“Here it is. Your new home. How is it?”

  Our new master stopped in front of the yard of a two-story building and gestured toward it with a casual flick of his wrist. I stood there for a moment, my eyes wide as I took in the sight. After the months spent in the cramped, cold stone cells of the slave trader’s compound, this building felt less like a residence and more like a manor from one of the fairy tales to me.

  The exterior was crafted from a warm, honey-colored wood, neatly organized and impeccably clean. It stood in stark contrast to the dust and grime of the bustling city streets we had just traversed. As we stepped through the front gate, which was positioned near the edge of the property, I caught the vibrant scent of damp earth and growing things. To our left lay a rectangular botanical garden, perfectly maintained. I could see various kinds of herbs and plants I didn't recognize, their green leaves shimmering under the afternoon sun. It wasn't just a yard; it was a living, breathing part of the home.

  “Thank you for allowing us into your home, master,” Wyn said, her voice snapping me out of my daze. She bowed her head low, her training as a house slave instinctively guiding her movements. I quickly followed suit, my face flushing as I realized I had been staring like a common village girl.

  “Okay, let’s get inside. I will show you around,” he said, leading the way toward the front door.

  As he pushed the door open, the scent of fresh pine and beeswax met us. The interior was just as meticulously crafted as the outside. Directly ahead of us, a set of wooden stairs led to the second floor. Every surface—the stairs, the floorboards, the walls—was made of high-quality wood, giving the space an air of warmth and solidity that made my heart feel strangely light.

  On the right side of the entrance, a corridor branched off in three directions. Our master began the tour with a practical focus. “When you turn right here, there is the toilet. To the left is the bathroom. If you go straight, it leads to a short corridor connecting two rooms that face each other.”

  He led us into the toilet first. At a glance, it appeared to be a standard facility—a simple hole in the floor for waste. But on the left, there was a pedestal with a ceramic washstand that looked like nothing I had ever seen in our village. There was a metal handle on the side, and a curved pipe arching over the bowl.

  Before I could ask, the master reached out and leveraged the rectangular handle. To my utter bewilderment, clear, cold water began to flow from the pipe, swirling around the bowl before disappearing into a drain at the bottom.

  “There is a large water tank on the second floor,” he explained, noticing my shocked expression. “When you open the valve, gravity pulls the water down through the pipes. This part, where the water comes out, is called a ‘faucet.’ It’s not particularly uncommon in major cities, but I suppose it’s quite a wonder if you’ve spent your life in a small village.”

  I stared at the flowing water, mesmerized. In the village, every drop of water meant a trip to the well with heavy buckets. Here, it seemed to appear out of thin air at the flick of a finger.

  “It might look like it is very convenient,” he warned, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “but we have to fill that tank manually and regularly. Do not waste water. It is a precious resource here.” He then opened a small wooden cabinet mounted just above the washstand and pulled out a bowl filled with a fine, greyish powder. “And this is vital. Use this powder to wash your hands every time you leave the toilet. Basic cleaning is incredibly important to me. If the two of you don't pay attention to your personal hygiene, we are going to be at odds very quickly.”

  I nodded frantically, my heart hammering. This was the second time I had seen him truly serious—the first being when he had shut down our protests about the clothes earlier today. I realized then that while he might be kind and relaxed in his speech, he had absolute boundaries when it came to cleanliness. I vowed to myself that I would be the cleanest slave in the Hazaroth Union if it meant keeping that look of disapproval off his face.

  Next, he led us into the bathroom. It was larger than the toilet but shared the same minimalist, clean aesthetic. The room was mostly empty, containing a few short wooden seats, two buckets, and a massive basin for water. Near the edge of the room, there was a complex-looking metal mechanism connected to the wall pipes.

  “This is where we clean our bodies,” he said. “I’ve already taken my bath for the day, so the two of you should take yours after dinner before you go to bed. Again, remember the water tank. Don't waste it. You can use the same cleaning powder here for your skin. You can use it on your hair too, but only occasionally—it can be harsh on the fur if you use it too frequently.”

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  He then pointed to the metal mechanism. “This is for heating the water. You turn this valve here to fill it from the tank, then you place wood in the hearth below and burn it. Make sure you close the valve once it's full. If you leave it open, the heat will rise back up the pipes and warm up the water in the entire tank on the upper floor, which we don't want.”

  He described every part with a level of patience that felt entirely un-masterlike. Most men would have simply ordered us to figure it out or let a senior slave handle the explanation.

  “Master?” I asked, my curiosity momentarily overriding my caution. “How can the heat go back up? How can it warm up the water in the tank on the floor above us?”

  He paused, looking at the heater as if trying to find the right words. “Hmm… It’s a bit complex to explain the physics of it. Just think of it like this: when the warm water is in contact with the cold water, the cold water wants to become warmer. They try to find a balance.”

  “O-oh, okay, master. Thank you,” I said, my face turning red. I realized I had just questioned him directly, speaking as if I were an equal or a curious student rather than a slave. I waited for a sharp retort or a reminder of my place, but he simply moved on to the next room as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

  We moved toward the two rooms at the end of the corridor. The kitchen was on the left, and it was surprisingly wide—far larger than I would have expected for a house with only one resident. It was a cook’s dream. There were rows of polished utensils, a sturdy prep table large enough for two people to work simultaneously, and three chairs tucked against the wall. Naturally, there was another washstand here.

  “This is your domain,” he said. “Most of the utensils you’ll need are already here. If you find that you’re lacking something essential to cook a proper meal, don't be shy—just ask. I want to eat well, so it’s in my best interest to give you the tools you need. But there is one rule here that is absolute: you must wash every vegetable and every piece of fruit before you serve it or use it as an ingredient. And you must clean every utensil in the washstand as soon as you are finished with it. No exceptions.”

  His focus on hygiene was becoming the defining trait of our new life.

  “We understand, master,” Wyn said, stepping forward. “Our training included extensive instruction on house care and sanitization. We will make sure to keep the kitchen spotless and the ingredients clean. Please, leave it to us.”

  “Sure. Let’s look at the final room on this floor,” he said.

  Across from the kitchen was the living and dining area. A long, rectangular table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by seven chairs. One chair occupied the head of the table, while the other six were arranged along the sides. To the left, a long, plush couch for three people sat facing a fireplace that was built directly into the stone of the wall.

  “We’ll eat our meals here, at this table,” he explained. “And when you aren't in your own rooms or working, you’re welcome to hang around here. This is a common space.”

  The tour of the first floor was complete. He led us back to the entrance and up the wooden stairs. The staircase was split into two sections; halfway up, there was a small landing where we turned right to climb the final stretch to the second floor.

  The upper hallway was long, reaching toward the opposite side of the house. As we turned left from the top of the stairs, I counted the doors. There were three rooms on the right and two on the left. At the very end of the corridor was a final, larger door.

  “These are the personal bedrooms,” he said, gesturing to the doors along the hall. “These five rooms on the left and right are yours to choose from. Pick whichever one you like. The room at the end is mine. Every room is furnished with a bed and a simple wardrobe. Go on—place your belongings in whichever room you prefer, wash your hands, and then get down to the kitchen to start dinner.”

  I could hear a bit of a rush in his voice now. The casual, patient tour guide was being replaced by the hungry man we had met in the marketplace.

  “Yes, master… Mmm… Master…” Wyn started to murmur, her voice hesitant.

  “Yes? What is it?” he asked, pausing with his hand on the banister.

  “Can Woya and I sleep in the same room? If not forever, then at least for tonight?”

  I looked at my sister, my heart aching. Even though our master had proven to be incredibly kind, the trauma of the last few months was still fresh. The fear of being separated was a phantom that haunted her every thought. She was asking for us, but mostly, she was asking to ensure I wouldn't be alone.

  “Hmm? Sure, why not?” he said, waving his hands randomly as if the request were the most inconsequential thing in the world. “Do whatever you want. In fact, if you want to stay in the same room from now on, I don't mind. It’s your space.”

  “Thank you, master!” Wyn said, bowing so low her ears nearly touched the floor. I followed suit, a wave of relief washing over me.

  “Whatever, just be quick. I am hungry,” he shouted back as he started to climb down the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the wood.

  With the tour officially over, Wyn and I hurried into the room on the right side of the corridor, the one adjacent to the master’s room. It was simple, clean, and felt remarkably private. We quickly tucked our new spare clothes and belongings into the wardrobe, barely taking a moment to appreciate the softness of the beds. We shared a quick, silent look—a mixture of disbelief and hope—and then hurried downstairs to the kitchen. It was time to show our master that he hadn't wasted his gold.

  [Edited]