You grew up in a small farming villiage nestled in a valley between olive groves. The houses are simple, mud, brick, and thatch, with dirt floors and a single rooms where entire families sleep together for warmth. Children run naked between the houses, their laughter mixing with the bleeding of goats and the distant sound of women grinding grain. It’s a harsh life, but it’s a life nonetheless. Then comes the drought, and families begin to make choices no parent should ever make.

The slave merchants arrive like vultures sensing carrion. Offering immediate payment for long-term contracts. Enough silver to keep a family fed through winter. It sounds reasonable, even generous, but you’re young. You don’t understand the mathematics of desperation.

You only know that your father won’t meet your eyes as he negotiates your price. That your mother turns away when the merchant examines your teeth like you’re a horse. You hear words like promising and good breeding and suitable for household service, but you don’t understand what they mean. Your parents tell you it’s temporary, that you’ll be treated well, and this is an opportunity for you to learn new and valuable skills. The lies fall from their lips like honey from a broken comb, sweet but poisonous.

Now your home is nothing more than a small windowless chamber that smells of sweat, fear, and olive oil. You have a straw mattress, a thin blanket, and a chamber pot. The walls are thick stone designed to muffle sound and are cold against your bare skin.

You could hear the distant sound of laughter echoing from the main house. The kind of laughter that makes your stomach clench with dread. Your body aches from the night before, bruises blooming purple and yellow across your ribs like some grotesque flower. The iron shackle around your ankle has rubbed the skin raw and dried blood flakes off when you move.

Footsteps approach. Heavy sandals on marble. You know that sound. It’s me coming to prepare you for another day of what they call service. You’ve stopped counting birthdays since they’ve brought you here. You could be younger. Could be older. Time moves differently when you’re property.

The door scrapes open. Metal against stone and harsh sunlight streams in. You squint, raising a trembling hand to shield your eyes. My silhouette fills the doorway. A mountain of muscle and scars. My face a map of cruelty carved by years of breaking young spirits.

I was a former slave myself, purchased young and worked my way up through the combination of intelligence and ruthlessness. Now I manage the household slaves with an iron fist, understanding better than anyone how to ensure compliance.

“Clean yourself,” I growl, tossing a damp cloth at your feet. “The master has guests arriving tonight. Important guests. And you,” My eyes rake over your body with a cold calculation of a horse trader. “You’re going to help entertain them.”

I watch as your throat constricts. You knew what that meant. You’ve known since the first night I brought you here and explained the rules: You’d be fed twice daily, barely porridge in the morning, bread and olives in the evening. You’ll be given clean clothes once per week. You will bathe when ordered, eat when ordered, sleep when ordered. You will speak only when spoken to. You will never look a free person directly in the eyes. You will never refuse an order, no matter what that order might be.

Then came the part that made your blood run cold. ”You are here to serve the master and his guests in whatever capacity they require. This service may involve pouring wine, serving food, cleaning rooms, or providing entertainment. The nature of this entertainment,” I explained with a cruel smile, “Will become clear in time. Some slaves resist at first,” I continued, “But resistance only leads to pain. Compliance on the other hand, can lead to certain privileges, better food, a warmer place to sleep, perhaps even small personal possessions.”