The first thing he remembered was the taste of oranges.
Sweet, sticky juice burst between his teeth, each bite releasing a sharp citrus tang that mingled with the warm, lazy hum of bees in the air.
Sunlight spilled across his shoulders like a gentle weight, filtering through the leaves to cast shifting patterns on his skin as he sat cross-legged in the dappled shade beneath his mother's favorite fig tree, the rough bark pressing faintly into his back.
She would laugh—bright and unguarded—the sound rolling out like a summer breeze rustling the branches, her eyes crinkling at the corners when the pulp ran down his chin in messy rivulets and stained his tunic with sticky patches.
Her big hands dove into his hair to ruffle it, calluses brushing his scalp with surprising tenderness, those same hands that could split logs with a single, resounding crack or coax dough into perfect, even rounds yet touched him as though he were spun glass, fragile and irreplaceable.
Now those hands were gone.
The memory frayed at the edges, dissolving like sugar stirred into scalding tea, the sweetness curdling into nothing.
His shoulders—broad now, dark and corded with unfamiliar muscle, no longer his own—tensed sharply beneath the sudden, vicious bite of the whip, the leather slicing through the air with a high-pitched whistle before it connected.
"Faster, you lazy sack of meat," Master Hestin wheezed.
His potbelly quivered with each shallow, effortful breath, the fabric of his tunic straining against the rolls; sweat gleamed on his flushed forehead in oily beads until he mopped it away with a crumpled silk handkerchief—the same pale, soft hand that now tightened around the braided leather grip, knuckles whitening.
The whip cracked again, the sound echoing off the nearby market stalls like a thunderclap. Skin already crosshatched with old scars parted under the fresh lash, a thin line of red blooming instant and bright, the sting radiating outward in waves of heat.
The slave—no, the man trapped inside the slave's body—did not flinch. Not visibly, though his jaw clenched imperceptibly, teeth grinding together.
He had learned, in the brutal mathematics of survival, that any outward reaction only fed Hestin's hunger for more, the man's eyes lighting up with that predatory gleam.
Instead he bent at the waist, knees flexing slightly against the uneven cobblestones, gripped the rough wooden edges of the crate with fingers that ached from constant strain, and heaved it onto the merchant's wagon.
Corded muscle bunched and slid beneath sweat-slick skin, veins standing out along his forearms; the new body was monstrously strong, forged for burdens far heavier than this, the weight settling into his frame with a familiar thud. The labor should have been nothing.
Yet the collar at his throat answered every flicker of defiance with its own cold fire—icy-hot, like swallowing powdered glass that refused to melt, the burn spreading down his neck and into his chest.
Each pulse of rebellion sent the sensation knifing deeper, a warning etched in nerve and bone: obedience, or ruin, the metal band seeming to tighten just enough to make his breath hitch.
"Almost done, Master," he muttered, the words thick and foreign on his tongue, forced out through a throat raw from dust and restraint. Three months in this hell, and he still hated the taste of submission—bitter as old blood, coating the roof of his mouth like a film he couldn't swallow away.
The crate landed with a dull thud against the others, the impact vibrating up his arms. Dust billowed up from the wagon bed in a slow, choking cloud, particles swirling in the harsh midday light that beat down relentlessly, turning the air thick and hazy.
He flexed his fingers—knuckles raw and split from yesterday's punishment, the cracks stinging with fresh sweat that seeped into the wounds like salt—and reached for the next load without pause, his movements mechanical, shoulders rolling forward.
Behind him, Hestin's breathing had turned ragged, not from effort but from that familiar, wet excitement that always rose when pain was his to give, his chest heaving in short, anticipatory bursts.
The whip hung loose in his grip now, coiled like a lazy snake against his thigh, its braided tip swaying gently, patient, expectant, brushing the hem of his tunic.
It cracked again, the motion fluid and practiced, like an extension of his arm. The lash bit into flesh still raw and weeping from the previous stroke, the impact sending a jolt through his spine.
A bright seam of pain opened along his back, skin splitting with a wet tear.
"How dare you speak without permission!" Hestin's roar sprayed spittle into the air, flecks landing warm and foul on the back of his neck; his jowls flushed a deep, mottled purple beneath patchy stubble, veins bulging at his temples like twisted cords.
The slave—the man locked inside this unfamiliar, iron-strong body—let his knees buckle just enough, a controlled sag that sold the illusion of broken obedience, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet.
His hands never faltered, never stopped heaving crates into place, fingers gripping tighter to steady himself against the tremor running through his limbs.
A thin trickle of blood slid down the curve of his spine, hot and slick against the lattice of old scars that had long since gone numb to everything but memory, the warmth contrasting the cool prickle of drying sweat.
Passersby flicked glances their way: merchants clutching ledger books to their chests like shields, their steps quickening slightly; laborers carrying the reek of forge-smoke and sour wine on their clothes, shoulders hunched from their own burdens.
None paused, their eyes sliding away after a brief, indifferent scan. A whip-worn slave being corrected was as ordinary here as the uneven cobblestones underfoot, as unremarkable as the dust itself, the market's bustle swallowing the scene whole.
One matron in a saffron-dyed shawl paused only long enough to adjust her path, her nose wrinkling faintly at the metallic tang in the air.
She lifted the hem of her skirts with delicate fingers, nails manicured and clean, and stepped daintily over the dark droplets spattering the ground, her embroidered slippers leaving faint, clean prints in the otherwise blood-streaked dust, the fabric whispering against the stone.
"I beg your forgiveness, Master," he rasped, letting his voice thicken with the practiced, false tremor of fear, his throat tightening around the syllables. The words tasted like rusted nails dragged across the tongue, metallic and sharp, but they worked, hanging in the air like a submission.
Hestin's whip froze mid-air, the braided leather quivering in suspension, trembling with the force of his halted swing.
The merchant's piggish eyes glinted with wet, delighted pleasure at the groveling, pupils dilating slightly; his thick fingers twitched against the handle, kneading the leather absently, like dough, the motion rhythmic and possessive, before he finally lowered the lash with a low, satisfied chuckle that rattled in his chest.
"Better," he wheezed, his breath evening out as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. "Now harness up, beast."
The hemp ropes bit deep into his shoulders as he buckled himself into the cart's traces, the coarse fibers grinding against the lattice of fresh whip-weals with a gritty rasp, each knot pulled tight reopening thin lines of fire that made his breath catch in his chest.
Hestin didn't wait for him to settle the straps, his impatience evident in the way his foot tapped against the wagon's edge. The reins snapped forward—not toward absent horses, but directly against bare, sweat-slick skin, the leather whistling through the air.
The first lash landed as his left foot hitched forward, the crack splitting the humid air a heartbeat before pain erupted across the backs of his thighs, a sharp bloom that made his muscles twitch involuntarily.
"Giddyap!" Hestin crowed, his potbelly quaking with laughter as the cart lurched into motion behind him, wheels groaning over the stones.
Muscles corded enough to snap the ropes like dry twine instead strained in deliberate, obedient rhythm, bunching and releasing with each step. His calloused palms clamped around the traces until the bones in his hands creaked, threatening to give, knuckles whitening under the pressure.
Every step sent fresh jolts racing up his spine—not from the weight of crates and barrels stacked high in the bed, the load shifting slightly with the motion, but from the seething fury coiled tighter than the noose-like collar at his throat, a heat building in his core.
This body remembered.
The ghost of the dead slave boy lived on in small, unasked-for instincts: the way his knees flexed just so to avoid the jutting cobblestone that had once sent him sprawling last winter, a subtle adjustment that kept his balance; the automatic hunch of shoulders that made old scars ripple like a grotesque, living tapestry whenever Hestin's whip found fresh purchase, the skin pulling taut.
"Faster, you black-blooded ox!" Spittle flecked the nape of his neck as the lash descended again, this time catching the tender hollow behind his knee with precision, the impact sending a shockwave up his leg.
Pain flared white-hot, a blinding spike that made his vision blur for an instant; he stumbled, his right foot scraping against the stone, the cart wheels screeching protest against stone in a high-pitched grind, but he did not fall. Could not fall, his grip tightening to pull himself upright.
The collar answered the spike of rage with its own cruel pulse—icy tendrils slithering down his windpipe, strangling the scream that clawed at his chest before it could escape, leaving only a faint rasp in his breathing.
Blood dripped freely now, tracing warm, sluggish paths down his calves to paint the ropes crimson where they sawed deeper into skin, the sticky warmth mixing with sweat.
Somewhere behind them, a child's bright giggle cut through the market din—some merchant's spoiled brat, carried past in a swaying litter, pointing at the spectacle with the gleeful fascination reserved for a dancing bear or a caged ape, the high-pitched sound piercing like a needle.
The humiliation landed heavier than any stroke of leather, searing deeper than the open welts, a flush creeping up his neck despite himself.
His vision tunneled, the edges of the market blurring into a haze of color and movement.
The rhythmic slap of bare feet against sun-baked stone synced with the throbbing in his skull until the world shrank to three merciless sensations:
The raw burn of rope against shoulders, grinding with each pull; the sudden, wet kiss of the lash, unpredictable and sharp; and—lingering behind his teeth like an accusation—the faint, impossible phantom sweetness of oranges.
----
If you're enjoying this novel, please add it to your library. Comments and Power Stones are greatly appreciated!