The memories came unbidden, as Ciliren began to relive the training she received when she ceased to be free… and became merchandise.

  The woman tasked with instructing her in so-called “intimate matters” had been a figure difficult to forget. Not because of cruelty, but because of the way she spoke of the world. That woman, already advanced in years, had a sharp gaze and a deep voice that brooked no argument. She had spent much of her life working in brothels in many port cities on the great island of Tritin, surviving by pleasing merchants, sailors, and nobles.

  And strangely… she was proud. She spoke of her youth with a mixture of nostalgia. She claimed to have been one of the most desired women of her time, capable of pleasing any man in bed. According to her, power wasn't always found in the sword or in magic, but in intimacy, where men revealed their true nature.

  Ciliren knew that woman hadn't chosen that fate. However, she hadn't let it destroy her either. She had learned to adapt, to turn imposition into a tool, and over the years she ended up dedicating herself to preparing other women to survive in the same world that had devoured her.

  Ciliren never felt hatred toward her. Perhaps because, amidst that cruel reality, the woman had shown neither contempt nor violence. Her lessons were harsh, yes, even uncomfortable. Painful on a deeper level than the physical. But they were never accompanied by mockery.

  It was she who taught her that, in private, men revealed aspects that the rest of the world would never see: fears, insecurities, and desires for validation. “Power changes hands when the bedroom door closes,” she used to say.

  What impacted Ciliren most was not the practical instructions, but the idea behind them. That woman insisted that the value of a sex slave, especially those sold to powerful or noble men, lay in her ability to become indispensable. That success was not in blind obedience, but in making the man, at least during the nights, unable to imagine his life without her.

  For Ciliren, that idea was almost repulsive. She didn't want to become the center of any imposed desire. She didn't want her existence to depend on a man's attention.

  But the trainer saw the situation from a different perspective. She said that slavery, at least in these cases, shouldn't be understood solely as a relationship between oppressor and oppressed. According to her, if the enslaved person became convinced that they were just a purchased object, then that's exactly what they would end up becoming.

  On the other hand, if she chose to reinterpret her fate as a kind of forced marriage—an inevitable and permanent union—then she could try to build something within that confinement. Not necessarily freedom… but influence.

  The woman claimed to have seen countless examples. Slaves who refused to surrender, who learned to read their owners' hearts, and who, over time, managed to occupy a real place in their lives. Some were even integrated into the family, treated with a respect akin to that of a legitimate wife.

  But she also spoke of the other side. Of those who never accepted their reality. Who remained resentful, distant, and unable to adapt. Many ended up relegated when they ceased to be interesting. Resold or abandoned. Forgotten when youth could no longer conceal the wounds of time.

  Undoubtedly, Ciliren's case was different. She was not simply a young woman torn from her home to become merchandise. She was a mystic warrior, trained in disciplines few understood, with a magical affinity that made her exceptional even among her own kind. And besides, she was an elf. Her life, even before becoming a mystic warrior, wasn't measured in decades, but in centuries. Her youth could last longer than any human could imagine.

  But all of that didn't make her immune to fear. Because slavery didn't distinguish between talents or longevity. It reduced everyone to the same level. And remembering that woman's words, the weight in her chest grew heavier.

  "The best owner you can hope for," she had once told her, forcing her to keep her back straight and her gaze lowered, "is the one who can't keep his hands off you. The one who takes you to his bed the very day he buys you and doesn't let you sleep the first few nights. Those are easy to understand, those who desire without any shame. And when a man desires enough, you can mold that desire, turn it into attachment, into habit, even into affection."

  At that time, Ciliren had felt revulsion at that logic. Now, however, she analyzed it with greater detachment.

  The old woman had continued, her tone more serious: "The real danger is the others. Those who look at you but don't act. Those who seem to desire you... but don't know how to treat you." Perhaps they're too shy, confused, or too insecure about their authority. If you don't do anything, they might start to get discouraged. And a discouraged man is unpredictable. He might sell you out, ignore you, or convince himself that you're just an object that didn't work out as he expected.

  Those words haunted her now like a persistent echo. Joel hadn't touched her. He hadn't demanded anything. He hadn't claimed what, under the cruel laws of the world, belonged to him.

  Was that kindness… or uncertainty?

  Ciliren knew she tended to overthink. That her mind sometimes fabricated threats where perhaps none existed. But fear didn't obey logic. She was terrified by the possibility that Joel might be disappointed in her. And she was even more terrified by the idea that she was the reason for something that was beginning to make all too much sense to her.

  Ciliren was the first to be bought. She couldn't ignore that. Aldra came later… only after she broke down in tears. The others followed in a chain reaction. As if every decision had been, directly or indirectly, for her.

  What if he had bought them all for her?

  What if the fate of all the slaves was completely tied to her?

  That thought froze her. If Joel truly expected something… and she neither understood nor offered it… what would happen when he faced that frustration? When he realized his “investment” wasn't yielding the results he'd imagined?

  The old woman had been clear about that too: male disappointment doesn't always explode. Sometimes it cools. It transforms into distance. Into indifference. And indifference was worse than hatred. Because what ceases to matter… is discarded.

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  Ciliren clenched her fingers until her knuckles turned white. She didn't know if her suspicions were based on reality or if they were phantoms born of cruel training. But she did know one thing with absolute certainty: She couldn't remain still.

  Risking her own life was one thing. Risking the lives of others, because of a doubt she herself refused to confront, was quite another.

  If there was even a possibility that Joel was expecting something from her… she had to find out. She had to act.

  Ciliren mustered his courage like someone picking up the pieces of broken armor before returning to the battlefield. It wasn't fear of an enemy. It was fear of words.

  Every time she caught sight of Joel inside the shelter, something inside her tensed. She would take a deep breath, silently rehearse a phrase, take the first step… and the moment would slip through her fingers.

  Something always happened. An unexpected interruption from Nana, appearing with that silent presence that seemed to emerge from nowhere. One of the disciples bursting in with urgent questions about training or supplies. Even that strange man without hands—who sometimes appeared from the deepest recesses of the shelter—ended up monopolizing Joel's attention just as she was about to speak.

  And when the path, for once, seemed clear… Joel reacted strangely. One afternoon he tripped over a piece of furniture as he saw her approaching, as if his own clumsiness had betrayed him. On another occasion, as soon as their eyes met, he muttered something about unfinished business and walked away with an unconvincing, almost forced haste.

  That confused her more than any outright rejection. Was he avoiding her? Or did he simply not know how to act around her?

  Frustration began to weigh heavily on her. It wasn't just the discomfort of not being able to speak; it was the feeling of being trapped in an absurd dance where they both took steps forward only to take steps backward at the same time.

  And yet, she knew she wasn't the only one who found it difficult to approach him. Joel had become the central figure in everything that happened within the sanctuary. Nana, the disciples, even the children sought his guidance or approval. There was always something to attend to. There was always a journey to prepare for. He spent much of his time outside the shelter, as if his presence inside was merely a parenthesis between greater responsibilities. Speaking with him alone felt almost like requesting an audience with a ruler.

  She considered approaching Ariel or Alicia. Perhaps one of them could facilitate the meeting, create a more natural situation. But the trust between them was still new, so she didn't wish to reveal the nature of her unease. There was only one entity within the sanctuary capable of intervening without judgment and without unnecessary questions: Nana.

  The metal statue listened to her in silence. Its face showed no emotion when Ciliren expressed her desire to speak with Joel privately.

  While awaiting a response, the elf couldn't help but observe her closely. In the forests of her home village lived elementals: humanoid figures formed from earth or rock that served as natural guardians of the elven territory. Nana vaguely reminded her of them.

  But the reality was that the statue appeared to be something radically different. It lacked the awkward rigidity of stone and the roughness of earth. Its body, though entirely metallic, possessed a disconcerting flexibility, as if the iron were merely the color of its skin. Its movements were fluid, harmonious, almost organic. More than a statue, it seemed a living work of art, constructed in a way that defied logic.

  When it finally spoke, its voice was as serene as ever. It didn't question the request and didn't ask for explanations. It simply indicated the day Joel would likely return from his most recent journey and suggested she wait for him outside his room. Just like that.

  There were few truly restricted areas in the refuge. No one had officially declared Joel's room off-limits… but everyone treated it as if it were. Not even his disciples dared approach without permission. It was an unspoken boundary. That's why having Nana's implicit authorization, as she was second-in-command at the refuge, was essential.

  No one would interrupt Ciliren there. Not disciples, not hasty excuses, not sudden disappearances. Just Joel and her. The thought made her heart pound.

  When the appointed day finally arrived, she crossed the central courtyard with measured steps and entered the long corridor that led to Joel's room. There, the usual murmur of voices vanished; even the light seemed dimmer, as if that section belonged to a different space within the complex.

  She stopped in front of the door. Her heart pounded in her chest with an unsettling force, but she didn't back down. She was nervous, yet her determination was stronger than her fear. She couldn't keep feeding her assumptions. She needed to know exactly what Joel wanted from her.

  Because there had to be a reason. No one spent that kind of money to acquire someone like her solely for domestic chores. Joel didn't seem like the type of man to act on a whim.

  If what he wanted was her body… The idea, which months ago would have paralyzed her, now settled in her mind with stark clarity. If that was the price to guarantee stability, she was prepared to pay it. Not only for her own safety, but for Aldra's, for the children's. All those who had found something resembling a home in the shelter.

  If necessary, she would even resort to what she had learned during her training as a slave. That knowledge filled her with shame. Techniques, gestures, and attitudes designed to awaken desire and hold a man's attention. Resources she had been taught as survival tools. Remembering them made her feel dirty… but also prepared.

  She stood by the door for at least an hour, upright, her hands clasped in front of her stomach. In her mind, she rehearsed possible conversations. She tried different ways to begin: frankly, cautiously, with a subtle hint, with a direct question.

  Deep down, what she truly desired wasn't to seduce him. She wanted to understand him. She wanted to know her place in the plans of this enigmatic man. Did he see her as a tool, as a responsibility… or as something more? Perhaps, if they could speak honestly, something different could blossom between them. An understanding that would bring her some peace.

  So absorbed was she in these thoughts that she didn't hear the footsteps. She only noticed his presence when a shadow fell across the floor in front of her.

  She looked up. Joel was barely a meter away, watching her with an expression that was a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  "Do you need something?" he asked.

  His voice sounded slightly stiff, as if he'd struggled to pronounce those words.

  Ciliren blinked, caught off guard. From this close proximity, she noticed details she'd previously overlooked: the slight tension in his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes, and the weariness evident in his posture. He, too, seemed uncomfortable.

  That, strangely, gave her more courage. If she didn't speak now, she might not have another chance.

  "Master Joel… would you grant me a few words?" she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, though a tremor betrayed her.

  He held her gaze for several seconds, which felt endless to Ciliren. There was no hardness in his eyes, but something more difficult to interpret: doubt, perhaps.

  After that time, he finally nodded. Without another word, he opened his bedroom door and, stepping aside with a sober gesture, indicated that she should enter first. Which she did.

  As she passed by him, just inches away, Ciliren couldn't help but notice a peculiar scent emanating from Joel. Something that made her feel uneasy.

  It wasn't the usual smell of sweat, leather, or metal that typically clung to warriors. Nor was it the spicy perfume some nobles used to disguise their presence. It was something different… subtle and enveloping. Slightly sweet, like ripe fruit.

  Her body reacted before her mind. As she crossed the threshold of the room, a strange sensation coursed through her from her chest to her fingertips. It was as if everything around her had become charged with an invisible tension.

  She turned slowly to face him… and met his gaze. Joel was staring at her. There was no hardness in his expression, nor was there any coldness. It was something raw and naked. An intensity that made her gasp.

  The silence stretched out. The pounding of her heart began to echo in her ears, growing louder and louder. She tried to say something, anything to justify her presence there, but the words vanished before they could form.

  Then he began to approach. It was slow, as if he were moving toward something fragile he feared breaking. When he was just inches from her, the scent enveloped her again, even more intensely. Sweet and intoxicating.

  Ciliren felt her pulse quicken until it was almost painful. Joel raised his hand with an almost hypnotic slowness. His fingers brushed against one of the golden strands that rested on her shoulder. He took it delicately, as if he were holding a thread of light. Then he brought it to his face and inhaled.

  The gesture was so intimate, so unexpected, that a shiver ran through Ciliren's body. The closeness was overwhelming. She could feel the warmth of his skin, his warm breath brushing against her cheek.

  The scent grew more intense, now mingling with her own. A combination that completely disoriented her.

  As Joel's face began to lean even closer to hers, closing the distance until it was almost gone, all she could do was close her eyes.

  Not out of fear. But because she no longer knew what part of it all was choice… and what part was pure instinct.