Eliza had endured the horrors of slavery her entire life. She knew intimately the immediate, backbreaking brutality of field labor and the demanding, exhausting oversight of a great plantation house. But this felt fundamentally different. It entirely lacked the casual, routine evil of typical plantation life. This was a focused, surgical malice.
The air grew noticeably colder and damper, and the forest seemed to deepen infinitely until they finally arrived at the Thorne Estate. The iron gates, simple but highly imposing, stood menacingly between two moss-covered brick pillars. They squealed in loud, rusty protest as Thorne dismounted the wagon to push them open.
The estate was exactly as the town whispers had described. It was severely neglected, entirely grayed, and possessed the blind, indifferent look of an ancient tomb. It appeared completely abandoned, yet a thin, continuous stream of gray smoke drifted from one of its tall, narrow chimneys—the only sign of recent, solitary habitation.
Thorne did not lead his new purchases toward the imposing main house. Instead, he directed them toward a smaller, long, low-lying wooden building tucked discreetly into the overgrown backyard. It was a former servant’s quarters that was now utterly isolated from the larger structure.
Inside, there was a single, terrifying room waiting for them. It was sparsely furnished, completely devoid of any comfort. The space was dominated by a rough straw mattress resting on a low, incredibly wide wooden frame. There were two small wooden stools and a single, flickering lantern sitting on a small, unsteady table. Most alarmingly, there were absolutely no windows. The only point of entry or exit was a heavy, thick oak door secured by a massive exterior iron bolt.
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