I pause, watching the young man with a mix of interest and pity. He shuffles his feet unconsciously, avoiding any sense of eye contact. After a long moment of silence, the slave finally lifts his head. He has a nice face. It's pale, but not too pale, with the slightest of freckles on his cheeks. His hair is a light brown, though, that may just be because of the dirt painting it's surface. He's thin, too thin, though that is to be expected with any slave. No one wastes food on them.

"Your room is through that door." I wave to the wooden door on the far side of my chambers. It's the antichambers, meant for servants who stayed during the night. Most of those rooms are no longer is use, seeing how slaves now replaced most of those serving jobs.

The boy nods carefully, trading glances between me and the door. I sigh, not enjoying the prudent silence. "I understand that many masters do not allow their slaves to speak, but unlike them, I do not find anything more boring then basically living with a man who might as well be mute. You are free to speak as you wish."

He looks confused for a moment before nodding, then adding a mumbled, "Yes, master."

"There's no need for that." The slave looks even more confused. "You may call me sire or milord, not master." He nods again. "What's your name?"

The slave hesitates, "A-Arthur, milord."

"Arthur, a nice name." I smile, trying to ease the boy's nerves, though it seems to have the opposite effect. I sigh. "You may go ahead into your chambers for tonight. You've traveled a long way. You'll start your duties tomorrow."

Arthur looks surprised, grateful, and a bit suspicious, but allows himself to exit through the door and into his room. I rub a hand across my face, exhaling loudly. What have I gotten myself into?

~o~

The second I see the slave, I can't get him out of my head. He looks like all the other men lined up in a row for my fathers picking, but he sticks out. There's something about him, something I can't put my finger on. My father, King Calek, picks out a handful of slaves to work in the kitchen, picking most of the healthy women and a few men. He is not one of them. The slavers are about to leave with their gold when I stop them, leaning into my father.
"Sire, the slave-," I read the number hanging from his neck, "number 57, with your permission, milord, I would like him to become my personal slave. I lack one."

My father looks at me, obviously confused. He had offered me many slaves before, but I had always turned them down. I never liked slavery. He nods after a moment, adding a few gold to slaver's greedy hands.