THEIR Whims

Notice:

Tension between Xuê and bird demihuman detected.

Decision to intervene with granting Xuê back her abilities 

…

Failed

Notion denied by higher powers.

.

The first rays of dawn filtered into the slaves' quarters, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. I stirred awake, the faint scent of damp earth filling my nose. The steady rhythm of soft breathing caught my attention. I glanced down to see the rabbit boy curled tightly against my side, his small frame trembling slightly even in sleep. His twitching ears drooped, and his tiny hands clutched at the frayed edge of my tunic. He couldn't have been older than six—a child thrust into this hell.

My chest tightened as I thought of what life he must have had before this. A family, maybe siblings, torn away in an instant. The cruelty of it all made my teeth clench, a simmering anger bubbling beneath my skin. Yet, even as my mind turned over these thoughts, I rested a hand lightly on his head, smoothing down his ruffled hair.

"Sleep a little longer," I murmured, knowing it was a fleeting comfort. Soon, the overseers would storm in, barking orders, and the day would begin anew.

I shifted carefully, trying not to wake him as I listened to the muffled voices outside the quarters. Two overseers stood just beyond the door, their conversation faint but clear enough to pick up snippets.

"...bandit activity on the borders. Third estate lost two shipments last week," one said, his tone edged with irritation.

"Not just bandits," the other replied. "There's talk of demonic presence. A shadow that's been seen near here. You believe in that crap?"

The first scoffed. "I don't care what it is. We can't count on the guards alone. The Master's orders are clear—we train the slaves."

"Train them?" The second overseer's voice carried a note of disbelief. "These are slaves, not soldiers."

"Soldiers or not, they're bodies that can hold weapons. That's all that matters."

A shadow crept into my mind as their words sank in. Training slaves for combat? It wasn't unheard of, but it carried a darker implication. If they were this desperate, then the threats outside the estate were more serious than they were letting on.

The rabbit boy stirred beside me, mumbling softly. I turned my attention back to him, my fingers brushing against his small shoulder. "It'll be okay," I whispered, though I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince.

The door slammed open with a jarring thud, cutting through the stillness of the quarters. "Get up!" one of the overseers barked, his gravelly voice carrying the kind of authority that dared no defiance. Around me, bodies stirred, groggy and reluctant, as the slaves began to rise.

The rabbit boy flinched against my side, his ears twitching nervously. I gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before gently urging him to his feet. "Come on," I murmured. "We don't want to make them angrier."

Another overseer stepped into the room, his boots crunching against the dirt floor. "You've got ten minutes to eat," he announced. "Special orders from the Master. Something's happening this evening, and we need everyone in the training yard sharp after work. No excuses."

Whispers rippled through the room as slaves exchanged uncertain glances. "Special orders?" someone muttered, their voice barely audible. "What's going on?"

The overseer fixed a cold glare on the offender, his hand twitching toward the whip before stopping short. Instead, he barked, "You'll keep your questions to yourself unless you want a trip to the pit. Now, back in line!" The tension in the air lingered, the unspoken threat enough to silence even the boldest murmurs.

We shuffled out into the dim morning light, the rabbit boy clinging close to my side. My mind churned with unease. Whatever the Master had planned, it wasn't going to be good.

Later that day, the slaves were herded into the courtyard under the watchful eyes of the overseers. The sun hung low in the sky, its weak warmth doing little to dispel the chill of the morning. Rows of blunt wooden weapons and rusted tools lay scattered on the ground, their presence setting an uneasy tension in the air.

"Listen up!" one of the overseers barked, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Master's orders. You lot are going to learn how to defend this estate. Bandits, rogues, whatever comes our way—you'll be ready."

A murmur rippled through the group, confusion and unease spreading like wildfire.

"You expect us to fight?" someone muttered under their breath, only to receive a sharp glare from an overseer.

Crack!

The sharp snap of a whip silenced the room. The overseer's glare was ice-cold as he turned to the slave who had dared to speak. Without hesitation, the whip lashed across the air again, striking the offender's shoulder. A stifled cry escaped their lips, and they crumpled slightly but didn't dare fall.

"I didn't ask for your opinion," the overseer growled. "Keep your mouth shut unless you want more."

"Now pick a weapon. Pair up. And don't think about holding back. We want to see what you're capable of."

I kept my expression neutral as I scanned the ground, my eyes landing on a battered wooden sword. Its handle was splintered, and the blade was chipped beyond repair, but it would do. Turning the sword over in my hands, I couldn't help but wonder about its history. Who had crafted this blade? What did they feel when they shaped it? Pride, perhaps? Or was it made in haste, forged without care or purpose? Had someone once wielded it with skill, or had it always been a tool of mediocrity?

My fingers traced the uneven grain of the handle. The wood was rough, worn down by time and neglect, but there was something... enduring about it. I tightened my grip and gave it a small, experimental swing. It felt unbalanced, its weight pulling awkwardly to one side. Yet, despite its flaws, it held a strange resilience—as if refusing to give in to its battered state.

Would it hold up against my strikes? I doubted it, but there was only one way to find out. The thought made my chest tighten. I'd trained for what felt like lifetimes, perfecting movements that required precision and control. Could this body keep up? Could this blade endure the weight of those techniques?

I rolled my shoulders, shaking off the doubt. "You'll do," I muttered under my breath, addressing the blade as if it could hear me. If nothing else, it would serve to remind me of my own limits—and perhaps push me beyond them.

As I picked it up, a low voice muttered beside me.

"Looks like you're in for it now, Xuê."

I turned to see the fox-eared man—Ren, as I'd learned earlier in the day—his sharp gaze glinting with something between amusement and concern. He held a crude spear, its point dulled but still imposing.

"Maybe," I replied, keeping my voice low. "What about you? Think you'll make it out of this unscathed?"

He gave a faint smirk. "Doubtful. But that's half the fun, isn't it?"

Before I could reply, an overseer pointed at me. "You! You're up first."

Ren stepped closer before the match began, lowering his voice as his sharp eyes locked on my opponent. "That one," he muttered, nodding toward the hulking figure with the club, "is Overseer Brann. Used to be a pit fighter before he ended up here. Don't underestimate him. He likes to make it look like he's slow, but he's got a mean swing."

I nodded slightly, filing the information away. My grip on the wooden sword tightened as I focused on Brann, his sneer growing wider as he caught our exchange.

I felt the weight of every gaze as I stepped forward, my opponent already standing across from me. He was large, broad-shouldered, and carried a club that looked like it could shatter bones with one swing. His sneer was enough to make the smaller slaves shrink back, but I stood my ground, gripping the worn hilt of the wooden sword tightly.

The stance I fell into felt natural—a memory from a time long past. The courtyard faded, replaced for a moment by the polished floors of a kendo dojo. The weight of the wooden sword, though poorly balanced, was enough to ground me in reality. I could almost hear my old instructor's voice in my head: Focus. Breathe. Strike.

My eyes flicked toward Brann's hands, noting the way he gripped the club. His stance was casual, almost lazy, but there was a practiced precision to the way he held himself. This wasn't going to be easy.

The thought crossed my mind: I know