As introductions ended, I called the girls to live in the manor. The sun had long dipped behind the distant hills, and soft gold lingered through the tall windows. The manor, once silent and haunted by echoes, now stirred with voices and hesitant laughter. For the first time in years, the air felt alive.
I turned to Martha, the head maid."Prepare a good dinner tonight. Something hearty. Something that feels like home."She bowed slightly, a faint smile forming. "As you wish, my lord."
By nightfall, the great table was filled — steaming platters of meat glazed with herbs, roasted roots, loaves of bread warm from the oven, and sweet broth that filled the room with fragrance. The girls gathered quietly, their faces uncertain, hands folded in silence.
Natalia sat beside me, her green pupils shimmering under the candlelight. She said nothing, only watched — calm, steady, protective.
When the food was placed before them, no one moved. I could feel their hesitation — the fear born from years of servitude and punishment. To them, eating freely before a lord was unthinkable.
"Why do you all sit still?" I asked softly.No one replied. Eyes lowered. Hands trembled slightly.
I sighed. "Martha, Natalia — serve them properly. Fill their plates until they're full. I want them to eat without fear."
Martha obeyed instantly, her wrinkled hands moving with care as she served stew and meat. Natalia followed quietly, pouring soup into bowls, her movements gentle but precise. Slowly, the girls began to eat — first cautious bites, then hungrier ones. The aroma of food mixed with the faint sound of laughter, hesitant at first, but real.
Their joy was timid, fragile, yet genuine. They still feared to ask for more or touch the finer dishes. Years of cruelty had carved manners deeper than scars.
When I poured the wine, their hesitation returned."Drink," I said."My lord, this wine looks costly…" one whispered."All the better," I replied with a faint smile. "It's mine. You won't offend me. Drink."
Reluctantly, they raised their cups. The deep red shimmered under candlelight like blood and fire. I raised my own."To new beginnings," I said.
As the warmth spread, the silence eased. Laughter grew louder. The manor — once a hollow place of command — felt, for a brief time, like home.
After dinner, no one wished to leave the table. The candles burned low, and the hearth glowed softly as they began to share their stories — stories that bled pain.
One after another, they spoke of how they became witches, what they had endured before I found them — hunger, betrayal, experiments, cages. I listened in silence, my jaw tight, my mind simmering with quiet rage.
Most of them were young, somewhere in their early twenties. A few — fifteen, sixteen, maybe nineteen — were barely more than girls.Casually, I asked, "I notice most of you are young… what happened to the older ones?"
A long pause followed. The light laughter vanished like smoke.
It was Arion who broke the silence first. Her voice trembled but carried weight."Few witches live past twenty-five, my lord. The older ones don't survive."
Beside her, Rynar — older and sharp-eyed — continued, her tone bitter."When we were imprisoned… the lord who held us treated beauty like a coin. Those who looked pleasing were used — for pleasure, for mockery, for him and his guests. Those who weren't were beaten or starved. If a girl had physical strength, they worked her to death. If she resisted, they…" she paused.
Her words hung heavy in the air."Arion and I… we were considered beautiful. They beat us less to keep our looks 'intact.' But we watched others die, one after another — some barely twelve or thirteen."
The crackling fire was the only sound that followed. My grip tightened around the cup. For a moment, I felt something raw — disgust, rage. The kind that burned cold.
"So that's how men behave now…" I muttered under my breath. "Worse than beasts."
Arion looked down. "Beasts kill to eat, my lord. Men kill to feel powerful."
The words sank deep.
I stood, resting my hands on the table. "Enough." My voice echoed through the hall. "You have suffered enough — torture, betrayal, cruelty. But that ends here. Whatever happened before… bury it. From today, your past belongs to the grave. What lies ahead, you build with your own hands."
Their eyes lifted, shimmering with tears they tried to hide. For the first time, hope flickered there — faint, but real.
After a pause, I asked, "Who was the lord who captured you?"
Lyra, sitting near the edge of the table, raised her head slowly. Her voice was steady but sharp."Lord Umber Wisburg of Witonter."
The name struck like a blade."Umber Wisburg…" I repeated quietly. "I remember him."
Afterward, I arranged their sleeping quarters. The manor wasn't large enough, so many had to share rooms — some even corners of old storage halls. Still, they didn't complain; not after what they had endured. Even a narrow bed under a safe roof felt like heaven.
All around me, they were preparing their makeshift beds — spreading blankets, whispering softly to each other. The air smelled faintly of candles and old wood.
I stood near the doorway, quietly observing.
That's when Aveline, Lyra's younger sister, walked up beside me. She glanced at the girls, then at me."My lord," she said softly, "Lyra has gone back to the guest house."
I nodded. "I see. Is she doing well?""Yes," Aveline said, folding her hands. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. "Tonight feels… quiet, doesn't it?"
I looked around — the silence was peaceful indeed, filled only with the faint sound of blankets rustling."It does," I said. "Almost too quiet."
Aveline hesitated for a moment, then whispered,"I once spoke to a witch who told me how they used to sleep… under the screams of their sisters — as they were assaulted or experimented on."
I turned to her, and for a moment, there was nothing to say. The silence between us was heavy — made of all the pain and memory these walls could never wash away.
Finally, I said quietly, "Then let this be the first night without screams."
Aveline nodded, tears glinting faintly in her eyes. She bowed her head and went to join the others. I watched her go — the fragile peace of the night settling again like a blanket.
The next morning, I rose early. The sunlight filtered through the study window as I read Oswin's daily report — farming, mining, construction, trade. Everything was steady, yet it wasn't enough. We needed more housing, better tools, and stronger infrastructure.
I summoned Oswin."We'll need new living quarters," I said. "But not the same as the workers' huts. Build proper homes for the witches — multi-story, well-ventilated, secure."
He frowned thoughtfully. "That will take effort, my lord. Stone, lime, labor—""Prepare everything," I interrupted. "Begin planning today. I'll handle the rest."
He nodded and left with purpose.
When the door closed, silence filled the room again. I leaned back, gazing at the faint swirl of dust in the sunlight. For a long time, I stayed still — then closed my eyes and focused.
The power stirred — a faint hum inside my chest. The world rippled, light bending, reality folding. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the manor.
I stood on Earth, inside my body as Allen.
I began listing my tasks, one by one, voice calm but resolute:
Construct a kiln — for cement production, vital for stronger housing.
Build a furnace — for blacksmithing and weapon forging.
Create a communal oven — for mass cooking and efficient food preparation.
Design blueprints for multi-story living quarters.
Develop systems for food preservation and weapon manufacture.
Establish labor management protocols — order, efficiency, discipline.