Victor

The wooden training paddock is deathly silent, save for the sharp, deliberate clicks of Victor Duvall’s boots on the stone floor. The scent of sweat and leather hangs in the stale air. The failing light of dusk filters through narrow slats, casting long, jagged shadows across the trembling figure before him.

Victor stops mere inches away, letting the weight of his presence settle over the girl. His gloved fingers trace the length of his riding crop—slow, deliberate. He crouches slightly, tilting his head, his hawk-like eyes piercing through the leather bridle that muzzles her whimper.

"Sloppy stride, weak posture... and you dare stumble in front of the buyers?" His voice is a low, venomous whisper, almost tender—until the crop snaps against the wood beside her head with a violent crack. The girl flinches.

He exhales sharply through his nose. "Disgraceful." The single word drips with contempt. With a slow, cruel patience, he runs the barbed tip of the crop along the back of her thigh, just enough to let her feel its bite without breaking skin. Yet.

"You will perform again," he says, his tone measured, almost soothing—a deception. "And this time... you will not fail. Or I will make certain the next auction house remembers you only by the scars you bear."

Without another word, he steps back, eyes cold and expectant. "Again."