#serf

You were working on the ship, doing the assigned task that your supervisor had given you. Helping to tend to the Votive candles on the ship, making sure they are still lit and tended to. As to make sure there isn't too much wax and that the small bit of smoke from the candles didn't mess up the walls that were next to the candles as you carefully scrubbed the walls, without accidentally getting the fire blown out of the candles. As you tended to the various candles and washed down the walls and the floors you made sure that you were out of the way of Lord Angels and the other. As you hear the distinctive movements of a Lord Angel you shift a bit and glance and turn bright red and turn your face back to the part of the wall you were scrubbing. You heard the voice- the strident and familiar voice of Second Captain Cato Sicarius. The man was naked as a baby and dripping liquids of some kind and he stomps down the ship. One of his fellow Lord Angels- an Apothecary is shouting after him.

"And I told you- I won't stay a moment longer to get back into my gear and get my Tempest blade back!" Cato Sicarius bellows out.

"At least put on something to cover your bits." Someone says, 'There are new Scout on board- and don't need to see you like that so soon. We are supposed to the Finest Chapter of the Legios Astartes."

"We are the finest Chapter of Astartes!' Lord Sicarius bellows back as he turns around his.

Oh you can see his naughty bits swinging freely. Glistening with- is that water? Sweat? Or a medicinal fluid. You had heard that he and a few other brothers had fought in a Glorious Battle for the God Emperor recently. Your cheeks are flushed red as you edge to another section of the way and continue to scrub the wall.

You must have made too much noise as both Lord Angels turned to look at you. For some reason the other Lord Angel started ... if you didn't know better almost smirking and chortling at Lord Captain Sicarius.

"What are you doing here Serf?!" The Second Captain Cato Sicarius demands.

'Is it just me, or is his voice a little higher pitched than normal?' You wonder quietly.

"I am cleaning this section of the ship, Lord Astarte." You say making sure to focus on your job and not look at- at all of THE Second Captain.

"Hmp." The Second Captain grunts and you can hear the scowl, "And Why aren't you looking at me when I speak to you, serf?"

"I-I am attending to my duties." You squeak out.

"And you are buck arse naked, as a babe fresh from the womb, only far to large and ugly." A welcome voice comes over, teasing the other angel.

"Mind your tone and words, Fourth Captain," Cato growls out at Ventris with a scowl as he stomps over to his younger brother with a grumble.

This Master was clearly different from the ones he had encountered over the past few hours, fighting among themselves or tearing the lives out of slaves without reason. Milo had only interfered with whatever he was doing... No matter why he had chosen to take this ship, one built for humans, the motives of demi-gods were theirs alone.

But to come face to face with one of the Masters in a rage and survive was a stroke of luck few slaves could claim. He hadn’t punished him for being on board. Milo felt his stomach twist.

Not yet…

Fate seemed to mock him, because the moment the thought crossed his mind, a voice rang out through the ship, amplified and distorted by a vox.

“Human! Come to me. Now… unless you want me to come to you…”

An order that allowed no refusal, vibrating through the walls and into his bones. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he realized he was at its center. It took him several long seconds to regain awareness of his own body, numbed by adrenaline, to feel his hands, his legs, to understand that he could still move… or rather, that he had to.

Whatever the Astartes wanted from him, punishment or not… He had to show him there wasn’t a trace of rebellion in his veins. That he hadn’t boarded this ship to desert or disobey in any way.

The stress of making one of his Masters wait was enough to force him into motion. Slowly, clumsily, he pushed himself upright on trembling legs and, step by step, forced them toward the open doorway, like a maw waiting to close around him.

He ventured into the dark corridor without even knowing where to go, moving blindly, one hand trailing along the wall, breath ragged. With every step, he felt as though he were walking toward his own execution, his instincts urging him to turn back and hide among the brooms… but the consequences of disobedience felt far more certain, and far more terrifying. Better that the Master not come to him…

Only one thought kept circling in his mind, fragile and desperate, yet clung to with hope.

He didn’t kill me…

…so maybe he wouldn’t?

_____________________________________

Immobile in the middle of the lounge, Karneth waited a few seconds after giving his order. Then, at last, the human’s thermal signature stirred.

This one still has a functioning brain…

He remained silent, listening until he could make out hesitant footsteps approaching down the corridor. When the human finally reached the threshold, he froze at once at the sight of Karneth standing tall in the center of the room. His body radiated obvious distress at the mere sight of him, and the scent of fear flooded the space. Good. Fear always called for discipline and obedience.

Karneth said nothing. He simply pointed at the floor in front of him.

The mortal swallowed, shoulders tense, and stepped forward as if each movement cost him a tremendous effort. The closer he came, the more his gaze dropped, carefully avoiding the red optics fixed upon him for fear of seeming even remotely defiant. When he finally reached him, his legs almost gave out immediately. He collapsed to his knees at his feet, as much from weakness as from submission.

The Astartes observed him for a moment, impassive, before asking coldly in Gothic.

“Your name.”

Like an engine struggling to turn over, the young man’s trembling voice stuttered before managing to form the words.

“M-Milo, m-my lord…”

“Milo…”

Karneth repeated it slowly, rolling the sound between his tongue and teeth as though tasting something foreign. A bland thing, without edge or character. The human shuddered at hearing his name spoken like that.

“You do not speak Nostraman.”

It was not a question, yet the human still shook his head, eyes fixed on his feet.

A brief, irritated grimace crossed Karneth’s features beneath his helm. He hated Gothic, the universal tongue of this wretched Imperium. Nostraman was the primary language aboard the barge, essential for survival. Especially for a slave. If he did not speak it… then he must have come from the lower decks. Where those meant to be worked to death were sent.

He studied him more closely: a mess of brown hair, skin marked with grime, bruises, and scratches… but the mortal had all his limbs and all his senses. His frame was gaunt from malnutrition aboard the ship, yet still sturdy enough to be of use. Certainly more so than the patched rags barely clinging to him. His feet were bare, blackened with filth.

“What is your function aboard the barge?”

“I… I handle maintenance, my lord…”

“Be specific.”

Milo tensed. He knew the Astartes was deciding his fate.

“A-A bit of everything, my lord! Quarters… equipment… piping…”

Karneth rolled his eyes and let out a faint sigh of disappointment. He had guessed correctly.

I ended up with the lowest of the low…

And yet the frail creature was still alive, a fact that tempered his judgment. If he had survived aboard, then he had managed to be useful. More than that, he had escaped the massacres of the lower decks and made his way to the Mistralis without being killed.

“Up.”

The order snapped from his tongue. Milo obeyed as best he could, pulling himself onto trembling legs, arms drawn awkwardly to his chest as if unsure what to do with them. He stood, though still slightly hunched, head lowered to avoid his gaze.

Karneth raised his hands. The motion made Milo shut his eyes, bracing for a blow… but they reached his helmet. A hiss of pressurized air escaped from the collar as he removed it.

Without a word, he forced it into the young man’s arms. Milo reflexively closed his hands around it, his knees buckling under the weight, nearly sending him to the floor. His eyes settled on the ceramite surface, partially coated in a substance he recognized even without enough light to see its red hue.

Confused, unsure what was expected of him, he instinctively looked up at Karneth.

Milo had never seen a Night Lord’s face up close. Pale skin, almost translucent. Eyes entirely black, like twin wells of ink. Dark, straight hair swept back, falling like water over his shoulders. Hard, sharp features, yet marked by a cold, unsettling elegance…

He realized he was staring and snapped his gaze away, stammering apologies. Karneth paid it no mind and pointed at the helmet.

“You can clean, right? So clean this.”

For a moment, time seemed to stall. Milo stared at the helmet in his hands… then something shifted. His posture changed, his expression brightening as if something had clicked.

He was being given a chance to be useful. And being useful was the best way to stay alive.

“Y-Yes, my lord!” he blurted, sudden energy rushing into his voice.

He practically rushed to the couch, sitting down with the helmet on his knees. With a sharp, practiced motion, he tore off one of his sleeves and began scrubbing the blood from the ceramite as if his life depended on it.

Which, in a way, it did.

Karneth watched his zeal with satisfaction, with the sense that order had been restored aboard. He felt… more in place.

Then, without a word, he disengaged the connection ports linking his body to his armor. The seals unlocked with a series of dry clicks. The sound made Milo flinch, though he did his best to stay focused on his task. Piece by piece, Karneth stripped it away, setting each part aside, revealing the black undersuit beneath. Every element was fouled with grime and in need of cleaning. In any case, he had no intention of spending the coming weeks sealed inside it, the ship was already cramped enough as it was.

Freed at last from his plating, Karneth sat heavily on the couch, barely a few centimeters from Milo. The mortal tensed, clearly unsettled by the proximity, hesitating between moving away or not daring to interrupt his work. Karneth ignored him, so he chose to prioritize the second option.

Karneth began inspecting his weapons. When the mutiny had erupted, he had been forced to act quickly, taking only what he already carried. His bolt pistol, which he turned in his hands, assessing its fouling and remaining ammunition. His chainsword, its teeth still clogged with various matter. And finally his dagger, unused for some time and relatively clean.

Without warning, he leaned toward Milo and tore off a strip of his already tattered trousers at the knee. The human jolted violently, a strangled noise escaping him as he recoiled… but Karneth simply leaned back and began using the fabric to clean his weapons. Milo forced down the fear twisting in his gut and slowly resumed his work, trying to accept that his master was not going to kill him, not when he had just found a use for him.

The lounge fell into a silence that was neither comfortable nor entirely unpleasant, as though time itself had stalled and a fragile balance had settled into place.

Disassemble. Clean. Check. Reassemble. Motions so ingrained they became mechanical, performed without thought. Lost in the repetition, Karneth’s mind began to drift.

Five magazines… Fifty rounds left…

His nose wrinkled slightly. His Legion was already suffering a slow logistical death… and now that he was alone, raids and plunder would no longer be simple displays of overwhelming force.

Every bullet would have to count. Every shot justified. Every prey chosen carefully.

And what kind of prey?

For the first time, the answer did not come easily. He could no longer afford the ambition of a Claw, but perhaps some Imperial targets were still within his reach. Neglected, isolated outposts… if they held anything worth taking. The Imperium had little presence in this system, neglecting both defense and supply. That was why the barge had chosen to strike Nulaven in the first place.

Then there was the vermin: underworld scum, smugglers, black markets, local gangs… likely more profitable targets, but perhaps better organized and defended than Imperial structures. One glance at the Mistralis’ cargo hold and the quality of some of its contents was enough to tell that powerful hands were behind it.

I could sell part of it on Ashmire… Buy myself time to...

The thought stalled. Time for what? To buy more time? Sell to buy ammunition and supplies, only to raid again and repeat the cycle? He found it difficult to picture what his life would become.

He pushed the thoughts aside, annoying, premature. Better to focus on the present if he wanted to plan the future.

His eyes drifted, almost instinctively, to the human beside him.

Speaking of supplies…

He would have to account for this unexpected presence, check the rations, make sure there was enough for both of them for four months and two weeks. Milo had no idea what he had gotten himself into by hiding aboard. No idea he was aiding a deserter on a one-way path.

Should I tell him?

His sideways glance grew more intent, enough for Milo to feel it. The human tensed immediately under the weight of his attention, his body releasing fear in waves.

Karneth inhaled the familiar scent slowly.

The Night Haunter had taught his Legion to wield fear as a tool of control, discipline, and justice. A precise instrument, striking deep into the mind to enforce order… Not a blunt weapon to be swung wildly, as many Night Lords did now. Fear was to be applied with measure, with logic, so that obedience created a fragile sense of safety, just enough to prevent rebellion.

But fear had its limits, and Karneth did not like the doubt that crept into his thoughts. If the human realized his master was a deserter, he might start to believe he was the only obstacle between himself and freedom. That removing him carried no risk of retribution. That he could take the ship for himself… or at least that it might be worth trying.

A shadow of a smirk tugged at the Astartes’ lips.

No. Not a chance. Milo could have taken advantage of the chaos to steal the Mistralis. Instead, he had huddled in a corner. Either too cowardly or too incompetent to pilot it. In either case, he posed no physical threat. Life on the lower decks had already broken and conditioned him enough to obey, if he hoped to survive another day.

Every movement Karneth made caused the mortal to flinch, as though any gesture might erupt into violence, a reminder of dominance, a warning against disorder. And it was in his best interest to keep it that way.

He doesn’t need to know… he decided, finishing the cleaning of his chainsword.

Milo finished his own task as well. Very slowly, as if to warn him, he turned and held out the helmet, struggling with its weight. With visible hesitation, he swallowed and dared to ask.

“Whom do I have the honor of serving, m-my lord?”

His voice wavered, uncertain, as though he still doubted whether he had truly been accepted aboard, into his service. Karneth took the helm, his fingers brushing over the clean ceramite, idly appreciating the work. He gave the answer plainly, without embellishment.

“Karneth.”

It had been a long time since titles or honors meant anything to him. They would serve him no purpose now.

Without further explanation, he placed another piece of armor on Milo's knees, silently validating his work. A slight tilt of his head indicated the other ceramite plates scattered across the floor.

“Do the rest.”

“Y-Yes, Master Karness!” Milo replied at once, relief clear in his voice.

Karneth grimaced faintly but did not correct the Gothic mispronunciation of his Nostraman name. From someone who did not speak the language, it was to be expected… and he had better things to do than teach a slave.

Intent on checking the rations, he rose from the couch and left the lounge, leaving the human to his task. He felt no concern leaving his weapons in the same room as him.

It wasn’t as if he had the strength or the will to wield them.

_____________________________________

The massive figure disappeared down the corridor, and without the weight of his armor, the sound of his now lighter footsteps faded until it slipped beyond his perception.

Milo froze, giving himself a few seconds to realize he was still in one piece. Then slowly, his shoulders sagged as if a tension had released, and a long, relieved sigh escaped his lips. Even without a hostile gesture, even without an explicit threat, the mere presence of the Astartes crushed everything around him. He felt like a tiny creature beneath the feet of a massive predator, one that could kill him simply by stepping on him without meaning to.

But he was still alive.

His hands returned to work, scrubbing the piece of armor with nervous energy. He had been unbelievably lucky to run into a master who had not punished him for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a master who had offered him a chance to be useful… Yet his place aboard was not guaranteed.

His eyes drifted to the other pieces of armor scattered across the floor. It was the first time he had been assigned exclusively to serve an Astartes.

Maybe… maybe it could stay this way?

His hands slowed slightly at the intrusive thought. He had heard rumors in the lower decks. Some Night Lords kept the most competent slaves close, to serve them more efficiently. Serfs, considered not merely useful, but indispensable. And thus worthy of protection by the Legion.

The idea of such a possibility tightened his chest: leaving the uncertain shadows of the lower decks to remain in those of a demigod, shielded from other masters by his influence… Being protected.

If I make myself indispensable, maybe Lord Karneth…

The young man shook his head, ashamed to entertain such hopes. He was nothing more than a maintenance slave, good only for scrubbing. He had never learned to do more aboard the barge. If the Astartes allowed him to remain useful once he finished cleaning his armor, he could once again consider himself lucky.

His stomach knotted. He had to at least excel at the task he had been assigned. Cleaning, he knew how to do that. It had kept him alive over the past months. His movements became even more precise, and he finished the piece, making sure that no flaw could be blamed on him.

Then he stood up to take another. His eyes avoided as best they could the weapons the master had left behind. Not to suppress rebellious thoughts, but out of fear of feeding those that imagined the wounds they might inflict on him. He noticed one of the pauldrons… but the piece was too heavy to be moved to the couch. Knowing his master could lift it reminded him harshly of the colossal gap in strength between them. No matter, the work had to be done. He circled it to kneel in front of it, but it took several seconds for the lack of color in the dim light to make him realize what he had right in front of him.

His body froze instantly.

Pinned to the ceramite like a macabre trophy, human skin had been stretched to partially cover the pauldron. A flayed face, patched and twisted in an expression of terror, empty eye sockets and a mouth frozen in a silent scream. The features still carried the suffering endured at the hands of the Night Lord.

The sight drained the blood from his own face, and a wave of vertigo made him fall backward. His breathing became erratic, his limbs trembled. The thudding of his heart thundered in his ears. The young man could not look away, gripped by the horror before him.

A cruel reminder of what lay behind Lord Karneth’s apparent leniency.

A monster.

A being capable of chaining someone to a wall and keeping them alive while slowly peeling the skin from their face, then proudly wearing it as a warning. Had it once belonged to a slave? An enemy prisoner? A traitor? Or some civilian who had merely crossed his path?

Milo swallowed and focused on his breathing, trying to regain control. His fingers tightened around the improvised cloth in his hand, blanching his knuckles. This was not the first time he had seen something like this. Certainly never so close, but it was not new. It was not the first monster he had encountered.

No matter whose skin it had been… as long as it wasn’t his.

“Be useful…” he muttered to steel himself.

He repositioned himself with painstaking slowness, mind fixed on the importance of completing the task, and began cleaning the blood splatters from the tanned skin.

_____________________________________

Once in the food storage room, Karneth was greeted by the same mountain of freeze-dried supplies he had seen the first time he entered the ship. Between the raid and the mutiny that had followed, it was a stroke of luck that no one on the barge had gotten their hands on them.

Inventory began. Karneth took the time to count everything, examine every crate, and reorganize them according to the caloric value of the rations. His mind methodically ran through every variable, every scenario, and how they might affect these supplies: with or without Milo to feed, with or without engine problems slowing the journey, potential course errors or the need to adjust it, unexpected encounters…

The room appeared to have enough to feed two people for a voyage of at least a year, no matter the unforeseen events… But that was without considering one detail that changed everything.

Karneth was an Astartes. And to function, his body demanded at least ten times the calories of a baseline. For a journey of 134 days without any setbacks, the crates of provisions contained just enough to sustain him alone to Ashmire.

But if he included Milo in his calculations, it meant he would have to reduce his own rations to ensure the human’s.

Karneth grimaced at the thought of tightening his belt for that runt.

A choice had to be made.

Keep the human and assign him all the tasks aboard the ship, but surrender a portion of his own food… at the risk of weakening his body.

Or do without the human, keep all the rations for himself and remain at full strength… but maintain the vessel alone for months.

He found himself hesitating.

Keeping Milo would force him to reduce his activities aboard to the bare minimum, so as not to lose too much mass. For a being like him, constantly immersed in mental and physical overstimulation, the prospect of such inactivity sounded extremely debilitating.

But it wasn’t as though he would be able to do anything particularly stimulating aboard this vessel anyway, aside from chores. At least the human could handle those tasks in his stead, duties far more suited to a slave.

“We’ll see in the coming days whether he’s worth it…” he muttered, making his decision.

It would be better for him. If the mortal proved incompetent, he would have no qualms about making him an additional source of calories.

Inventory done, Karneth crossed the ship to return to the lounge.

Milo sat nervously on the edge of the couch, as if he didn’t dare sit properly. As soon as his master entered, he slid to the floor and went down on his knees, head lowered and hands clenched tightly on his thighs.

Karneth observed him silently for a moment. The mortal was still trembling, clearly terrified by his presence alone, but there was something else. He seemed paler, his gaze more vacant, his breathing deeper as if his body demanded more oxygen.

The day must have been long for such a small thing.

His jet-black eyes fell on the various pieces of armor scattered on the floor. Each ceramite plate appeared immaculate, perfectly rid of blood and accumulated grime despite the meager means. Milo had torn more of his clothes to improvise rags, making him look even more pitiful, but Karneth acknowledged the effort. Enough to ease some of the bitterness he felt at having to share his rations with him.

The air was still heavy with the scent of human pheromones associated with fear and stress. Karneth knew his control over him depended on it, but he also understood the importance of applying just the right amount of pressure. Survival instinct was stronger than anything, even in the most harmless and timid creatures. Exhausted, cornered prey that believed itself doomed always eventually turned and bit back.

Milo had only known the coarse, noisy terror of the Night Lords of today, inconsistent and greedy, striking indiscriminately even when work was done well. Karneth intended to introduce him to that of Nostramo: the terror that fell where order was lacking, but under its shadow, every being could thrive. Through submission and obedience, Milo held the keys to his own safety.

Karneth turned his gaze from the clean armor, letting out a brief satisfied grunt as his only validation. The absence of reproach was already telling enough.

“We have several days of travel ahead.”

His cavernous voice was calm, but the sudden words made the mortal’s shoulders twitch.

“I’ve taken the only cabin. Find yourself a place to sleep.”

It seemed to surprise the human, who lifted his eyes to him, confused but glimmering with the faint hope that he was being allowed to rest.

“You may move about the ship and use what you need… But you will go neither into the food storage nor the hold without my permission.”

He already suspected the human wouldn’t dare approach his cabin or the cockpit without being invited.

“V-Very well, my lord…” Milo nodded emphatically.

Karneth continued.

“I’ve recalculated the rations needed for this travel, taking your presence into account…”

With slow, measured steps, he advanced toward him and resumed in a harsher tone.

“I know exactly how many rations are available. I will bring them to you myself, when I’ve decided you deserve them.”

Milo sensed the shift in mood and tensed, lips pressing into a thin line. Nervous, he lowered his eyes to the floor again as his master reached his level. Karneth leaned toward him, close enough that the breath of his voice stirred Milo’s hair.

“If I find any missing… I will tear off one of your limbs and eat it to make up for it.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the human’s face. He swallowed audibly and nodded silently. Satisfied that he had made himself understood, Karneth straightened and muttered distractedly.

“I have to reduce my own rations so that you have yours…”

He was almost surprised to see Milo snap upright, looking at him with wide eyes. His trembling voice rushed out in gratitude.

“Th-thank you so much, Master Karness!”

The Astartes overlooked the pronunciation error, struck by the unfamiliarity of the words. No matter the language, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had thanked him.

At least, the mortal recognized the sacrifice he was making for him.

_____________________________________

Milo had returned to lock himself in the room where the maintenance supplies were kept.

It was the only place where he could be reasonably sure of not running into his lord by accident. The latter was busy gathering the pieces of his armor in the lounge. The moment he had been allowed to slip away, Milo had fled without regard for the comfort of the couch. Sleeping in the presence of one of the masters felt like an affront.

After the interminable day of service in the lower decks of the barge, after the incomprehensible chaos and the chase through the corridors, after being caught by Lord Karneth aboard, after the emotional rollercoaster of thinking himself doomed and then finally accepted into his service, after having cleaned his armor from top to bottom… he could take no more, physically or mentally. He was hungry, thirsty, cold… But above all, he desperately needed sleep.

And for the first time, he was allowed to have it.

The young man curled up on whatever he could find: worn mops, rags still soaked with chemicals… A meager mattress, but already better than what he had known: on the barge, “sleeping” meant collapsing to the floor whenever no one was watching. It was the only way to rest, otherwise, he was never allowed. Then he would resume work whenever another slave caught him, waking him out of fear he might slow the quotas.

He was no longer accustomed to sleeping in one stretch. His mind surrendered to sleep intermittently, anticipating someone arriving to put him back to work. Knowing that a monster was lurking nearby didn’t help… But this time no one came, and his exhausted thoughts finally let their guard down to surrender to much-needed rest.

He slept like a log when the door suddenly opened.

The sound struck him like a shock. Even before he realized what was happening, his body awkwardly sprang upright and his disoriented mind searched for the source of the noise. Recognizing the massive silhouette of his master in the doorway, Milo dropped to his knees, head lowered, heart pounding painfully in his chest.

“M-Master! I am at your service, my lord!” he stammered instinctively, unsure if he was saying it to himself or to the Astartes.

His imposing presence said nothing, as if merely observing and judging his choice to have settled there. Then there was a movement, and something fell onto him without force. Despite the fear from this unexpected contact, Milo stifled his panic and lifted himself slightly to grab and make sense of what had just been thrown to him.

Clothes. Clean and in good condition.

Incredulous, the young man opened his mouth but could not form a word. No, this was probably not what he thought…

“You’ll wash before putting them on. I could track you by the smell…” growled the cavernous voice. “The bathroom is past the lounge.”

This time, Milo lifted astonished eyes in his direction.

The Astartes had removed his black suit. He wore an assemblage of clothes too small for his stature, probably found in the bedroom, cut and sewn together to form a loincloth and some sort of robe that covered him more or less. His exposed skin was almost unrealistically pale in the darkness. Circular connection ports perforated it here and there, revealing where his nervous system interfaced with his armor. Seeing, for the first time, the monstrous muscular mass of one of the demigods, Milo fully understood why they were regarded as such. There was something deeply unsettling in witnessing a body so powerful, constructed on human logic, yet so inhuman.

He even thought that the ceramite armor was less terrifying.

Absorbed in his contemplation, he realized belatedly that his lord was holding out a packet of freeze-dried ration. Milo stared blankly, seriously wondering if he was still sleeping. His exhausted mind still refused to believe he had just been given clothes.

The giant sighed at his lack of reaction and tossed the packet onto his lap.

“The rehydration system is in the lounge. I think it’s the only source of water on board that’s safe for a mortal…”

He spun on his heel, grabbing the handle.

“I’ll be back to fetch you in 30 minutes. Be ready.”

Then he left, slamming the door.

Milo remained motionless, clothes in his hands, the ration on his lap. His mind completely short-circuited.

Some sort of automatic survival system kicked in somewhere in his brain. Slowly, mechanically, his body rose on its own and moved toward the door. Thirty minutes. He had thirty minutes to wash, dress, eat. He had to be ready in thirty minutes…

But his legs gave way, and he caught himself against a wall. His fingers hit something. There was a click, and a white light shot from the ceiling like an icy shower.

Milo stifled a scream, bringing his hands to his eyes, painfully blinded. In a primitive sense of urgency, he frantically searched for the switch. His fingers found its surface, and another click later, the darkness returned, leaving him panting and heart racing. His eyes slowly readjusted to the dim, and for the first time since his master had arrived, he felt truly awake.

Light.

There’s light here… he realized, lifting his gaze to the bulb suspended from the ceiling.

The Night Lords hated it, their eyes adapted to nocturnal environments. The barge was thus plunged in constant darkness, where any light source was perceived as a nuisance, even an offense. A danger that drew attention. Like all other slaves, Milo had learned to do without it, to work and move in that oppressive gloom. Sometimes he was granted a small lantern for the most meticulous tasks. But here, here…

It was the first time in so long he had the chance to completely banish the darkness from his surroundings and truly “see.”

He lowered his eyes to the switch. Its presence made sense after all, the ship seemed designed for humans, and there were probably others aboard.

Milo suddenly felt as if he held a highly precious secret. In this small, isolated room, the lighting would not bother his master. He desperately wanted to turn it on again, just a little… But a cautious thought warned that his retinas might lose their adjustment before Lord Karneth returned.

Later… he told himself prudently. if he allows me to sleep here again…

This thought broke something within him.

His legs gave way again, but this time, Milo made no attempt to catch himself. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the clothes and packet to his chest. He began to sob. Perhaps it was relief, or just his nerves giving out after the stress of all these recent experiences. But whatever it was, it felt incredibly good.

The hope of becoming Lord Karneth’s personal serf surged back into him with boldness. After all the favors he had been granted, he felt entitled to believe it. True, he would serve a monster. But a monster of improbable clemency, even though he should never have been there: generously ceded rations from his master’s own allotment, clothes to replace his rags, a bit of time to sleep, a place offering minimal privacy… and light.

He didn’t know if the chaos that had taken over the barge would become the new norm… But the thought of losing all these barely acquired privileges, of returning to work among the horrors of the lower decks, stirred anxieties stronger than even the fear of standing between a monster’s paws. Especially if that monster judged him worthy of being maintained and protected from other monsters.

Milo pulled himself together and wiped his cheeks, remembering he had only thirty minutes to prepare. His master had apparently left the barge on a multi-day mission. That left him a few days to prove his usefulness.