On the morning of his eighteenth nameday Will Edgemont, Lord Paramount of Edgemont, freed his only elf slave. Or more accurately, tried to.
“No, Master,” Ythri said as she refilled his cup. “You can’t make me.”
Will sighed in his seat. Ythri was well-read on the matter as was her wont. He could force her to do many things but his tiny city-state was more progressive than most of the human kingdoms. Not to the point of abolition, of course; elf slaves with their skills accumulated over long lives were too valuable to the estates (and especially beds) of the Edgemont House of Lords for the movement to ever gain traction. But activists had successfully lobbied for certain rights a century ago: room and board, respite from work or punishment deemed excessive for their state of health, and one copper a week as allowance. The cruelest masters had found a loophole, “freeing” slaves to starve on the streets when too old or sickly to be worth the upkeep.
Henceforth, no owner could legally release a slave without their consent. The irony was not lost on Will in the slightest.