Kal took note of a rare expression from Pria Summerborn. When the two cultivators escorted the slave, she seemed delightful, like someone who drank a bottle of expensive wine in secret. For a moment, she looked as if she’d forgotten to school her expression as she always had.

“Take the silvers and go,” Kal said. He was more curious about the woman the merchant brought than he was furious. He felt nothing at all for the slave, or whatever circumstances may have brought her here, but at least he ought to get along with her.

She was, the merchant had introduced before bringing her here, a 1st realm cultivator. She was a member of this Weeping Sect, but was exiled here to the north when she was caught seducing the young master.

The cultivator, Reimallia Mars, was of the 1st realm of cultivation, but the imperial chains around her wrists turned her to that of a mortal. He was given two special keys which could break her free, but he wouldn’t advise it.

After all, cultivators are dangerous.

Reimallia Mars, adorned in grey robes, was young, fair, possessing sharp eyes and very much lacking hair. She was bald, which made him curious about the story behind that.

When the merchant was ushered off, he turned to the woman. They never dispensed the introductions, and he lost the mood for it. He motioned for the couch. “Take a sit. Please.”

She walked over to the couch and sat. He poured her some tea, then pushed it forward. He approached this conversation delicately. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Because he didn’t.

“To serve.” Her voice was a dulled sword, rusted and aged. She looked as if she had no soul.

He clarified his points. “Do you see yourself as a slave? A captive?”

She gave a nod.

He leaned against the couch. “Can you elaborate why I paid a hundred silvers for you?”

“You’re a cultivator. You understand, don’t you?” She glared at Pria. “Leave. This isn’t a conversation for mortals.”

Pria bowed.

“Lady Pria, stay. You’re privy to this conversation.” To the cultivator, “You are a sharp sword.”

She was looking at him now.

Ninety silvers for a cultivator. He could make use of this situation. If she could teach him the ways of cultivation, he’d be able to capture a proper footing in this world. And she didn’t know who he was before, so he was free to act however he wished around her. He never desired to walk around every day on eggshells, worrying if she was acting like Lahrs Sarnasia. He didn’t have that stamina.

What are realms? How do cultivators cultivate? Why were they all so angry all the time? Was it inherent to their nature? Pria seemed to be of the same ilk as the cultivators—though he would refrain from saying that to her face.

“What is this place?” The cultivator asked.

“Hasn’t the merchant told you?” He gestured dramatically. “The walls are thin and old. Sunlight filters through the ceilings. Imagine the horror once it rains. In it is a lord and a servant but no subjects.”

“A lord, a servant,” she said slowly. “And a slave.”

“Are you now?”

She pursed her lips. He looked at Pria, feeling the key in her pockets, then back to her. “The merchant informed me that you seduced the young master of your sect and tried to control him. It was that lust for power that chained you here.”

“Lust? Is that the word he used? Is it a sin to have fallen in love?” She said suspiciously soft.

“He was betrothed to another, I hear. A cultivator from another sect. An innocent maiden.”

“You make her sound like a saint. She was a dull, dimwitted girl. She doesn’t have the capacity to rule, so I did them a favor and learned to rule for them. I was the better match,” she said with a glint in her eye. “I was good at what I did. I learned arithmetics and bookkeeping. My lover was a masterful cultivator, but he was too soft, and his head is on the clouds. I was his shield, his sword, and the ink that keeps the sect’s wheels turning.”

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Kal thought she would be useful here someday, if given the chance. “You ended up here. Was that your competency at play?”

“I’m not omnipotent,” she looked angry. “They found us together. That’s all it was. I never caused a war, or murdered a man with injustice. I put ink to paper diligently, and I was punished for it.”

“You won’t suffer that here,” he said. “As you can clearly see, we’re not rich. Pria hunts, she cooks, she cuts the—“ the firewood, he wanted to say. She wipes the floorboards in the house, that too. She fixes his bed, gathers water to be hauled back from the nearby river, heats the bath… he had been so used to having everything done for him that he’d taken it for granted. She was only one person.

“This isn’t a lifestyle of golden sheets and silver spoons,” he told her. “But we do have clothes for you. Have you broken your fast, yet?”

She shook her head.

“The travel from the central will take its toll if you don’t let your body rest, Lady Reimallia. Lady Pria here will guide you to your room along with your clothes, and whatever our hands can provide will open to you. Don’t ask for too much, we’ll embarrass you with our frugality.” He raised his feet against the couch and slid down to lounge. Tiredly, he said, “The meeting with the merchant has left me drained of not only of my silvers, but my wits. We’ll talk later. Enjoy the silence. It’s warmer here. Very warm…”

He yawned, shut his eyes, and waved at her as she left.

----------------------------------------

Several hours later, when the sun was descending to its sleep, Pria found herself in the parlor of a recently woken up cultivator, fiddling with the keys. “How has the cultivator faring?” He asked. “She hasn’t destroyed the walls yet, I hope?”

“She’s a cultivator,” Pria said.

“You make it sound as though you weren’t expecting this to happen. Ninety silvers… how much bread can you buy with a single silver?”

Provoke the true Lars, she thought. He’s a cultivator. He’s a slave to his nature. Will you truly be freeing her?”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“I-she’s—a cultivator.”

“It’s twice you said that now. Yes, she’s a cultivator. She’s also an exiled slave, driven out of her home to this prison. By the look on your face, you’ve changed your mind?”

“She’s more like to destroy the manor if you loose her free of her bonds.”

“I’m not so fond of dilemmas,” he sat up stiffly. “They make you choose a terrible option, none of which will help you sleep. Keep her as a slave, free her and risk having another cultivator… come next morning, mind grows tired. And old.” He thought about it. “But your words have merit. We’ll wait, and keep one eye open for her. And then we’ll see.”

He asked her to go to that cultivator’s room and invite her for tea. “But do so gently, Lady Pria,” he had said. “Gently.”

Truth be told, she never had the fancy to entertain either of these cultivators. Lahrs Sarnasia’s paranoia must have kicked in when he woke and decided to be accommodating. And he was right to worry. He couldn’t convince a servant to be a cultivator, and he’d tried plenty of times. If he forced her to the brink of cruelty, she would be useless. So it was the beatings, the hard ground, the rationed food—most of what an outer disciple would have. And he would tempt her with comfort, that she needs only a day or an hour, and to convince her little by little. She never bent the knee.

Now—what would happen if his precious ninety silvers suddenly began to be his enemy?

Pria skipped and hummed across the hallway. She didn’t have to find the cultivator. Reimallia smelled of venom that coiled across the flesh of this manor. The energy—qi—of cultivators had often intimidated her. But she’d seen the upper realms, and experienced being close to them when they flared, that the flames stopped burning, and she developed callouses on her skin.

Arriving at the door, she didn’t bother kneeling, and slid it open. There was a yelp, and the cultivator was holding a kitchen knife. “The young master desires to see the lady Reimallia this very instant.”

Her expression flared. “Now?”

Pria pursed her lips.

The cultivator stomped across the hallway. “That damnable lordling. If the boy had any stomach for iron, he’d command me himself. Instead he sends his wench to do his bidding for him.”

Pria flinched. “There are no wenches at High Lotus, cultivator. You’ll do well to remember that.”

The cultivator named Reimallia Mars stopped, turned around, and Pria cursed her lips for having taken the ire of another cultivator.

She smiled. “Allow me to correct my mistake. You’re an expensive wench, clearly, and a mind of your own, so indulge my curiosity. How much has he soiled your blankets? Is the cultivator any different from the mortals who bedded you in spit and haggled over you with rusted coppers?”

“I never slept with him,” she said in a low voice.

“Then I pity you,” the woman said, putting a hand on the cheeks of Xiao Qin. She slapped the hand away. “An unsullied wench is scarce and much desired up here in the north. One word at Central and the moment you step foot outside this gate, you’ll be dragged to the forest against your will. Unless you give them your price. Well—seeing as you're here, your master paid for you.”

“Is that how you ended up here, cultivator? Did you make a bid for whom you’ll spread your legs for? Raise your own price, make yourself more invaluable? You must be so proud having been sold for ninety silvers.”

The air warmed and sizzled. Suddenly, Xiao Qin found herself pinned against the wall. Her neck felt hot. “Your tongue is slithering like a snake. It makes me wonder if you’ll be just as playful without it.”

“Cultivators,” she spat against her breath. “You’re no different from one another. What is it with all of you and your love for my neck? You’ll make me blush.”

They stared at each other. Much to her surprise, the woman lost her heat and spun toward the guest room. Xiao Qin touched her neck carefully, letting her hand linger at her sweat.

Now that she observed, she had been able to keep quiet in front of the young master. But that had been necessary at the time to irritate him to no end.

“You idiot,” she muttered to herself. “Can’t you keep your mouth shut for one second?”