Chapter 3

Ava POV 

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the sun—my one true companion on this strange planet. It rises faithfully each day, and I’ve lost count of how many mornings I’ve spent staring at it, wondering if Earth is somewhere beyond its reach. This sun is different from the one I knew back home; it blazes fiercely but carries a quiet warmth that seeps into my skin. It listens as I whisper my longing, as I shed silent tears, asking the same question over and over. Will I ever return home?

I push away my thoughts and slip into a loose, oversized dress. It once had an elastic waistband, but time has stretched it beyond repair. The fabric, now a patchwork of uneven stitching and faded colors, hangs shapelessly over me. I don’t care how it looks. It’s light and airy, perfect for the heat.

Pulling my long black hair into a simple braid, I let it drape down my back. A quick glance into the water-filled basin shows me a reflection that feels foreign. Back on Earth, people said I was beautiful. My parents were from the Philippines, though I never learned their language, having grown up in the United States. But here? Beauty isn’t something I recognize in myself anymore.

The mirror of water doesn’t lie. My once-bright eyes are dull and tired. My eyebrows are wild and untrimmed, my nails cracked, my skin marked with scars and calluses. My clothes, worn and dreary, match the grim set of my mouth. I used to smile, but now my lips are pressed into a thin, straight line, like the horizon that swallows the sun each evening.

Frustrated, I slap the water, watching as the ripples distort my reflection.

I scrub my face clean and brush my teeth, then step outside my tent. The sight of a tear in the roof reminds me I need to patch it up later. My tent may be old and handed down through many owners, but it is my most precious possession. Over the past decade, I have kept it together with countless repairs. Even though it’s filled with holes and fraying edges, I refuse to let it collapse. Maybe, just maybe, I can do the same for myself.

Slipping on my sandals, I hurry toward the kitchens to wash the dishes left from last night’s meal. Along the way, my eyes unwillingly land on a Master and an Entertainer tangled together. I only get a glimpse before quickly looking away, but not before catching sight of something I wish I hadn’t. My feet nearly betray me, stumbling over themselves.

By the stars... these men are made for war and breeding.

Once the kitchen is spotless, I quickly snack on a protein bar before rushing to my next task—laundry. I’m already behind schedule. There’s still so much to do: scrubbing the Entertainers’ clothing, refilling water basins, taking stock of cleaning supplies, and polishing boots caked with mud.

The moment I step into the laundry tent, my face heats up. The pile of clothes tells a story I didn’t need to know. The fabrics are wrinkled, stained, and clumped together in ways that make their previous activities obvious. The Panja women don’t moan or scream during sex like human women do, so I didn’t hear much last night—but these garments reveal everything I missed.

Gritting my teeth, I drag a large bucket to the water station and fill it. This is the worst part of my chores. Water is heavy, and every time I haul a full bucket back, I swear my arms will detach from my shoulders. Whether I gather it from the well or the river, the weight never gets easier.

After dumping the dirty clothes into the soapy water, I let them soak before scrubbing each piece by hand. Two hours pass before I’m finally done. My back aches, my arms feel like lead, but at least the laundry is clean and drying in the sun.

Stepping outside, I take a deep breath and stretch. That’s when I see him.

General Kaelen.

His broad frame is turned away, but he is just as intimidating from behind as he is from the front. He stands tall, speaking with another man, his presence commanding even in silence. Unlike most warriors, he doesn’t carry a weapon at his side—but that does nothing to make him seem less deadly.

Today, he wears a sleeveless fur vest that reveals his muscular arms. The sight reminds me that even without a blade, his body is a weapon on its own. His stance is firm, legs slightly apart, and the moment my gaze dips lower, a memory flashes in my mind. The image of a Master with an Entertainer, their bodies moving together…

I shake the thought away, but my face burns with embarrassment.

"Ava!"

The sharp voice of the Mistress Elara jolts me upright. My heart pounds when I notice, from the corner of my eye, that General Kaelen has turned toward me.

"Yes, Mistress Elara?" I answer quickly, hoping she didn’t catch me staring.

"Are you finished with the laundry?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Good. Now clean the shoes, starting with mine. They're a disgrace."

I nod hastily, grateful for the excuse to escape. I can feel eyes on me—whether they belong to the Mistress Elara or someone else, I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.

Cleaning shoes is easier than hauling water. After removing the dried mud and dirt, I check the inventory, surprised that I finish my work earlier than expected.

With a relieved sigh, I rub my sore lower back. Finally, a break. I return to my tent, grab my book, and head to the old, withered tree at the camp’s edge. It’s not a beautiful place—its branches are bare, lifeless—but it is quiet. And right now, quiet is all I need.

But before I reach my hiding spot, a voice calls out.

"Servant!"

My stomach twists. That voice is too deep to belong to the Mistress Elara.

Oh no.

I turn slowly. A Master stands before me.

No, no, no. Not like that. I don’t want to be taken by one of them. The thought makes me shudder. If one of these men decided to claim me, I’d be nothing more than a broken doll by morning.

Keeping my gaze fixed on his chest—not daring to look higher—I try to remain calm. His build is strong, but he isn’t as massive as General Kaelen.

What does he want? Did I do something wrong?

I grip my book tightly, my fingers pressing into the worn cover. It groans under the pressure, much like my own lungs as I struggle to breathe.

"Yes?" I manage.

"Where is the Healer?" His voice is flat, emotionless. The Panja men all sound the same—like nothing truly lives inside them. But I know better.

"I... I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry."

His lips tug downward, barely visible from the edge of my vision. As he turns away, I gasp.

A deep gash stretches across his lower back, partially hidden by torn fabric. Blood seeps through.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, "You’re hurt."

He stops. I freeze. Have I just insulted him?

Wordlessly, he lifts a small container. "Apply this to the wound."

I hesitate. "I-I’m only allowed to do the tasks assigned to me, Master."

"I don’t have time for this."

"S-Surely an Entertainer can—"

"They can’t handle blood. Just do it. I’ll pay you."

My ears perk up. Pay me?

For a fleeting moment, I wonder—what if his payment isn’t money? What if he answers one of the many questions I’ve always wanted to ask?

"Perhaps..." I trail off, nervous.

"What?" he growls, impatient.

I take a step back, but summon my courage. "Perhaps you could pay me by answering a question?"

His irritation is clear, but he nods. "Fine. Just hurry."

Before I can think, he grabs my wrist. His hand is massive, rough, and covered in scars. Touching a Master is strictly forbidden—but what if he is the one who touches me?

He walks swiftly, dragging me behind him. I don’t knowh is name. I don’t know his thoughts. But I follow.