Chapter 5A: Timeskip

A year had passed.

The ruined village was gone. In its place stood a modest but solid farmstead on the cleared land—timber house, barns, fenced fields, a small orchard already taking root. Damian had claimed the best of the soil and the labor of the surviving villagers. Some of the Native men worked the fields under watch; others had been sold or driven off. A handful of the women had been taken as wives by soldiers who stayed behind when the main force moved on. Mixed children were already born or on the way. Chel herself had carried Damian’s child to term: a strong, dark-haired boy with his father’s eyes and her high cheekbones. The boy was nearly three months old now, healthy and loud.

Damian had done well. The farm produced. Trade with the nearest fort brought coin and supplies. He was no longer a simple officer living on army pay; he was a landowner of moderate means, with enough surplus to expand.

On a clear morning in late spring he rode into the small trading post two days’ travel east and returned with a new purchase.

Her name was Tyra.

She stood nearly as tall as Damian himself, skin a deep, rich brown that caught the light. Her face was striking—high cheekbones, full mouth, dark eyes that missed nothing. A thick, heavy fall of black hair was bound back from her face. Her body was the kind that stopped men mid-step: full, heavy breasts that strained against the rough shift they had given her, a narrow waist that flared into wide hips and a thick, rounded ass that moved with every step. Her midriff was flat and firm, the muscle of a woman who had worked hard. Long legs carried her with a controlled grace even in chains.

The trader had called her “prime stock.” Damian paid the asking price without haggling and had her loaded into the wagon for the ride home.

When they reached the farm he ordered her unchained and brought into the main house. Chel was there, the infant on her hip, watching in silence as the tall Black woman was led inside. The two women looked at each other for a long moment—nothing spoken, only the quiet assessment of two captives who now shared the same roof and the same owner.

Damian dismissed the hired hands and closed the door.

Tyra stood in the center of the room, still in the thin shift, wrists marked by the irons that had just been removed. She did not lower her eyes.