I sit on the fallen tree, my fingers clawing into the bark, splinters digging into my palms. My chest heaves. For a moment, none of them move. They’re waiting—waiting for me to break myself open.
“You want to know who he is?” My voice cracks. “Fine.”
The forest fades around me as memory swallows me whole.
“When I was five… the master purchased me.”
The words scrape out of me, rough and small, and all three of them make noises—disgust, anger, barely suppressed growls—but I push on, because if I stop, I won’t be able to start again.
“At first… he raised me like I was his daughter.” My voice falters. My fingers twist together in my lap. “He’d throw these… extravagant parties. Always full of strangers. He would dress me up in silk and lace and parade me around like—like I was some exotic
