Ayoka wasn’t truly alone. The boy, Benoît, never spoke unless spoken to, but Ayoka noticed his presence like a weight in the room. Sabine might glance his way or occasionally attempt to soften the silence with light chatter, but Ayoka didn’t indulge much. Her replies were measured and careful, her attention always half on Malik.

She didn’t trust the quiet. She didn’t trust the eyes that lingered. Benoît said nothing and offered no warmth, only the occasional nod or distant stare that made her skin prickle. He wasn’t there to help. He was there to monitor and to report to a master who put a weak woman in chains. No matter how still the house felt, Viktor’s shadows never really left. It could have been worse, though, since owners had a habit of thinking women who had just given birth were right for the picking, ready to be bred again for new workers or used for breast milk in some sick fantasy.

Ayoka rose slowly and moved toward the basin, her hands trembling as she rocked Malik in her arms. When she set him down for a moment, he fussed softly, his small face tightening in protest. The sound drew a quiet, surprised laugh from her before she could stop herself.

Sabine said, “Maybe you should take him toward the window. The boy loves sunshine, and fresh air does some good.” With that, she gave Ayoka a brief look that lingered a moment too long, then turned and left the room. Ayoka picked Malik back up as the chains clinked toward the window, cradling him against her chest. She swayed lightly, staring through the warped glass at the dimming sky, the colors outside deepening into something solemn and still. The estate hummed faintly beneath it all, as if exhaling.

Something had changed, something quiet and invisible. She felt it in the way the air thickened and in the silence that pressed too long and too deliberately. This was no longer survival. It was staging, performance, a new layer of rules she hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t ignore.

Benoît lingered outside the doorway, half in the hall and half in the room, watching in quiet concentration. After a moment, he moved from his place and sat on the window sill above her line of sight. As Ayoka rocked Malik, he began to sing.

His voice was soft and measured, the cadence wrong for a child, like a charm being wound rather than a lullaby.

“Rest now, mother, mend your skin, The pain has passed, the breath sets in. Light-born child, you lived, you stayed, Marked by blood but not by shade. Hush now, heal now, do not cry, The house is watching. So am I.”

As he sang, his gaze shifted slowly from Ayoka’s chains to the child in her arms. The sound that left him felt distant and deliberate, as if he were a musical object built to soothe after birth rather than a boy with a will of his own.

Not long after, Sabine reentered the room with a spark in her step, arms full of fresh linens, a little gown for Malik, and a jar of sweet-smelling balm. “Look at this,” she beamed, laying everything out with uncharacteristic warmth. “Almost like a proper nursery, hm?”

Ayoka blinked, watching the scene unfold like a strange dream. It had to be a better gig for Sabine, working indoors, bringing soft things into quiet rooms, tending to someone who could still smile. Earlier that day, as Ayoka rocked Malik by the window, she caught a muffled conversation outside her door. Her hearing sharpened as Sabine went to get more things for the room.

Sabine had a few field hands visit with more items for Malik. They chatted about the usual things. One of them asked if she would be coming out to help with the wash or the picking.

There was laughter, not the kind that came from humor, but the kind that carried teeth. Ayoka didn’t need to see Sabine to know the shape of her reaction. Her voice rose just a little too brightly, the tone too polished when she called back, “Not today. I’m taking care of Master Viktor’s new doll.” There was a pause, then more laughter, rough and cutting. Ayoka kept rocking Malik as if nothing outside the window existed, but her ears absorbed everything.

She noted the chain Sabine wore. It was thin and elegant, yes, but still a chain. The clasp glinted when she moved just right, something custom and something claimed. It wasn’t gone, just gilded. Magical, too, Ayoka was sure of it. A charm that granted Sabine freedom to walk through doors, to carry linens across thresholds, to smile in passing and speak without bracing.

Ayoka envied her. She wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, but she did. Sabine could step into the sun without dread and talk to others in ways Ayoka couldn’t, not yet and maybe never. She had the right tone, the right place, and the right chain. Even if it still bound her, it let her move.

Then Ayoka caught her own reflection in the warped window glass, dim and uncertain, and noticed something no one else ever seemed to. Her shadow was wrong. It shimmered faintly, a gleam of restraint stretching from her wrist to her ankle. Not on her body, but on her silhouette. A line of magic, faint but deliberate.

She turned, her heart stuttering, but there was nothing on her skin. Only her shadow wore it. No one else noticed, or maybe they did and didn’t care. But Ayoka saw it. A mark, a binding, a secret vow Viktor had etched without a word. Even her silhouette wasn’t her own.

Ayoka would play her part in this quiet house, but only so long as her son remained safe.