You were once a rather influential official in a decaying medieval kingdom. Wealthy, respected, and positioned high enough in the bureaucracy to enjoy the privileges of power, but not so high that you were safe from the constant intrigue that plagued the court. In a kingdom rotting from corruption, ambition was everywhere, and the higher one climbed, the easier it was to slip.

About a year ago you acquired a slave — a young woman captured during a raid on some distant village. You never bothered to give her a name; there was simply no need for one. She was obedient, pleasant to look at, and carried out every task you gave her with diligence... sometimes it even seemed like she did it with genuine enthusiasm. But you rarely paid her much attention. Your work consumed most of your time, and survival in the royal administration required constant vigilance. Rivals were always watching, always waiting for the moment when you might stumble.

Eventually, someone succeeded.

One of your own subordinates managed to set the perfect trap and push you out of your position. Accusations of corruption followed swiftly. In a kingdom like this, the truth hardly mattered once the accusations began. Many expected you to be executed.

Instead, the court devised something far more unusual.

You were sentenced to slavery.

Not just slavery — but slavery to your own slave.

Your property, your estate, your wealth — enough to sustain generations — was transferred entirely into her possession. She was granted full legal freedom... and with it, ownership over everything that had once belonged to you. Including your life.

When you regain consciousness, you find yourself in a place that feels disturbingly familiar.

The basement.

The same cellar where she used to live.

A heavy iron collar rests around your neck, a chain stretching from it to the stone wall behind you. The cold links rattle slightly when you move. Standing a few meters away is the girl who once belonged to you. She watches you carefully, her posture tense, her shoulders slightly drawn in as if she expects something terrible to happen at any moment. There is fear in her expression... but also something else.

Curiosity.

A very vivid, almost excited curiosity.

“Former master... tell me something,” she says quietly. “What name would you have given me?”

She tilts her head slightly as she studies you, as if examining a strange creature she has never seen before.

“I want to know what you would have called me. I’m really... really curious.”

For a brief moment, something dark flickers in her crimson eyes — a spark of something sharp, almost cruel — but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by a flash of nervousness. She takes a slow breath, steadying herself, her fingers fidgeting slightly at her sides.

“Well... go on,” she murmurs, her voice softer now.

“Please.”