My muscles protested the movement, stiff from hours on the hard surface.

  "Force of habit," I admitted, rolling my shoulders to work out the knots. "You never know who might be watching when you wake."

  Lightning flashed outside the window, briefly illuminating the room in stark white light before plunging it back into shadow. Thunder followed almost immediately, a sharp crack that suggested the storm was directly overhead.

  "The rain woke me," Jacobi said, setting his book aside on the small table next to the bed. "I'm surprised it didn't disturb you earlier. It's been pounding like that for hours."

  I twisted my neck side to side, wincing at the popping sounds from my vertebrae. "I've slept through worse."

  The implication hung between us, unspoken but understood. The auction pens. The cramped hold of the ship that had brought me to this island. Places where comfort was a forgotten concept and sleep merely a brief respite from constant vigilance.

  Jacobi studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Are you hungry?" He gestured to a covered tray on the table near the hearth. "I had food brought up earlier, when it became clear you weren't waking for dinner."

  My stomach answered before I could, a low growl that made his mouth twitch in amusement. I crossed to the table, bare feet silent on the rough wooden floor. The smooth boards felt almost luxurious against my soles after days on the packed dirt of auction pens and cramped carriage floors.

  Lifting the cloth revealed a simple meal, bread, cheese, smoked meat, and an apple, but the sight made my mouth water. I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten. Before the auction, certainly. Perhaps even the night before.

  I took a piece of bread, tearing off a chunk and eating it slowly, savoring the yeasty flavor and chewy texture. So much better than the tasteless gruel served to penned demons awaiting sale.

  I bit into the apple, its tart sweetness exploding across my tongue. The simple pleasure of food that hadn't been damaged by sea spray or tainted with the desperate atmosphere of the auction pens was almost overwhelming.

  The floorboards outside our room creaked. I froze mid-bite, my attention snapping to the door, muscles tensing in preparation for... what? I wasn't sure. Old instincts died hard. The footsteps continued past our door, fading down the hallway.

  Jacobi had noticed my reaction. His observation missed little. "The tavern keeper mentioned some merchants are staying here tonight as well. Trapped by the storm, I imagine."

  I nodded, resuming my meal with deliberate casualness. The bread suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth. I chewed mechanically, swallowed, reached for the cheese.

  "Is the sea journey always so difficult?" Jacobi asked suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled between us.

  I glanced up, surprised by the question. Not by its content, he'd noticed my discomfort in the carriage, but by his interest in pursuing it. Most owners wouldn't bother themselves with such details of a slave's experience.

  "I don't know," I replied after swallowing my bite of apple. "This was my first time on water. We don't have oceans in Naerith." I hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal.

  "The seasickness was severe, then?"

  I nodded, looking away. Admitting weakness to an owner was risky, but he'd already witnessed my discomfort firsthand. "Two days without keeping down food or water. By the third, I could manage small sips. By the fifth, some bread." I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Sam said I adapted faster than most demons."

  "Sam, the auctioneer." Jacobi leaned forward slightly, interest sharpening his gaze. "You knew him before the auction?"

  I chose my words carefully. "He was my handler for the voyage. He... treated me well." Better than most handlers would have, though I kept that thought to myself.

  "I noticed your interaction with him was unusual. He seemed almost... fond of you."

  I kept my expression neutral. "He's a professional. He understands that well-treated merchandise holds its value better."

  Jacobi's lips quirked in what might have been appreciation of my strategic word choice. I'd deliberately echoed his own phrasing from our carriage conversation, merchandise, value, investment, reinforcing his view of me as property rather than person.

  The storm's intensity increased, rain hammering against the window panes with renewed vigor. A particularly violent crack of thunder made the small room vibrate, dust sifting down from the ceiling beams.

  "The storm won't delay our journey tomorrow," Jacobi said, following my gaze to the window. "The roads north are well-maintained, even after heavy rain."

  I nodded, finishing the last of the cheese and bread. My stomach had settled somewhat, the food easing the lingering effects of seasickness and stress.

  "How far is it to your estate?" I asked, breaking a long silence.

  "Three more days of travel if the weather holds. Two if we're fortunate." Jacobi rose from the bed and moved to the window, staring out at the storm-lashed night. "We'll pass through open farmland tomorrow, mostly grain fields. The day after, we enter the hill country. The third day follows the coastal road to the estate."

  "What awaits us in the hill country?" I asked, genuinely curious. My knowledge of human geography was limited to what I'd overheard during my transport from the southern port.

  "Small villages, mostly. Shepherds. Weavers. The wool trade sustains them through the winter months." A flash of lightning illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. "We'll stop in Highridge on the second night. The inn there is better than this one."

  I studied Jacobi's profile as he stared out at the storm. During our carriage conversation, he'd mentioned his brother only briefly - a horse and falcon trainer with little interest in the business side of things. The hint of disapproval in his voice had been unmistakable. Such family tensions could be useful information, perhaps even leverage if needed. I tucked this knowledge away, another small piece in the puzzle of understanding my new owner.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "Your brother," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Selwyn? Will he have any authority over me?"

  Jacobi looked up from his contemplation of the storm, his expression guarded. "No. You answer to me alone. Selwyn has his domains, the stables, the mews, and I have mine. We maintain... separate interests."

  "I see." Another useful bit of information. Clear lines of authority would make navigating my new life simpler. One master was easier to please than two.

  Shouts erupted from the tavern below, followed by raucous laughter and the pounding of fists on wooden tables. The sound of merriment contrasted sharply with the somber mood of our small room.

  "Locals celebrating something," Jacobi remarked, returning to sit on the edge of the bed. "The innkeeper mentioned a wedding tomorrow, storm permitting."

  I nodded, not particularly interested in human festivals. In Naerith, celebrations were different, more elegant, more ordered, each gesture and ritual carrying deep meaning. Human revelry always seemed chaotic by comparison, loud and messy and lacking in purpose.

  The fire had dwindled to embers, the room growing cooler as the storm continued to rage outside. I suppressed a shiver, my thin silks offering little protection against the night chill.

  "Is it always so cold here?" I asked, rubbing my arms to generate warmth.

  "This is mild compared to winter at the estate," Jacobi replied. "The coastal winds can cut like a knife when they blow in from the north. You'll need warmer clothing once we arrive."

  He rose and moved to the small traveling trunk in the corner of the room, unlocking it with a key from his pocket. From inside, he withdrew a woolen garment, a simple cloak of dark gray, and offered it to me.

  "It will be too large, but it should keep you warm enough for now."

  I hesitated before accepting it, surprised by the gesture. The wool was soft, well-worn, clearly of good quality. I wrapped it around my shoulders, immediately grateful for its warmth.

  "Thank you," I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. Gratitude wasn't an emotion I'd had much cause to express during my captivity.

  "You mentioned training facilities at your estate," I said, changing the subject, keeping my tone appropriately respectful. "What sort of regimen do you envision for me? How often will I be expected to spar or practice?"

  "Daily," Jacobi replied without hesitation. "Two hours in the morning, two in the afternoon. Wynford will provide a more detailed schedule when he arrives next month, but until then, I want to assess your current abilities and weaknesses."

  "Will I train alone, or with partners?"

  "Both. There are several workers at the estate proficient enough to provide a challenge, though I suspect none will match your skill for long." He studied me thoughtfully. "And occasionally, I might test your abilities myself."

  That surprised me. Most owners considered themselves above sparring with their property. "You fight?"

  A hint of amusement flickered across his face. "I've trained since childhood. Nothing at your level, I'm sure, but I'm not without skill."

  Interesting. An owner who understood combat first hand might have more realistic expectations than one who only viewed it as entertainment. Another piece of information to consider as I planned my approach to this new chapter of captivity.

  "What weapons do you favor?" I asked, curious despite myself. In Naerith, a fighter's preferred weapons revealed much about their temperament and training.

  Jacobi seemed to consider whether to answer, then shrugged slightly. "For practice, wooden training blades. For actual combat, I prefer daggers. Quick, precise, easily concealed."

  I nodded, filing this information away. Close-combat fighters tended toward direct approaches, both in battle and in life. They valued precision over power, speed over strength. Useful to know.

  "And you?" he asked, turning the question back on me. "What are your preferred weapons?"

  "I was trained with various weapons," I replied, measured and careful. "Short blades suit my style best. Though in the pits, I mostly fought unarmed."

  "The pits," Jacobi repeated, a question in his tone.

  I looked away, unwilling to elaborate. The fighting pits of Naerith were brutal places, where demons fought for status, for honor, sometimes merely for survival. Those memories belonged to another life, one I had no wish to revisit.

  Jacobi seemed to sense my reluctance. "The matches I arrange will be different from what you're accustomed to. Structured. Regulated. As I said in the carriage, victory, not death."

  I nodded, careful to show just enough relief to seem grateful without appearing weak. In our carriage conversation, he'd made it abundantly clear that I was an investment, property purchased at considerable expense. There was no partnership here, only ownership. But survival in captivity had taught me to adapt to whatever role my current master expected.

  "I understand," I said quietly. "I'll serve you well."

  The words tasted bitter on my tongue, but they were necessary. Nine and a half years stretched before me like an abyss, time that would be spent as property, as entertainment, as someone else's asset. Playing the role of the dutiful slave was merely another survival tactic, no different from the fighting skills I'd honed over years of training.

  "I've no doubt of that," Jacobi replied, studying me with that calculating gaze. "Wynford wouldn't have recommended you otherwise."

  I filed away that information, Wynford's recommendation carried weight with Jacobi. Another potential angle to exploit if necessary. Every piece of knowledge about my owners was a weapon, even if I couldn't use it immediately.

  "I'm grateful for the opportunity to serve you," I said, the practiced lie coming easily. "The accommodations you've described at your estate sound far more comfortable than what many in my position experience."

  His expression remained unreadable, but I sensed a certain satisfaction in his posture. "As I said, it's simply practical."

  The storm rumbled outside, a counterpoint to our conversation. I wondered if he could sense the storm within me as well, the careful calculations, the strategic submission, the constant vigilance. If he did, he gave no sign of it.

  Below us, the sounds from the tavern's common room had begun to quiet, suggesting the late hour. Occasional bursts of laughter still punctuated the steady drumming of rain against the roof, but the general clamor had subsided.

  "What of the other demons in the region?" I asked, drawing the woolen cloak tighter around my shoulders. "You mentioned fighting other demons. Are there many near your estate?"

  "Not many," Jacobi admitted. "A handful of wealthy landowners keep demon fighters. Some merchants. A few of the more ambitious officials." He frowned slightly. "Though that may change. There are rumors that more demons have been arriving from Naerith in recent months."

  This was news to me. "Why?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps conditions there have worsened. Or perhaps the demand here has grown." He shrugged. "Either way, it means more potential opponents for you."

  I absorbed this information silently. More demons meant more complex social dynamics, more alliances and rivalries to navigate. In Naerith, such relationships were governed by strict codes of honor and hierarchy. Here, I suspected things would be more chaotic, with human interests overriding demon traditions.

  "You should take the bed," Jacobi said suddenly, rising to his feet. "You need proper rest if we're to make good time tomorrow."

  I hesitated, suspicion flaring instinctively. Owners rarely offered comfort without expecting something in return.

  "The bench is adequate," I said carefully.

  "The bench is torture," he countered drily. "And you're stiff enough from the sea voyage without adding poor sleep to your troubles. Take the bed. I'll use the chair by the fire."

  I remained wary, though the offer of the mattress was temptingly genuine. "Why?"

  "Must I repeat myself?" Mild exasperation colored his tone. "It's practical. You need rest to recover your strength. A fighter in peak condition is worth far more than one exhausted and in pain."

  Always the businessman. His consistency was almost reassuring, he might view me as property, but at least his motivations were transparent.

  "Very well," I conceded, moving toward the bed. "Thank you."

  He nodded once, settling into the chair. The wooden frame creaked under his weight, but he arranged himself with the practiced ease of someone who'd slept in worse conditions.

  I lay down on the mattress, the rough sheets still warm from his body heat. The straw rustled beneath me as I settled, but compared to the hard bench, it felt like luxury. My muscles began to relax almost immediately, the tension of the day seeping out into the yielding surface beneath me.

  The rain continued its steady tattoo against the window, oddly soothing now that I was comfortable. Lightning flashed less frequently, the storm moving away from us, the thunder becoming a distant rumble rather than an immediate crack.

  "Sleep," Jacobi said, his voice soft in the darkened room. "We leave at first light."

  I closed my eyes, not truly expecting sleep to come quickly. In unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people, rest was usually elusive at best. But the combination of exhaustion, the fading effects of seasickness, and the unexpected comfort of the bed conspired against my vigilance.

  As consciousness began to fade, I found myself wondering about the estate that awaited me. A gilded cage, yes, but perhaps one with enough space to breathe, to plan, to survive these nine and a half years with mind and body intact.

  The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was the rhythmic turning of pages as Jacobi returned to his book, a strangely domestic sound in the storm-wrapped darkness.