The first thing she remembered about him was the cold, not the weather, as Louisiana's air swelled thick with heat that day—but him. The way he looked at her with those winter-born eyes, pale as bleached bone. Everyone else at the slave market shouted, spat, and sweated; he was still, silent, and watching her belly as if he could already hear the child's heartbeat through her ribs.
She was kneeling when the first cramp seized her, biting into her back like a rusted hook. The overseer slapped her, told her not to ruin the floor with blood and water, but it was too late. She was already trembling, her knees sticky with the beginning of birth. Viktor Barinov stepped forward without raising his voice or asking her name. He simply tilted his head and said, "That one." Some protested—a pregnant slave was damaged goods, unpredictable, costly—but he raised one gloved hand with fingers like marble, and the bidding stopped. Silence fell over the crowd like a sheet pulled over a corpse. Coins clinked, heavy and final, and then she was his.
Ayoka had learned early on that ownership extended beyond flesh and bone. Still, a fragile part of her had clung to the hope that her blood, her womanhood, held some sanctity and would shield her from complete cruelty. But as they yanked her up by her chains and thrust her into the Barinov carriage, that hope shattered into pieces. She silently prayed the man who had purchased her might treat her kindly, at least not harming her baby or demanding more from her than she could give.
The Barinov house sat alone on the edge of the bayou, far from town, surrounded by trees with peeling bark and moss weeping from their limbs. It was old but unnaturally clean—the kind of cleanliness that stemmed from control rather than love. Viktor carried himself like a man used to marble floors, yet everything around him was rotting wood and salt-warped glass. When the doors closed behind her, the air grew still, whispering, "You are trapped."
They placed her in the attic—not servant's quarters, not a proper bedroom—but a room lined with moth-bitten curtains and forgotten things. That night, pain returned with vengeance. There was no midwife, no cloth to bite down on—only a rusted tub, a cracked mirror, and her hands gripping the floorboards until her nails split. When the baby finally came, slick and crying, she thought she might die from the emptiness that followed. But she lived, named him Malik, and whispered it like a prayer no one could take.
Throughout the endless night, Ayoka fought to steady her trembling hands, carefully wiping Malik clean with cloth strips torn from the curtains, desperate to help him heal. At one point, she thought she glimpsed a shadowy figure gently assisting her, easing the child's discomfort. When she turned fully to look, the figure appeared entirely human, yet an unsettling aura of shadow clung to it. Ayoka, too exhausted and grateful for any help, decided not to question it further. Quietly, she let the mysterious figure aid her, unaware of its true, hidden intentions.
As the first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the attic window, Ayoka noticed the mysterious helper now appeared fully human, diligently tidying the room and making it comfortable and clean for the baby. Despite the comforting appearance, the unsettling shadowy aura persisted, lingering like an unspoken whisper. Exhaustion clouded Ayoka's suspicion, and she accepted the strange kindness without question.
Shortly afterward, Viktor arrived unexpectedly early. Her hands still trembled from blood loss as the attic door creaked open, and he stepped through, untouched by heat or dust. He observed her silently before speaking. "Let me see the child." Ayoka didn't move, Malik swaddled beside her. She watched Viktor for malice or hunger but saw only chilling curiosity.
She shifted the blanket slightly so he could see the boy's face, her chest tightening with anxiety as she took deep, quiet breaths. Ayoka worried about Malik's skin tone, how Viktor might perceive him, and what his reaction might be. Viktor stepped closer, crouched near the child, and studied him closely. "He does not resemble you," he murmured. Ayoka's jaw tightened, her worry deepening. "He resembles himself," she responded softly, her voice barely steady. Viktor tilted his head, gaze unreadable. "Who is the father?" Ayoka hesitated, her eyes dropping nervously to a splinter in the floor. "He was a traveler from the Middle East, kind but not permanent," she offered cautiously. Viktor rose without further comment, instructing her on routines and decorum, then left. Ayoka remained with Malik, chains at her ankles, under the watchful presence of something colder and more unyielding than death.