The Butcher did not take her immediately.
No, that would be too simple.
Instead, he let the weight of her choice sink in, drawing out the agony of waiting.
He had his men draft the contract, each word carefully written to bind her to him for the next three months.
She signed with a steady hand, though inside, her stomach twisted.
With that single stroke of ink, she was his.
The Butcher wasted no time.
From the moment the contract was sealed, her world changed.
She was moved from her inn to a chamber within his estate—luxurious, yet suffocating.
A gilded cage.
She was given fresh clothing—not the rags of the enslaved, but something far worse.
Dresses chosen by him, fitted to his taste.
Fine silks that clung to her body, exposing more than they covered.
A constant reminder of what she was now.
Not a guest.
Not a woman on a mission.
A possession.
The Butcher delighted in her discomfort, watching her closely whenever she entered a room, savoring the way she clenched her jaw, the way she fought to maintain control.
He did not strike her.
Not yet.
But he would test her.
Push her.
Break her in ways she had not yet imagined.
The first night, he summoned her.
She was led to his dining hall, where a lavish meal had been prepared.
Exotic meats, spiced wines, delicacies fit for kings.
The Butcher sat at the head of the table, gesturing for her to sit beside him.
She hesitated.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
"Would you prefer to eat on the floor, like them?" he asked, gesturing toward the distant quarters where the slaves were kept.
She said nothing.
She sat.
He poured her a glass of wine himself, watching her fingers tremble as she took it.
"Drink," he ordered.
She did.
The taste was rich, intoxicating, but it felt like poison on her tongue.
He smirked.
"I enjoy this game," he mused.
She set the glass down. "What game?"
His fingers traced the rim of his own goblet.
"The game of watching people try to resist."
Her throat tightened.
He leaned in, voice lower now.
"How long will you last, I wonder?"
Her pulse pounded, but she met his gaze.
"As long as I must."
His grin widened.
"Oh," he murmured. "We shall see"
That night, she did not sleep.
She could still hear his voice in her mind, taunting her.
Testing her.
And she knew—
This was only the beginning.
The real suffering had yet to begin.
But it would.
And when it did, she would have to endure.
For them.
For their freedom.
Even if it meant losing herself in the process
The collar was only the beginning.
By the second night, she understood that the Butcher had no intention of keeping his torment slow.
He wanted to break her.
And he would.
Piece by piece.
She was dragged into the main hall, where the Butcher sat in his grand chair, watching as she was forced to kneel before him.
Her arms were pulled behind her, bound at the wrists.
She didn't struggle this time.
Not because she had surrendered—
But because she was learning.
If she fought, it would be worse.
He enjoyed that.
The Butcher sipped his wine, eyeing her like a man appraising his latest prize.
"Your defiance yesterday amused me," he said. "But amusement only goes so far."
He gestured to one of his men.
A whip was uncoiled.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She had seen what this could do.
She had seen backs torn open, flesh peeled away, blood soaking the earth.
And now, it was her turn.
"Count them," the Butcher ordered.
Her heart pounded.
She gritted her teeth.
The whip lashed through the air.
Crack—
The pain exploded across her back.
A sharp, searing fire, stealing the breath from her lungs.
She gasped—
But she did not scream.
She would not give him that.
The Butcher smirked.
"Count."
She clenched her fists.
"One."
The next strike came.
Crack—
Her body jerked forward, but she bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste blood.
"Two."
Another.
Crack—
The pain deepened, digging into raw skin.
She swayed but stayed upright.
"Three."
And another.
Crack—
Her vision blurred.
The floor beneath her felt unsteady.
"Four."
The Butcher leaned forward, watching her struggle.
"How strong do you think you are?" he mused.
She said nothing.
The whip struck again.
She could feel the wetness spreading across her back now.
Warm. Thick.
Her own blood.
"Five."
By the tenth strike, she was shaking.
By the fifteenth, her voice was barely more than a whisper.
By the twentieth, she could no longer hold herself upright.
She collapsed onto her side, her body trembling.
The Butcher stood, walking toward her.
He crouched down, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"You're breaking already," he murmured.
She forced herself to look at him, her vision swimming.
"No," she rasped.
He chuckled.
Then, without warning, he gripped her hair, yanking her head back.
She gasped in pain.
"Three months," he reminded her. "You chose this."
Her breath hitched.
Three months.
And this was only the second night.
Her stomach twisted.
Had she made a mistake?
Had she damned herself for nothing?
The Butcher released her, letting her collapse back onto the floor.
Then he stepped over her, walking away.
"Clean her up," he ordered his men. "I want her ready for tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
There would be more.
She had made a mistake.
A terrible, terrible mistake.
And now, there was no way out and all we did was watch
The morning was unkind.
She awoke to the sting of torn flesh, her back screaming in agony with every shallow breath.
The blood had dried into her clothes, sticking the fabric to her wounds. When she moved, it tore anew, fresh pain slicing through her.
And yet, the worst had not yet come.
Because she was still breathing.
And as long as she breathed, the Butcher would make sure she suffered.
The guards entered, dragging her to her feet.
She stumbled, her legs weak, but they held her upright.
"The master is waiting," one of them grunted.
She was led through the estate, each step a fresh reminder of the previous night's torment.
When she reached the main hall, the Butcher was already seated, his wine glass resting lazily in his grip.
He did not look at her immediately.
Instead, he took his time, sipping his drink, acting as if she was no more than an afterthought.
Then, finally, his eyes flicked up to her.
And he smiled.
"Still standing?" he mused. "Impressive."
She did not speak.
The Butcher set his glass down.
"I have a lesson for you today."
She felt her stomach tighten.
A lesson.
She already knew what that meant.
They took her to the courtyard.
A wooden cage stood at its center—small, barely large enough for an animal, let alone a person.
The sun blazed overhead, merciless and unrelenting.
She was shoved forward, and before she could react, the door slammed shut behind her.
Trapped.
The bars dug into her back, pressing against her wounds.
She winced but did not cry out.
The Butcher approached, standing just outside the cage.
"This is where you will spend the day," he said, crouching down. "I want you to understand something."
She lifted her gaze, her body slick with sweat, her throat parched from thirst.
"You are nothing," he whispered. "And nothing does not get to defy me."
She clenched her jaw.
Then he stood, turning away.
"Leave her," he ordered.
And then they were gone.
The sun beat down, merciless.
The cage was too small to sit properly. Too small to stretch.
Her body cramped, her limbs aching.
Her throat burned with thirst.
The heat was suffocating, pressing against her like a heavy hand.
She lost track of time.
Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days.
At some point, her vision blurred, her head lolling forward.
She was slipping.
Then—
A shadow.
She forced her eyes open.
The Butcher stood over her again, his expression unreadable.
He crouched down, tilting his head.
"I wonder," he murmured, "are you regretting your choice yet?"
She swallowed, her tongue heavy in her dry mouth.
Yes.
The word was there.
Lurking.
But she would not say it.
She would not give him the satisfaction.
So she stayed silent.
The Butcher sighed.
"Stubborn to the very end," he mused. "We'll see how long that lasts."
He rose, stepping back.
Then—
A bucket of water was thrown over her.
Ice-cold, shocking against the heat of her skin.
For a moment, relief.
Then—
The realization.
Not a drop reached her mouth.
She gasped, trying to catch some of it with her lips, but it was gone too fast.
The Butcher laughed.
"Enjoy your night," he said, turning away.
And she was left there.
Cold. Wet.
And still, unbearably thirsty.
She did not know how long she remained like that.
Her thoughts became a blur, her body trembling from exhaustion and pain.
For the first time, truly—
She wondered if she could survive this.
If she had made the wrong choice.
And if, perhaps, the Butcher had already won.
The cold clung to her damp skin, sinking into her bones.
Her muscles screamed from exhaustion, her back throbbing with unrelenting pain.
The thirst was unbearable. Her tongue felt thick, her lips cracked and dry.
Her body wanted to give up.
But her mind—
Her mind refused.
Because she had made a decision.
She would endure.
She would survive.
And when the three months ended—
She would make the Butcher pay.
Her head rested against the bars of the cage as she listened to the distant sounds of the estate.
Laughter from the guards.
The clinking of glasses.
The Butcher's world was still alive, still thriving, while she suffered alone in the darkness.
But that would not last forever.
The thought was a flicker of warmth inside her.
A reminder.
This was not the end.
No matter how much he wanted to break her, no matter how much pain he inflicted, she would not let him win.
Not in the way he wanted.
She would play his game.
For now.
She would endure the torment, the humiliation.
And when her time was up—
She would watch him suffer.
***
The first light of morning was a cruel thing.
It did not bring warmth.
Only the promise of another day under the Butcher's rule.
Her body ached as she shifted, her joints stiff from hours trapped in the cage.
The sound of footsteps reached her ears.
A guard approached, unlocking the cage.
"Time to get up," he grunted.
She moved slowly, her limbs screaming in protest.
But she did not hesitate.
She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
As she was led back to the estate, the Butcher was waiting for her.
He studied her, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Still breathing?" he mused.
She met his gaze.
"Yes," she rasped.
He chuckled.
"We'll see how long that lasts."
He thought he had won.
He thought he had already broken her.
But he didn't know.
He had only lit the fire inside her.
And one day, it would burn him to the ground.
The woman was pulled from the small, filthy space where she had been left to rot, her body still aching from the previous day's torment.
She could barely walk. But they dragged her forward, uncaring, toward the estate's outer fields.
The Butcher was waiting.
A smirk curled at his lips as he studied her, but he said nothing at first.
Instead, he simply gestured ahead.
And what she saw made her stomach twist.
We were already at work.
The rising sun bathed the fields in gold, but there was no beauty here.
Only sweat, blood, and agony.
Men and women toiled under the weight of sacks and tools, our backs bent from endless labor.
Our bodies were thin, skin marred with scars, fresh wounds mixed with old.
And the overseers—
They stood with whips in hand, their sharp voices cutting through the morning air.
"Move faster!"
Crack.
A scream.
The woman flinched, her fists clenching as she watched a young boy stumble under the weight of his load.
The overseer was on him in seconds, the whip slashing down.
The boy's cry was swallowed by the merciless heat.
She turned away, but the Butcher's voice stopped her.
"No," he said.
She felt his hand grip her jaw, forcing her to look.
"You will watch," he whispered.
"You will see what happens when people defy me."
The woman stood frozen as the brutality unfolded before her.
Every whip crack, every groan of pain, tore at something deep inside her.
I was among them.
She saw us struggling, shoulders tense, fingers digging into the dirt as we hauled a heavy sack.
Our faces were set, unreadable, but when my gaze flickered toward her—
She knew i saw.
And she saw me.
Saw the hatred burning beneath our exhaustion.
Saw the unspoken plea.
Do something.
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
And that realization—
It was worse than the beatings.
"How does it feel?"
The Butcher's voice was soft, mocking.
"To stand there, untouched, while they suffer?"
She swallowed, her throat dry.
She would not answer.
She would not give him what he wanted.
But he already knew.
He leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.
"You chose this," he whispered.
She stiffened.
"You came here. You offered yourself. And yet—look at them."
Her jaw clenched, but still, she said nothing.
The Butcher laughed.
"You thought you could change their fate? That your presence here would matter?"
His fingers trailed along her arm, a slow, deliberate touch meant to unsettle.
"But in the end, you are no different from them."
She wanted to fight.
She wanted to scream.
But she forced herself to breathe, to keep the fire inside her from consuming her too soon cause she knows the butcher wanted her to give but she let him have his way.
Because one day—
One day, she would make him choke on those words.
But today, she endured.
Standing at the edge of the fields, forced to watch us break under the weight of labor.
The Butcher stood beside her, whispering things I could not hear.
But most of us saw her face.
She did not cry.
She did not scream.
But her hands trembled at her sides, and her lips were pressed into a thin, white line.
She hated this.
She hated seeing us like this.
And yet—she could do nothing.
The whip tore through the air, lashing across a boy's back. He cried out, curling into himself.
The woman flinched.
She took a step forward before stopping herself.
The Butcher was watching.
Waiting.
She clenched her fists.
She was learning.
Learning that here, mercy was punished.
That here, kindness meant nothing.
For hours, she stood there.
Watching.
Unable to move, unable to help.
And though we suffered beneath the weight of ou own chains, a part of us pitied her.
She was just as trapped as we were.
Maybe even more.
The Butcher would break her piece by piece, just as he had broken so many before.
But unlike the rest of us—she had chosen this.
She had walked into the fire willingly, believing she could change something.
Believing she could save us.
And now, she was drowning in the weight of that choice.
I had seen men lose their will to fight before.
I had watched as the weight of chains, hunger, and suffering drained the fire from their eyes, leaving nothing but hollow shells behind.
But I had never seen someone break while standing.
Until her.
The Butcher had made her watch us for days, standing on the edge of the fields as we worked under the punishing sun.
He wanted her to understand.
Not just what we endured, but the powerlessness of it.
His cruelty was in his patience.
In the way he forced her to witness our torment, to hear the whip crack and the cries that followed.
She had fought to keep her composure at first, to keep her back straight and her head high.
But I saw it.
The way her hands trembled.
The way her breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps.
The way she flinched every time one of us was struck down.
And the Butcher saw it too.
One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, he brought her into the field.
I was close enough to hear his voice when he spoke.
"Something has been stolen from the store room Pick one," he said.
She stiffened. "What?"
The Butcher's smile was slow, patient.
"Pick one," he repeated. "Choose someone to be punished. Or I will punish them all."
Her breath hitched.
I felt the tension ripple through the field, though no one dared to stop working.
We had seen this before.
A game of cruelty, a test of obedience.
The woman's hands curled into fists.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
The Butcher only chuckled.
"Pick, or they all suffer."
She hesitated.
And the longer she hesitated, the more we knew.
She would not choose.
She could not.
And so—
The whip lashed across a man's back, sending him to his knees.
Crack.
Another fell.
Crack.
A woman screamed.
The woman choked on a sob, stepping forward as if to stop it—but she knew she couldn't.
She knew the moment she moved, the Butcher would make it worse.
So she just stood there, shaking, gasping, drowning.
And we suffered.
The way she looked at us that night was sympathetic.
Like she wanted to speak, but had no words.
Like she wanted to save us, but had no power.
Like she wanted to fight, but had already lost.
And in that moment, I did not know who I pitied more.
Us—
Or her.
Because I knew this was not the end of her torment.