We lined up like soldiers in the open courtyard outside the main building, our spines straight and our eyes fixed on the empty space ahead. The morning air was crisp, but I could feel the sweat beginning to prickle at the back of my neck. Positioned directly across from our row was a single, ornate chair. The slave merchant, a man whose eyes always seemed to be calculating the silver value of everything he touched, sat in that chair, watching us with a detached, clinical interest.

  “The first thing you must learn as a slave is that your master’s will is the absolute law. To obey and respect your master is your top and only priority,” the female trainer announced. She stood beside the merchant, her posture even more rigid than ours. “Therefore, you will be learning the three basic gestures of respect: bowing, kneeling, and prostrating. You will observe my examples, and I will correct you as you practice until the movements are instinctive. The goal is perfection. Your gestures must be sincere; you must show your master through your body that you belong to him. Do you understand?”

  Silence followed her question. We were all still in shock, our minds struggling to reconcile our past lives as free wolfkin with this new reality.

  Suddenly, the sharp, violent crack of a black whip tore through the air. The sound was like a thunderclap, echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard.

  “I asked a question!” the trainer screamed, her face contorting with rage. “Answer out loud and answer immediately if you do not wish to be punished!”

  The terror was instantaneous.

  “YES, SIR!” “YES, MADAM!” “YES, MASTER!”

  The responses were a chaotic jumble of voices as everyone shouted whatever word they thought would keep the whip from falling.

  “You will address only your owner as ‘Master’!” she corrected, her voice cold and sharp. “Aside from him, you will address your seniors and all non-slave people as ‘Sir’ if they are male, and ‘Madam’ if they are female. Now, try again. Do you understand!?”

  “YES, MADAM!” we shouted in unison, our voices much more synchronized this time.

  With the hierarchy established, the training truly began. The trainer showcased each gesture with a fluid, practiced grace. We were ordered to perform them against the merchant’s empty chair over and over again. We bowed until our backs ached; we knelt until our knees were bruised by the stone; we prostrated ourselves until our foreheads were dusted with the grit of the courtyard. She corrected every minute detail—the angle of our heads, the placement of our hands, the speed of our descent. She was a professional, showing no emotion as she molded us into submissive shapes.

  The merchant stayed only for thirty minutes, apparently satisfied that the process had begun, but we continued for hours. We bowed to his empty chair as if he were still sitting there, imprinting the image of his authority into our very bones.

  “Good! That is enough for today,” she finally announced. “We will repeat this every day. Tomorrow, your domestic education begins. Eat your dinner and rest. You will need your strength.”

  As the days turned into weeks, our education expanded. The schedule was relentless, designed to transform us from "raw materials" into refined house slaves within a strict six-month window. We perfected our greetings and then moved on to the intricacies of domestic service. We learned how to hold a tray without a single rattle, how to pour tea without splashing a drop, and how to move through a room as silently as shadows.

  There were lectures on every aspect of housekeeping: cleaning, laundering, and sewing. The cooking lessons were where I excelled. Back in our village, I had already been considered a better cook than my mother, though the techniques being taught here were far more advanced. They focused on refined palates—delicate spices, complex sauces, and the aesthetic presentation of food. While the work was grueling, Wyn and I supported each other. When my hands cramped from sewing, she would massage them; when her legs were heavy from the endless drills, I would share my portion of water with her.

  However, the hardest and most thrilling lessons were reading, writing, and the Common language. I had always dreamt of being able to read the fairy tales from the human lands, but the reality of learning a new script was incredibly difficult. The characters were alien to us, and our fingers, more accustomed to skinning or kneading dough, struggled with the delicate pens.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Learning the Common language was the greatest hurdle. Initially, I didn't understand why we had to abandon our native tongue at first, but the trainer explained the cold business logic behind it. Common was the language of trade, spoken by the elite of every nation. A slave who could speak Common was exponentially more valuable than one who could only grunt in a beastkin dialect. By teaching us the language of humans, they were increasing the probability of a high-value sale.

  The schedule was so tight that it left almost no time for sleep. From the merchant's perspective, we were an investment. He had paid for our bodies, our transport, our food, and our mentors. Every day we spent in the compound was a day he was losing money. He wanted us to be "market-ready" as quickly as possible so he could realize his profit.

  While Wyn and I managed to keep pace, others began to break. The training grew harsher as the expectations rose. If a girl fell behind, the punishments were varied and cruel. Some were given half-rations, others were assigned back-breaking labor like scrubbing the courtyard stones until their fingers bled. In cases of perceived disobedience, the whip returned.

  Fortunately, as the first month passed, the physical punishments became less frequent. Not because the trainers became kinder, but because we had all learned to adapt. A strange sort of sisterhood began to form among the slaves. We were all enduring the same trauma, and we started to support each other. Some of the seniors, those who had been there longer, were actually kind, offering tips on how to please a difficult trainer or how to soothe a brand. We became close, like a family born of tragedy.

  As the months progressed, the senior slaves began to disappear. They were sold one by one. Most were beastkin like us, but there were human slaves and other races as well. Each departure was a reminder of our eventual fate.

  Wyn and I became remarkably proficient. By the end of the second month, we could read and write with surprising fluency. We would spend our few minutes of free time practicing the Common tongue, whispering sentences to each other in the dark of our room. We even began to help the other girls who were struggling with their lessons, acting as unofficial tutors within the cell.

  Once the foundations of language and housekeeping were set, the training shifted to a more unsettling phase: the art of attraction. We were taught how to showcase our physical assets to appeal to the specific tastes of customers. Those with "cute" features were taught how to act youthful and innocent; those with "voluptuous" or curvy bodies—like mine—were taught how to emphasize their silhouette through posture and gaze.

  They spoke openly about the high probability of us being sold as sex slaves. For a beautiful female slave, being a concubine or a bed-slave was often her most likely destiny. At first, Wyn and I were terrified by the prospect of being forced to be with a stranger. But as we listened to the seniors, our perspective shifted. Many of them wanted to be sex slaves. In the brutal economy of slavery, a sex slave was often treated better than a labor slave or a combat slave. If a master found pleasure in your body, he was more likely to provide better food, softer clothes, and protection. It was a grim, pragmatic hope, but it was the only one many of us had.

  By the fourth month, our training was nearly complete. We spoke Common fluently and had mastered the advanced domestic arts. The merchant began to include us in occasional "showcases" for visiting customers, even though our official six-month training period wasn't over. He would select the most promising slaves to "spice up" his current inventory.

  Whenever a customer arrived, I felt their eyes scanning me like I was a piece of livestock. Wyn, with her fit, toned body, drew the eyes of those looking for an "energetic" companion, but most men focused on my breasts. I would stand there, my head bowed in a perfect gesture of sincerity, while I calculated how much longer I could stay with my sister.

  We were priced much higher than the others. The merchant told us it was because we were both beautiful and "talented"—we had progressed much faster than the average slave. He expected to sell me for a fortune as a high-end sex slave, while Wyn’s price was bolstered by her physical strength and combat potential.

  This high price was a double-edged sword. It meant we weren't sold immediately to the first pervert with a few gold coins, but it also meant our eventual separation felt more inevitable. If a customer could only afford one of us, we would be torn apart. I started to hold onto the witch’s prophecy like a lifeline. She had said we would encounter someone—a "favored one"—and that our response would determine our fate. I began to imagine a savior, a prince on a white horse who would buy us both and treat us like people again. It was a childish hope, perhaps, but it was the only thing that kept me moving.

  Five months have now passed. Our education is officially over. Today, the bells of the compound rang again, signaling the arrival of a new group of wealthy customers. As Wyn and I were called to the showcase room to line up, I felt the familiar flutter of anxiety in my chest. I wondered if today would be the day we were finally sold, and whether the "prince" the witch promised was among the men waiting behind the door.

  [Edited]

  Hello, dear readers. It is mistova.

  It has been a while since I wrote a proper author note.

  The story will be taking a different approach in the second book, so I hope you enjoy it.

  If you are curious to the point you can't wait, you can read chapters ahead of time on Patreon. Here is the link:

  I also want to thank the current members for their support. There are not many of them, but it is still motivating to know there are some people who are eager to pay for my work.

  Thanks to the Heroes:

  Koreyn

  Thanks to the Knights:

  NaTaS