He doesn’t hit her.
He doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t grab her by the hair for making a mistake or kick her for no reason.
At first, she thought it was some absurd dream.
The boy who called himself her new master, Lucas Argent.
While living under him, Piel was undoubtedly spending the safest days since becoming a slave.
Which only made it…
more terrifying.
Because Piel knew that kindness hurt more than betrayal.
The other slaves in the prison had been the same.
At first, they treat you well.
They talk to you, give you a moment of freedom, don’t touch your body, feed you scraps.
Then one day, it all flips.
“You let your guard down.” With those words, everything ends.
So no matter how much Lucas smiled now, no matter how gently he spoke, no matter how much he said, “It’s not your fault”— Piel thought she absolutely could not believe him.
The moment she believed, she’d die.
The moment she hoped, she’d crumble.
The moment she longed for warmth…
she’d be torn apart.
So Piel swallowed her gratitude, her emotions, her desires, practicing only how to submit like a proper slave.
That was how to survive.
Today was the same.
Her master smiled.
As if it was truly fine, as if there was nothing to worry about, he offered her—a slave—a seat at the table, at the same level as him.
That act of kindness chilled her blood.
A slave dining together?
Impossible.
Eating at eye level with a master like the heavens?
That was a trap.
All slaves knew it.
Words that lifted you up were bait to make the fall hurt more.
Beastkin knew it best of all.
Beings not even treated as people in some regions.
Offering a seat next to one of them?
Ridiculous.
So Piel had planned it out today too.
Since it was an order, she’d pretend to touch the chair for a moment, then drop straight to the floor, kneel, bow her head, make herself as small as possible, and beg forgiveness as quickly as she could.
“That way, he won’t kill me.” Her body remembered the survival equation.
So…
she sat.
But that was a mistake.
Tremble, tremble, tremble— The moment the hard chair surface brushed her thighs, her present shattered entirely.
No time to even breathe in—the underground prison stench stabbed her nose.
The mingled rot of mold and blood’s metallic tang, the smell you only caught right before death.
The scraping of dried blood flaking off iron bars clawed at her ears.
The friction of dragging chains, screams of dislocated shoulders, the wet rip of tearing flesh.
All memories revived at once.
Back when her mother vanished, and Piel was the last beastkin slave left.
“Beastkin aren’t allowed to act human.” “The moment you sit in a chair, I’ll snap your legs.” “Let’s see if you qualify for a person’s seat…
with your body.” Just like the instant those words had been spoken, the fox girl’s body screamed before her mind could react.
A nauseating heat tore from esophagus to stomach, surging up her throat.
Before she could breathe, hot, bitter, acidic liquid exploded from her mouth.
It spilled over her chin, her hands, not to the floor—but straight onto her master’s clothes.
Again.
Again.
Even after the first heave, her body wouldn’t stop.
Even with nothing left, her muscles convulsed, squeezing out vomit.
She felt the scraping pain inside her throat but couldn’t halt it.
Her own bile clung to her nostrils, her ears rang with screams and retching she couldn’t tell were hers.
Her fingertips froze.
Not her heart—but all her blood draining away.
Then a kick flew, breath cut off at her throat.
Crash!
Faster than her body hit the floor and rolled, her thoughts collapsed.
It hurts.
Hurts.
Hurts.
And the immediate terror that followed.
Am I dying?
Right now?
No.
No no no no no I don’t want to die!!
Her master was a young master of the noble Argent Family.
Noble.
The kind her mother always said to never let notice you.
One word from them, and people knelt; one command decided life or death.
And now, she’d vomited on one.
It’s not strange if she died.
No, death was expected.
In a way, the moment she’d longed for.
But strangely, when it actually came…
Piel didn’t want to die.
After her mother died, she’d thought of following her so many times, believed death would bring peace.
“I want to live…!” That cry exploded in her mind.
Even dragged by her hair, only one thought looped in Piel’s brain.
Please.
Spare me.
I want to live.
She knew from experience—after crying this much, the next phase began.
Now her master would drop the mask.
Wipe away the kind face, reveal the cruel truth, start the torture with, “How dare you vomit on your master?” So with her face frozen in fear, Piel awaited the most familiar words.
“Die.” Those words.
Once they fell, it was over.
And her master opened his mouth.
“You’re family to me.” Fa…
mily?
Her breath caught sharper than from fear of death.
Slaves had no family.
Everyone she could call that…
was gone.
She’d believed she’d never hear that word again.
Yet now, a word that should never return fell right before her lips.