Chapter 4

Ava POV 

As I glance down at our clasped hands, I notice an Entertainer nearby freezing mid-step, her eyes locked onto us. The shock on her face is unmistakable. This is bad. Any kind of attention in this place is dangerous because it spreads like wildfire. By sunset, the entire camp will be whispering about what just happened. If any of the women fancy him, they’ll see me as a threat—and that’s the last thing I need.  

I’ve always tried to stay in the background, keeping my head down and avoiding trouble. More rumors mean more scrutiny, and with that comes extra work, unwanted stares, and resentment. None of it serves me. The less noticeable I am, the better.  

The Master guides me toward an old, familiar tree—the one I always go to when I need a moment of peace. He settles onto a fallen log, but even in a seated position, his sheer size is overwhelming.  

"Get on with it," he orders, his voice rough.  

I hesitate. I need him to remove his shirt so I can reach his injury, but the words get stuck in my throat. Asking a man like him to undress feels like stepping onto dangerous ground. Here, when men remove their clothes, it usually leads to something I want no part in.  

Becoming an Entertainer has never been an option for me. My own fears and insecurities are enough of an audience—I don’t need anyone else’s eyes on me.  

"What’s the holdup?" he presses.  

I swallow my nerves. There’s no turning back now.  

"Would you mind taking off your shirt?" I ask as steadily as I can.  

With a swift movement, he yanks the fabric over his head. The speed of it startles me so much that I instinctively step back. He’s incredibly fast—so fast that if he wanted to snap my neck, I wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late.  

Once his arms lower, I cautiously approach with the medicinal ointment. Before touching him, I take a closer look at the wound. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s long, stretching across his back like a painful reminder of whatever battle he faced. I may not be trained in medicine, but even a fool knows that open wounds should be treated with clean hands and fresh bandages.  

"I should wash my hands first," I murmur.  

"Not necessary. Just do it," he dismisses without concern.  

"Uh… okay," I mutter before blurting, "Can I touch you?"  

I’ve already been given permission, but asking again feels necessary. Something about this moment feels like breaking an unspoken rule, even though I know I’m not stepping into an Entertainer’s role.  

"I already said yes," he replies, his tone as flat as ever. It’s unnerving how emotionless he sounds.  

Dipping two fingers into the medicine, I hesitantly reach toward his back. His skin is dark red, rough, and scarred from past battles.  

"Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to wash my hands first?" I ask again. "An infection could—"  

"We rarely get infected. Now, ask your questions."  

I press the white ointment onto his skin, surprised when it solidifies almost instantly, forming a protective layer. The way it reacts fascinates me, but my curiosity isn’t about medicine—it’s about people. My true passion lies in understanding minds, not bodies.  

"What’s your name?" I ask, hesitant. "Or… is that something I shouldn’t ask?"  

The Mistress Elara never mentioned a rule about it, but I’ve never seen a Master exchange words with an Entertainer outside of their usual… encounters. It seems impossibly cold to share intimacy with someone without ever speaking to them.  

"Zayne," he states, nothing more.  

"Nice to meet you, Zayne. I’m—"  

"A servant. I don’t care. Move on."  

His complete lack of interest doesn’t faze me. I never expected warmth from him. My goal isn’t to make a friend—it’s to understand how he thinks, how he feels.  

As I continue spreading the ointment across his back, I carefully choose my next question.  

"You don’t have to answer this," I begin, unsure if I’m overstepping, "but… what does it feel like when you’re in your Enraged state?"  

I feel him tense under my fingertips.  

"Angry," he replies curtly.  

That’s it? Just anger? I suppose that much is obvious—anger and violence go hand in hand when fighting wars. Still, the fact that he answered at all is a small victory. He could have ignored me completely. His response tells me there’s a chance I can reach him. Maybe, given time, I’ll get real answers.  

"Thank you," I say softly. "And when you were younger—"  

"Enough questions," he interrupts.  

Disappointment settles in my chest. The only real piece of information I got was his name.  

I finish applying the medicine, then step back, wiping my hands on my pants.  

"That should do it. I don’t think you’ll need any bandages," I inform him.  

He stands, towering over me once again. When he turns, his expression is even sterner than before.  

"That will be all," he says, dismissing me.  

As he strides away, I call out, "My name is Ava. It was nice meeting you, Zayne."  

He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just keeps walking, shirt in hand, disappearing into the camp’s shadows—where I, too, belong.  

With a quiet sigh, I pick up my book and the empty container of medicine before heading back to my tent.  

I read for hours, though my focus wavers as the noises outside distract me. My tent is near the center of camp, so I’m always within reach if someone needs something cleaned or fixed.  

Just as I’m about to change into my nightclothes, someone barges in without warning. Privacy doesn’t exist for me here.  

An Entertainer stands at the entrance, a dress draped over her arm.  

"Can you sew?" she asks bluntly.  

I rub my tired eyes. "Uh… yes?"  

"Good. Fix this by morning," she says, tossing the fabric at me before vanishing as abruptly as she came.  

I groan, inspecting the dress. It needs proper stitching, which means I’ll have to gather my sewing kit and find enough light to work by.  

Time blurs as I sew. The dim lamp barely illuminates the fabric, and I prick my fingers three times before I’m done. Finally, I fold the dress neatly and place it at the edge of my bed before exhaustion drags me under.  

Morning arrives as the sun climbs into the sky. No birds chirp on this planet, only the sounds of footsteps, murmured voices, and clanking metal filling the air.  

I set the repaired dress near the entrance where it will be easily found, then clean myself up before stepping outside to start the day.  

To my surprise, Zayne is standing just two tents away.  

He turns slightly, and my eyes instinctively drop to his chest in respect.  

Do I greet him? I usually say good morning to the other servants, but Zayne is no servant. Do Masters even acknowledge each other? I’ve never seen it happen. Do they even have friendships?  

I linger awkwardly, unsure if he’s looking at me or past me.  

"Zayne."  

A deep, commanding voice cuts through the air. My stomach drops.  

I know that voice.  

General Kaelen.  

I’ve been desperately trying to avoid him since our last unpleasant encounter, but no matter where I go, he always seems to be there. Then again, he does own the camp.  

So much for staying unnoticed.  

Does he remember my rejection? Does he replay it in his mind every time he sees me?  

I might be the only woman foolish enough to have refused him. If the Entertainers ever found out, they’d rip me apart. I already have enough problems because of one girl witnessing Zayne holding my hand yesterday.  

"Yes, General?" Zayne replies, standing his ground.  

That means General Kaelen is coming this way.  

Which means…  

I need to get out of here.  

Quickly.  

As I slip away, I realize something: I got my answer. Masters don’t greet each other. They don’t exchange pleasantries.  

Friendship isn’t something they concern themselves with.