Sir Kate huffed, stomped, and stormed off to presumably find her Aunt, while Gregory chased after her offering poor consolations. To me, it was clear that Gregory wanted Kate. It was also clear that Kate, at least at that time, did not return those affections. While I might not know where I learned to read human body language, it was plain as day, akin to reading a book… in English.

But after the two of them left, the soldier called Warson remained behind. At first, he watched them leave. He appeared concerned. More for Kate than Gregory, at least judging by the minute angle of his chin.

Being able to understand a portion of my surroundings again filled me with some relief, despite the temporary awful circumstances I found myself in. I felt confident I could escape, or gain my release from these humans. Already I had begun laying plans for my escape, even as grogginess once more fought to bring me back under.

Before I slipped off to slumber, Warson turned his attention back towards me. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and concern. He acted from a wary place of confidence. He likely considered me a caged threat. Which, technically, I was. The fact that he held suspicions would make my plans more difficult. The fact that his expressions were so easily read made manipulating him simpler.

In the end, I would need to proceed with caution. I held my peace, allowing him to break the silence.

“I have questions,” he said. “It will be in your best interest to answer truthfully. If you are compelled to offer a deceit, remain silent. Do you understand these directions?” He asked and waited. His tone incredibly serious. I pondered for a second what he meant by compelled, but in the end, decided to play a cooperative role, at least so far as it cost me little.

“Do you understand?” he asked once more, growing slightly impatient and tapping his belt with a finger.

I nodded.

“Verbally respond, for confirmation,” he said.

An unusual request, unless there were a recording system in place. But that level of technology did not seem apparent–except for the strange artificed devices. Curious. And concerning.

“I-I understand,” I answered, allowing some of my fear to come through, acting slightly more timidly. I watched his expressions carefully. They remained unaffected for the most part, but some of the tension in his cheeks decreased, if by a minutest amount.

“Good,” he said, tapping a gleaming piece of metal on his belt. Originally I had thought it a simple rivet, but it was off-center, and failed to match the surrounding divots in the leather. If there was a device, then that could be it. Unless it was a false flag, meant to subvert my attention.

“First, answer this simple question. Have you been given a name?” he asked, watching me intently.

This was no simple question. Had I been given a name? I supposed I had, though it was not here. And the follow up he could proceed with could reveal several items I would rather keep private, such as the fact this was not my original world. I could not expect that revelation to do me any favors.

But I had to answer something, and truthfully at that. “Yes,” I said. Because I had been given a name.

He nodded, tapping the device in his belt twice more. “How many names have you been given?”

What is his obsession with names? I wondered. I thought that perhaps there was a cultural significance here that I was missing.

Up until that point, the three Kaivan had remained wary and silent. But Kissen, likely reading my ears, or feeling the tension along my scalp and lower back, interjected, “This confuses the kitten,” she said.

Warson narrowed his eyes at Kissen. “Remain silent,” he commanded.

She chuffed, and I sensed a great amount of ill will in that single exhale. But she agreed, albeit slowly. Her claws running through my scalp seemed to have sharpened though, and the feeling rode the border between pain and pleasure.

Warson turned back towards me. “Now then. How many names?”

“One?” I answered.

“You are unsure?” Warson asked, frowning.

I nodded.

“Verbally,” he commanded.

“Yes, I am unsure.”

“Very well. Who provided you with your last name?” he asked. “And I remind you, answer truthfully or not at all.”

I wish I knew why that was the case. Why truthful or not at all? I understood he would not wish to be deceived, but why provide the option of silence, and what would it entail in terms of consequences? There was much I lacked knowledge on, and I decided to avoid risking the unknown unless forced to.

“My mother,” I said, barely avoiding the shiver of disgust that I felt.

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He frowned slightly. “This was the last person to provide you a name?”

I almost nodded. “I-I believe so. W-who else would have?”

“The human wants your owner’s name” Kissen rumbled under her breath. I hardly heard her. Were her mouth not right above my ears, I likely would have missed it. Even so, Warson’s lip curled up into an almost snarl.

“You will not be warned again,” he said.

Kissen winced, but otherwise made no further movements.

I was glad that she had explained. I had failed to realize that this world employed blatant slavery. I had known the bandits did, that the outlaws did, but I had hoped that was the extent of it. I had hoped it was like back home, where slavery was kept hidden and out of sight. But from what I have seen so far, that might not be the case.

Especially if the guard assumed I had an owner.

This would become a dangerous issue.

While I thought this through, a silence stretched out. Finally, Warson’s face softened slightly, as though moving past the issue with Kissen. He said, “But, correct all the same. First though, what is your name?” he asked me.

This was a question I could answer. Except, doing so might reveal more than I wished. For instance, if my name were unusual for the locale. I earnestly desired to test the assumption that Warson could detect deceit. If I knew the answer to that, then I could play a much stronger hand. As it was, I had to answer, as I had already revealed I had a name.

But I could remain silent.

He would assume I was compelled to withhold my name. Unless he lied when he explained his ‘truth or silence,’ ideal… however; why would I assume he had been telling the truth? My head hurt from wrestling all the unknowns. It was a simple question, and it deserved a simple answer. I would just use a nick-name that fit in. There was a Gregory, and a Kate, so there probably could be a Jackie. I hoped.

“Jackie.”

Larissen, the healthier Kaivan brother, inhaled through his teeth. I was unsure why. Kissen had tensed a little as well.

Warson narrowed his eyes. “And you said your mother gave you this name?”

I winced. I needed to deflect. If this military organization assumed I was a slave, then that would mean they assumed I had an owner. If I had an owner, then they would be obligated to find and return me to them. Assuming this operation was legal. Assuming the legal system enforced property laws in that way. A triple assumption led to an incredibly shaky foundation, but it was all I had.

The alternative being the truth, and the truth likely generating more interest than I could afford.

Fortunately, as I sought a solution, a solution presented itself.

“T-that’s what mother made me c-call her,” I said. Shamefully, that stutter had only been half forced. From what I could recall of the woman, I would really rather not recall her at all. I shuddered, and Kissen patted my head.

Warson watched me, ran his tongue over his teeth, then finally nodded.

“What was her name?” he asked.

I shook my head. I could not remember. And even if I did, I doubted I would say.

“Verbally.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

He scoffed but let that angle drop. “Where she resides?”

In relation to this world? I wanted to laugh, with a tinge of hysteria. “I don’t know.”

He almost growled, but after running his finger over his belt, he let it drop. Instead, he caught me off guard by completely changing tactics.

“Do you have Sacred Art?” he asked.

I frowned at him, letting my confusion show. I thought I knew what he was asking, but I could not be certain, and this seemed an easy way to dig for more data.

He breathed out heavily, then almost, almost, gave a rueful smile before explaining. “Markings, Glyphs, Sigils, internalized dynamic artificing that grows, changes, or otherwise affects the body or world.”

“Like these?” I asked, tapping my currently non-injured left arm.

“Just so,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

I winced. I would have loved to known the answer to that question.

After a length of silence, he followed up, “You cannot say, or you do not know?”

“I don’t know,” I confirmed.

He harrumphed. “Fine. Do you at least know what they do?” he asked.

If I answered, then he would ask what those abilities were. If he knew my abilities, my kit, then my future chances of escape would decrease, and I might find myself employed to someone else’s plot as a disposable asset. Especially if they considered me property. Especially if they knew my predispositions.

In this case, I really only had two options. Silence. Or almost the truth.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. While I understood what some of my abilities did, there were several I did not. Such as Obsession.

Warson frowned. “That… that cannot be the truth.”

He paused some more, tapping his belt again. Eventually, he shook his head. “What are your Glyphs?” he asked.

This time, I remained silent.

His face hardened. Whatever sympathy I had endeared was rapidly spent and burnt on this, but I had no choice, not really.

After a few moments, he asked, “Did you charm Sir Kate?”

Now that, that caught me off guard. “N-no? What does that mean?” I asked. I genuinely was unsure. Did he mean in the sense of etiquette? Because something told me he did not.

He scoffed and shook his head. “Recover your health. The Lieutenant will talk with you on the morrow.” And he spun and left, though I doubted he went far enough that he could not overhear me if I did decide to talk with my fellow prisoners.

After some time, sleep was almost upon me. My eyes heavy. The sky, dark. My body still recovering. I felt thirst, but there was naught to drink. I hungered, but naught to eat. Unless I were to turn to cannibalism, which I refused. Especially as my fellow prisoners were still alive.

It was as I nearly slept, that Larissen asked, “What foul human stole you?”

“Hmm?” I responded, barely paying attention.

“Your name. And the human that made you call mother. Disgusting. All could see your revulsion upon speaking of this Qari. Does this person still live?” he asked.

I shook my head slowly, “No,” I whispered. “No she does not.”