Her chest burned like fire touched deep inside.
One more breath, and something would burst.
If it did, it was over.
So she desperately suppressed it.
Pushed the unknown emotion—sorrow, hope, longing?—deep into her throat.
But the more she held it, the more the long-rotted darkness inside slowly…
shifted to a warm hue.
And the place her master took her next wasn’t a beast-washing livestock pen or an icy well.
A bathroom with steam rising waist-high.
One of the luxuries in this world reserved for nobles.
There, Lucas didn’t strip off her ragged clothes and throw them away.
He tore them to shreds and discarded them on the floor.
So she’d never wear them again, never return to her old life.
And there was— no torture, no orders, no mockery.
Only the sweet scent of shampoo wrapping her hair, warm water soaking her shoulders, careful hands wiping the vomit stains.
As if, in this moment, Piel were the master and Lucas her servant.
“…” Piel said nothing.
No, she couldn’t.
If she opened her mouth, sobs would escape.
Slaves couldn’t cry.
They had to keep smiling, no matter what.
The instant their expression crumbled, punishment came.
So she gritted her teeth and endured.
Digging her nails into her jaw to stop her lips from trembling.
But the moment warm water touched her skin, it felt too much like her mother’s embrace.
Along with the flowing water, something she’d held back poured out.
“Hic…
hic…!” A sob leaked.
She had to stop.
She could die.
She knew.
Yet for the first time, it wasn’t the sensation of bathing—but of truly feeling alive—that made the tears unstoppable.
Later, after washing until her eyes were bloodshot and stepping out, Piel kept her head down, swallowing tears, terrified her crying would be discovered and punished.
Then what her master offered wasn’t chains, a collar, or a switch.
Clean clothes.
“Put them on.
That’s an order.” Her bandaged hand, slightly stained red where blood had seeped, entered her view.
A bold gesture displaying it, proof he’d really pricked his own hand.
No room for backtalk.
Piel dressed immediately.
They were…
unbelievably clean.
A white apron, skirt hem ironed smooth as fresh bandages.
At the bottom, the Argent crest embroidered in silver thread.
Clothes allowed only to slaves who served the master directly.
Even before slavery, she’d never worn anything so fine.
For a brief—a truly brief—moment, her eyes sparkled.
But no time to savor it.
“Follow me.” An emotionless voice.
Steps impossible to read.
Each shoe click echoing down the hall louder than Piel’s heartbeat.
And they arrived at an annex basement.
The door opened, metal stench slapping her face.
The chill down her spine came faster than expected.
Illuminated by candlelight, the interior was far more sophisticated and perfect than the underground prison where Piel had once been tortured.
Machines, restraints, gears, red-hot tongs, iron needles…
one glance revealed its purpose.
“So…
this is how it ends.” The bath’s warmth, shampoo’s scent, the touch lingering in her ears.
All illusions.
The family feeling?
Just her fooling herself.
In the end, she was a slave.
No matter the talk of family, it always came to this.
Still—from the bath, she’d felt it.
This master, Lucas, had a sliver of affection.
But nobles had their tastes, and duties to fulfill.
So when her master brought a massive bear trap, Piel decided to accept it all.
“Ah, that’s it…” Back in training, the tool they’d made her step on to crush her ankle.
The trainers had said, “Scream in as much agony as possible.
That’s what masters like.” Those words were command and law.
So Piel was grateful.
For the brief ‘family’ pretense in the bath, for the mercy of torture over death.
And with all emotions shut off, she walked toward the bear trap, accepting it was truly over.
But that instant.
Crunch!
A thunderous shatter of metal.
The torture tool at Piel’s feet exploded into fragments before her eyes.
Lucas held an iron club.
What followed was quicker.
The knee-crusher he fetched next…
crunch!
The nail-removal clamp after…
smash!
Spine-fixation frame, no-standing platform—tools that had torn her body, taught her screams, shattered her humanity—one by one, pulverized into a mountain on the floor.
Not a basement, but an execution ground.
The instruments screamed.
And when the club finally smashed the last one and was tossed aside, Lucas wiped his sweat roughly and looked at Piel.
His expression was neither cruel nor kind.
Just one emotion.
Resolute.
“With that, I’ve smashed a bit of the world you endured.” Piel’s heart stopped for a moment.
Her master’s next words arrived slowly.
“From now on, run away, cry, rage for all I care.
But don’t…
hide any of it.” And very lightly, too lightly.
“I can handle that much.” Those words cut deeper than any torture.
Her breath choked.
The depths of her chest cracked open again like in the bath—but larger this time.
Don’t believe.
Don’t fall for it.
That was the prime rule for a slave’s survival.
But— For the first time, Piel broke the rule.
Because for the first time ever, beyond family, someone she wanted to believe in had appeared.