Chapter 1

Ava POV 

“Ava! Get over here!”

The sound of my name being called makes my stomach tighten with fear. My grip on the mop stiffens, causing the bucket beside me to wobble.

I don’t get noticed much in this place, and when I do, it’s rarely a good thing. Did I already make a mistake?

Quickly, I put down my cleaning supplies and rush toward the Mistress Elara. The camp is alive with movement today. Women hurry back and forth, carefully applying makeup and styling their hair in elaborate ways. They decorate their bodies with golden patterns, weave beads and flowers into their locks, and spritz themselves with the richest, most fragrant oils.

I navigate through their towering, shimmering figures, trying not to draw attention to myself. But some still glare at me as I pass. I recognize the way their lips twist and their eyes squint in disapproval. I used to cry over their rejection, but now, I pretend not to care.

“Yes, Mistress Elara?” I speak softly, keeping my gaze directed at the ground. The Panja have strict rules about eye contact, and I won’t risk breaking them.

“Come inside. It’s time for the session.”

I hesitate. “What... session?” My words come slowly as I struggle to find the right term. Their language is still difficult for me.

“The session on bedroom protocols. Move quickly.”

She waves a red hand to usher me in. The Panja women are all a deep crimson shade, a stark contrast to my human, sun-kissed skin.

“But… I don’t belong in there.”

None of this makes sense. I don’t need to sit through a lesson about bedroom conduct—I’m just a servant, not an entertainer. No warrior would ever want me, a small, unremarkable human who wouldn’t survive a night with one of them. At least, that’s what Jarek always told me.

As I step inside, the women’s piercing gazes follow me. Technically, I have the right to meet their eyes since we are of the same status. But I choose not to. Instead, I focus on my worn, dirt-covered sandals. It’s easier to avoid unnecessary conflict. Keeping my head down keeps me safe.

"Alright, ladies," the Mistress Elara announces from the front of the room.

The women stand in perfect rows, five per line, a total of twenty in all. And then there’s me—the one person who doesn’t belong, the one piece of the puzzle that ruins the pattern. As always.

Every woman in this room came willingly, eager for the experience they signed up for.

"Enough with the giggling,” the Mistress Elara scolds. “The Masters will be here soon, and we have important matters to go over.”

I can’t see her from where I stand. The women are so tall, forming a wall of crimson flesh and silent hostility. It’s ironic. They consider me the parasite in their society.

“I know many of you are excited to meet your first Master, but you must remember the rules. The Masters are not companions. They will give you immense pleasure—but also fear if you step out of line.”

Masters. The mere thought of them sends a shiver through me.

I have never seen one in full, only glimpsed a shadow, and even that was enough to make me flee.

Masters are the dominant males of their race, engineered for war and reproduction. Their purpose is to fight with their fists and claim women with their bodies. They are the ultimate warriors, possessing the power to tap into a battle-driven state called Enragement. This is why camps like this exist—to provide them with women before combat. A Master must be with a female before battle, as it fuels their strength and gives them the power to obliterate their enemies.

But this strength comes with a terrible price. While they are physically superior, they are emotionally numb, incapable of joy or excitement. They exist as living weapons, detached from the world around them.

“Silence!” the Mistress Elara commands.

Instantly, the chatter stops.

“Listen well. The Masters do not enjoy harming women, but they are prone to losing their grip on reality. If they perceive a threat—whether it's a rival male or an object in their way—they will react with destruction. You must be cautious. These rules are in place to prevent disasters. If you cannot follow them, you will be permanently removed from this camp.”

The room goes completely still.

“Good. Rule number one: No eye contact. I don’t care if you think a Master likes you. I don’t care if you feel some deep, unspoken connection with him. Do not test your luck. None of you are special to them. They feel nothing beyond desire.”

This rule is one I don’t mind. I prefer to stay invisible.

“Rule number two: No entering their space. They are possessive and do not tolerate unfamiliar scents in their territory. The only exception is Ava, as she is the cleaner.”

I stiffen as I feel multiple sets of eyes turning toward me.

“Rule number three: No skin contact. All interactions take place in an open setting. If a Master selects you and you accept, you must bend at the waist and grip your ankles. This minimizes physical touch. If you decline, you must state it clearly and wait for them to walk away. They will not force themselves on you.”

By “interaction,” she means sex. It doesn’t surprise me. The Panja are uninhibited in their desires and will take what they want, wherever they please.

“Ava!”

The sudden shout startles me. I turn toward the tent’s entrance and spot the camp’s chef. He is an older male, but not a Master—just an ordinary Panja man.

“Apologies, Mistress Elara,” he says. “I need Ava immediately.”

She sighs but waves me off. “Fine. Go.”

I slip out quickly.

“Naya is furious that you didn’t complete your task,” the chef scolds. “You must clean General Kaelen’s space immediately.”

“I was going to, but the Mistress Elara—”

“No excuses. Do your job!”

When I was younger, getting yelled at would have reduced me to tears. Fear ruled my life back then.

I am still afraid. But now, I know how to mask it. I know how to avoid unnecessary punishments.

Grabbing my cleaning tools, I make my way toward the largest tent in camp. It stands at the far edge, a towering red structure with a flag waving at its peak. The sight of it alone fills me with unease.

The Masters have yet to arrive, so the tent feels empty, unwelcoming. Inside, everything is a mess. Leaves and twigs litter the floor, the bed is unmade, supplies are scattered everywhere.

I get to work immediately. It doesn’t take long—I am efficient at what I do.

Just as I finish, I hear someone approaching.

Stepping toward the exit, I prepare to leave. But as I step outside, my vision darkens as something massive blocks out the sunlight.

I reach forward instinctively, grasping onto a thick, muscular arm to keep myself from falling. But I fail. My legs give out, and I collapse.

I should have shut my eyes and apologized immediately. That is the proper response.

But I don’t.

I look up.

And I make the worst mistake possible.

My gaze locks onto a pair of icy, lifeless blue eyes.

General Kaelen is here.

And I have just broken two of the most important rules.

No touching.

No eye contact.

I think this is the moment I die.