The Estian landscape unfolded like a wound beneath a sulfur-yellow sky. Ariel huddled in the sled, the rhythmic crunch of frost-mule hooves a grim counterpoint to the distant, ceaseless clang of hammers on enchanted anvils. Obsidian cliffs loomed, carved into fortress-foundries that belched smoke and steam. Lava rivers glowed orange between them, casting hellish reflections on the underbellies of airships bearing Estia's jagged, rune-inscribed sigil. The air reeked of burnt metal and ozone, a far cry from Driftmore's clean, biting frost. Ariel's world had shrunk to the scratch of burlap, the ache of bound limbs, and the suffocating shadow of Roger Lithuanian hunched at the front.
Roger navigated the winding obsidian road with the detached focus of a predator returning to its den. The Duke's gold crowns were a comforting weight against his chest, a tangible reward for pragmatism. He glanced back. The boy was unnervingly still. The defiance, the spark – extinguished. Good. Broken merchandise was quieter. Easier. The image of the ruined Lockstar hamlet flashed in his mind – clean lines of destruction, Estian efficiency. That was the world's true face. Kindness, like Alfred Lotus's, was rot. Strength, like the molten might of Estia, was the only currency. Ariel would learn that in his gilded cage, or break entirely. Either outcome served Roger's purpose.
Three days into Luxious, the air softened, carrying the faint, briny tang of the sea. Jagged obsidian gave way to rolling hills carpeted in hardy, salt-tolerant grasses. They stopped at a ramshackle crossroads inn, 'The Salty Gull', its sign creaking in the coastal breeze. While Roger bartered for supplies with a grizzled innkeeper whose eyes held the dull sheen of wartime resignation, Ariel was left bound near a water trough, the sacking loosely covering his head. The relative warmth was a cruel mockery.
A figure approached, moving with unnatural silence. Fingers, slender and cool, brushed against Ariel's bound wrists. The sacking was gently lifted.
Ariel blinked, his emerald eyes dull and unfocused in the sudden grey light. Before him stood a youth, perhaps sixteen, with skin like polished moonlight and eyes the deep green of forest shadows. Pointed ears peeked through strands of pale gold hair. A High Elf. His simple tunic of woven sea-grass marked him as a traveler, perhaps a pilgrim or a refugee from the northern Elven Kingdom. His gaze held a startling depth, a quiet sorrow that seemed to resonate with Ariel's own desolation.
"You are bound," the elf whispered, his voice like wind through leaves. His Common Tongue was accented but clear. "This is not right." His luminous eyes scanned Ariel's face, lingering on the hollow despair. "You carry a great darkness, child."
Ariel tried to speak, but only a dry croak emerged. He flinched as the elf's cool fingers traced the raw marks on his wrists. The touch wasn't painful; it was an anchor in a drowning sea. A fragile tendril of hope, dangerous and foolish, unfurled in Ariel's frozen chest.
"Be still," the elf murmured, his brow furrowing in concentration. A faint, greenish light, like dappled sunlight on moss, gathered around his fingertips. Ariel felt a tingling warmth seep into his abraded skin, a soothing balm that momentarily pushed back the gnawing terror. Biomancy. The elf was trying to heal him. "I am Lyrian. I will help you—"
Roger's POV:
Roger emerged from the inn, a sack of oats slung over his shoulder. He saw it instantly: the Elf boy, too close, touching the merchandise. Idiot. Sentimentality was a plague. His Left Palm Core flared instinctively, a surge of heat prickling beneath his glove. He dropped the sack with a thud, his movements fluid and lethal. In three strides, he was upon them.
"What in the fractured hells do you think you're doing?" Roger's voice was a whip-crack, colder than the Driftmore wind. He didn't wait for an answer. His right hand, reinforced by the subtle power of his Abdomen Core, shot out and grabbed Lyrian by the front of his tunic, hauling him off his feet. The elf gasped, the green light snuffing out.
"He is hurt! Bound!" Lyrian protested, his voice trembling but defiant. "This is an affront—"
"An affront is you sticking your pointed nose where it doesn't belong," Roger snarled. He slammed the elf against the rough timber wall of the inn. Dust rained down. "This is property. Duke Valerius's property. You interfering makes you a thief." He leaned in, his scar a livid purple line inches from Lyrian's terrified face. "Know what Estia does to thieves? Or elves caught near their borders?"
Lyrian's eyes widened with primal fear. He struggled, but Roger's Leg Core anchored him, making him immovable as stone. "I meant no theft! Only mercy! Release him!"
"Mercy?" Roger spat the word like poison. "Mercy gets you killed." He saw movement in the corner of his eye – Ariel, trying to shuffle away. Persistent rat. "See?" Roger hissed, tightening his grip on Lyrian's tunic until the fabric strained. "Your 'mercy' just gave him ideas. Now he'll try to run again. Because of you." He shoved Lyrian hard, sending him stumbling into the water trough with a splash.
Lyrian scrambled up, soaked and shaking. "Please! I will go! I meant no harm!"
Roger's hand dropped to the dagger at his belt. The blade whispered from its sheath, cold steel catching the grey light. His Left Palm Core pulsed, ready to superheat the metal in an instant. He saw the utter terror in Lyrian's eyes, the realization dawning. He saw Ariel frozen, his dull eyes fixed on the dagger, a silent scream trapped in his throat.
"Lesson time, boy," Roger growled, his gaze locking onto Ariel. "This is what weakness costs. This is what your stupidity just bought him." He took a step towards Lyrian, who backed against the trough, nowhere to run.
Lyrian raised a hand, a feeble green glow flickering – a desperate shield. Roger's dagger moved with the brutal economy of a butcher's stroke. No flashy magic, just reinforced muscle and lethal intent. The blade, momentarily superheated by his Palm Core, hissed as it punched through the weak shield and into Lyrian's chest, just below the collarbone. The elf choked, a sound like a snapped sapling. The green light died instantly. Roger twisted the blade once, savagely, then yanked it free. Lyrian collapsed, a dark stain spreading across his sea-grass tunic, mingling with the trough water.
Roger wiped the blade clean on the elf's tunic, his eyes never leaving Ariel's face. "Look at him," he commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. "Look at what your hope did. Remember it." He sheathed the dagger. "Get back in the sled. Now."
Ariel didn't move. He stared at Lyrian's body. The elf's luminous green eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the sulfur sky. The quiet sorrow was gone, replaced by empty glass. The fragile tendril of hope inside Ariel didn't just wither; it turned to ash, blown away by the cold coastal wind. Something deeper than fear, deeper than sorrow, settled into the hollows of his being. A profound silence. A final extinguishing. He didn't feel Roger's rough hands shoving him towards the sled. He didn't feel the grain sacks against his skin. He only saw the spreading crimson on pale moonlight skin. The price of a moment's kindness. Paid in blood. His fault. Roger's words echoed in the newfound void: "Because of you."
The final leg of the journey passed in a grey blur for Ariel. The landscape softened further into Luxious's coastal embrace – rolling vineyards, whitewashed villages clinging to cliffs, the sapphire expanse of the Eastern Sea glittering in the distance. Ariel saw none of it. He saw Lyrian's falling body. He heard the wet gasp. He felt the crushing weight of Roger's accusation settle onto his soul like a tombstone. The world outside the sled ceased to exist.
Olischester rose like a mirage of glass and light. Sunlight, warmer and brighter than Ariel had ever known, glinted off vast domes of fused crystal. Towers spiraled skyward, adorned with living coral that pulsed with soft blue light. Canals threaded through the city, carrying elegant gondolas powered by subtle pulses from the gondoliers' Leg Cores. The air smelled of salt, exotic flowers, and the faint ozone tang of powerful artifice. It was a city sculpted from wealth and magic, a stark, beautiful prison.
Duke Valerius Ifrit's domain wasn't a mansion; it was a palace-fortress perched on the highest cliff overlooking the sea. Walls of polished white stone, embedded with intricate runic patterns that shimmered with restrained power, enclosed manicured gardens bursting with impossible colours. A private dock extended into the turquoise water below, housing sleek vessels that glowed with internal mana-light. Guards in gleaming, coral-inlaid armor stood at attention, their posture perfect, their cores radiating disciplined power.
Roger presented his forged papers and the Duke's token to the gate captain, a man whose Abdomen and Chest Cores hummed with contained energy. The captain's eyes swept over Ariel, bound and sacked in the back of the shabby sled, a stark incongruity against the opulence. Disdain flickered, quickly masked by professional blankness. They were waved through.
Servants in immaculate blue livery descended as the sled stopped in a courtyard paved with luminous sea-pebbles. Roger hauled Ariel out, removing the sacking and cutting his bonds with a dismissive flick of his dagger. Ariel stumbled, blinking in the brilliant light, his worn Driftmore clothes filthy against the pristine surroundings. He kept his gaze fixed on the luminous pebbles.
"Clean him," Roger ordered a stern-faced majordomo. "Proper clothes. The Duke will inspect his investment."
The servants led Ariel away, not unkindly but with the impersonal efficiency of handling livestock. He was scrubbed raw in a tiled bath chamber scented with unfamiliar blossoms, his silver-and-black hair washed and trimmed. They dressed him in soft, dove-grey trousers and a tunic of fine linen, simple but exquisitely made. Looking in a polished silver mirror, Ariel saw a stranger. The clothes were clean, the face symmetrical, the silver hair striking against the grey fabric. But the eyes… the once-bright emerald eyes were flat, devoid of life or light, like sea glass washed smooth and dull by relentless waves. The plant Grandfather had nurtured in the Frosted Delight's warmth had been uprooted and left to wither.
He was presented to Duke Valerius in a sun-drenched atrium filled with exotic, singing birds. The Duke was a man carved from power and privilege. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with the controlled grace of a seasoned warrior, despite rich velvets replacing armor. His hair was dark, swept back, touched with silver at the temples. His eyes, a sharp, assessing grey, missed nothing. Four cores – Abdomen, both Chests, and his Right Palm – radiated a palpable aura of contained might, a low thrum Ariel could feel in his bones. It was the pressure of a mountain, casually worn.
"Ah, the half-elf," Valerius boomed, his voice deep and charismatic, filling the atrium. He circled Ariel slowly, a collector appraising a rare vase. He lifted Ariel's chin with a finger. Ariel flinched minutely, but didn't resist, his dull eyes meeting the Duke's piercing gaze for a moment before sliding away. "Exquisite bone structure. That hair… yes, Serene will be delighted. A unique plaything." He released Ariel's chin. "You did well, Lithuanian. Discreet. Efficient. Stay the night. We'll settle the final payment."
Roger inclined his head, a predator acknowledging another. "As you wish, Your Grace."
That night, Ariel was given a small, plain room in the servants' wing, far grander than the Frosted Delight's attic. He lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, the silence in his head absolute. Lyrian's empty eyes stared back from the darkness. Because of you.
The next morning, his role was made clear by the stern majordomo. "You belong to Lady Serene Valerius. Your duty is her amusement. Obey instantly. Speak only when spoken to. Be invisible otherwise."
Serene was a whirlwind of golden hair, sky-blue eyes, and imperious energy. Ten years old, she radiated the untouchable certainty of absolute privilege. She found Ariel instantly. "You! Silver-hair! You're mine now! Come!" She led him to a private garden terrace overlooking the sea, where a Great Wolf cub, already the size of a large dog, bounded playfully. "This is Frostfang! Throw his ball!" She thrust a leather ball into Ariel's hands.
Ariel threw the ball. Silently. The cub raced after it.
"Faster!" Serene commanded.
Ariel threw it faster. Silently.
"Fetch it yourself this time! Make him chase you!"
Ariel ran listlessly. The cub playfully nipped at his heels. Ariel felt nothing. He ran. Silently.
He became a silent shadow to Serene's radiant presence. He fetched dropped dolls, held her parasol, endured her petulant demands with blank obedience. He was furniture that moved. A slave. The word echoed in the silence within him, fitting perfectly into the hollow where defiance had died with Lyrian.
His only escape was watching the guards train in a secluded courtyard below his window. Men and women with two, sometimes three cores – Abdomen, a Palm, a Leg – practiced intricate drills. Palm Cores flared, projecting bolts of concussive force at rune-inscribed targets. Leg Cores allowed leaps onto high walls, landings absorbed by Abdomen Cores. It was power, discipline, purpose. Ariel watched, his dull eyes tracking the flows of mana he could now instinctively sense, a detached observer studying the mechanics of a machine he could never operate. The dream of the knight was a child's drawing, faded and irrelevant.
Five days after Ariel's arrival, the palace buzzed with frantic energy preparing for Serene's birthday gala. Nobles from Luxious and Estia would attend. Ariel's role would be to stay near Serene, a silent, living ornament.
One evening, after a tense family dinner where Duke Valerius had lavished attention on Lucy, his younger wife, and their newborn son, Ariel was returning Serene to her chambers. The little girl, exhausted by her own demands, was half-asleep on her feet. Ariel guided her silently to her door, handed her off to her nanny, and turned to head back to the servants' wing.
He rounded a corner into a dimly lit corridor lined with tapestries depicting naval battles. Standing there, illuminated by a single mana-sconce, was Anasthesia Valerius, the Duke's first wife. Her beauty was sculpted ice – sharp cheekbones, raven hair coiled severely, lips a thin line of crimson. She held an exquisite red-lacquered fan, closed now like a weapon. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, burned with a cold fury that had nothing to do with Ariel. The slight tremor in her fan hand betrayed her.
She had heard the Duke's laughter drifting from Lucy's wing. She had seen the way he touched Lucy's arm at dinner. The humiliation was a living thing, coiling in her gut. She needed to reassert control. To feel power. Her gaze fell on Ariel, bowing his head automatically as he tried to slip past her, a pale ghost in his servant's grey.
"Stop," Anasthesia commanded, her voice like shards of glass. It froze Ariel mid-step. He kept his head bowed, staring at her polished slippers. She stepped closer, the scent of expensive, icy perfume enveloping him. She lifted his chin with the tip of her closed fan, forcing him to look up. Her dark eyes scanned his face, his silver hair, the utter lifelessness in his dull green eyes. It wasn't attraction; it was possession. A vessel for her rage and wounded pride. A beautiful, broken thing she could use.
"You belong to this household now," she stated, her voice low and dangerous. "You serve its needs. All of them." She turned, her silk gown whispering against the stone floor. "Follow."
Terror, cold and sharp, pierced the numb shell Ariel inhabited. It was a different fear than Roger's violence – deeper, more intimate, more violating. He wanted to run, to scream, but Lyrian's dead eyes stared at him from memory. Because of you. The silence inside him screamed, but his body moved automatically, obeying the command ingrained by weeks of servitude. He followed the swish of silk down the darkened corridor, towards her private apartments.
Anasthesia's rooms were opulent and cold, all marble, dark wood, and portraits of stern ancestors. She locked the door with a soft click that echoed like a tomb sealing. She turned to him, her expression unreadable behind the mask of nobility. "Remove your tunic."
Ariel's hands trembled as he fumbled with the simple ties. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way the physical bonds never achieved. Anasthesia watched, her fan tapping impatiently against her palm. When he stood bare-chested, shivering in the cool air, she approached. Her touch was clinical, cold, as she traced a finger down his chest. He flinched violently.
"Be still," she hissed, her grip suddenly bruising on his arm. "You are property. You exist for use."
What followed was a violation carved not with knives, but with cold entitlement and crushing power. There was no tenderness, no passion, only a transaction of dominance and submission. Ariel dissociated, retreating deep into the silent void within. He saw the intricate patterns on the ceiling. He felt the cold marble floor against his bare feet. He smelled her cloying perfume. He heard the rustle of silk. He felt the sharp, tearing pain, the weight of her, the utter degradation. His body reacted with traitorous, involuntary shudders of shock and unwanted sensation. His mind fled to the frozen crack in Driftmore's fence, watching knights leap with impossible grace. Magic. Glory. The image shattered like glass. The silence in his head became a roaring void.
Afterward, Anasthesia rose, adjusting her gown with swift, efficient movements. She didn't look at him. "Leave. Speak of this to anyone, and I will have you fed to the eels in the harbor. You will cease to exist." Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion but threat.
Ariel dressed mechanically, his fingers numb. He walked back to his small room on legs that threatened to buckle. He locked the door, slid down to the floor, and drew his knees to his chest. The numbness was gone, replaced by a raw, shuddering terror that had nothing to do with physical harm. The intimacy had been a weapon. The touch, a brand. The silence inside him was no longer empty; it was filled with the phantom sensation of cold hands and the suffocating scent of ice perfume. The fear of Roger's violence was joined by a deeper, more insidious terror: the fear of intimacy, of touch, of the vulnerability that came with being seen, especially by a woman. Another piece of his soul, the nascent understanding of connection, however fragile, was ripped away.
He didn't cry. He didn't rage. He sat in the darkness, the distant sounds of the preparing gala a meaningless hum, the ghostly image of Lyrian's body superimposed over the lingering feel of Anasthesia's touch. He was Ariel Lotus, once of Driftmore. Now, he was a broken vessel – silent, scarred, and utterly alone in a gilded cage by the sea. The Price of Warmth had been everything he was. And the bill, it seemed, was still being paid.