(Irori's POV)
After the ritual… after the searing pain, the glowing crest, the kiss that felt more like a curse—I officially became her slave.
Not by choice.
By force.
And if I'm being honest…
I hated it.
I hated the metal collar around my neck, still warm from where it had been locked. I hated the way she looked at me—like I was some kind of tool. Something to be owned. Used.
I hated her most of all.
If I had never followed that cursed light… If I had never seen those strange colors…
I'd still be home.
Even if my father called me trash.
Even if my friends turned away.
At least back then, I belonged somewhere.
Now… I was shackled to the unknown, in a world that had no mercy for someone like me.
Then I heard her voice again.
"Listen carefully, slave."
It cut through the silence like a blade. I looked up.
There she stood—Syra Velmora. Cloaked in deep black, her violet eyes glinting with cold authority. She stared down at me, a cruel smirk dancing at the corner of her lips.
"Remember your master's name."
She leaned in. I flinched as her voice brushed against my ear—calm, but laced with something darker.
"My name is Syra Velmora. Never forget it."
Before I could even react, she yanked my chain.
I stumbled forward, catching myself just before I hit the dirt. She didn't even glance back—just walked, dragging me behind like some obedient pet.
Waiting for us was a white carriage. Elegant. Gleaming. The wheels were rimmed with golden patterns like coiled runes. A symbol of wealth and power far beyond anything I had ever seen.
She stepped inside and motioned with a single flick of her finger.
"Get in."
I hesitated—just a second too long.
The chain jerked hard. I bit my lip and climbed in, settling on the velvet seat opposite her. The interior smelled of fresh roses and something faintly magical—like warm light and old books.
She held the chain loosely in her hand, like she already knew I wouldn't dare move.
The carriage began to roll.
I tried to keep my voice steady.
"Who… who are you, really? Why are you doing this to me?"
For a long moment, she said nothing. Just stared out the window, as if the question barely mattered.
Then, quietly:
"You'll know… when the time is right."
Her tone was soft. Too soft. But behind it, I felt it—power. A kind of raw, quiet force that made the air press tighter against my chest.
"Until then," she said, turning her gaze to me, "you are mine. And you will address me properly."
I swallowed.
"Yes… Master."
The words tasted bitter.
But what choice did I have?
We traveled for hours—winding through mountains, leaving my village far behind. I didn't ask where we were going. I just watched the sky, watched the forests turn to roads, and the roads to stone-paved paths.
And then I saw it.
A massive white mansion rising out of a sea of silver grass. Towers and balconies gleamed in the late afternoon sun. It was too grand, too polished. It didn't belong in the same world as me.
As the gates opened, several knights in black armor bowed deeply. No one looked at me. Not even once.
I wasn't a guest.
I was cargo.
Syra led me across the garden fields, lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and blooming flowers I couldn't name. At the far edge of the estate grounds stood a small wooden cabin.
Simple. Humble. But sturdy.
"This is your place," she said, pointing at the door. "You'll sleep here. Wake up before sunrise."
She turned to face me, her tone firm.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll train. Magic and swordsmanship. You have potential—don't waste it. And don't forget who you belong to."
I looked at the small house. Then at her.
No matter how I felt… this was where I lived now.
Even if I was dragged here. Even if I was chained. Even if my chest still burned from the ritual.
At least it was a roof.
"Yes… Master," I replied, quietly.
She didn't respond. Just turned, her cloak catching the breeze as she walked away.
And I stood there, alone, staring at the house I didn't ask for…
Wondering how long it would take before I forgot the name of the village I once called home.
(Syra's POV)
I finally found it.
Not an artifact. Not a relic.
A person.
My sword.
A boy no one believed in, discarded by his own blood—yet he holds a power that could reshape everything.
Irori.
He doesn't know it yet, but he's the one thing that could give me back what I've lost.
I stood in the hallway of my mansion, watching the sunlight fall across the marbled floors. The silence echoed, beautiful and empty.
This mansion might look impressive from the outside—grand halls, golden-trimmed pillars, velvet drapes—but without my mother's voice, her warmth…
It's nothing. Just a hollow cage wearing a crown.
I will fix that.
I have to.
I turned sharply, my cloak swaying behind me as I marched toward the command wing.
"Captain," I called, my voice firm.
The door opened a second later, and Andrew—my most trusted knight—entered with a slight bow.
"Young Master."
"He's under control?" I asked.
"Yes. The slave mark is stable, and we've posted guards near his quarters. No signs of resistance."
I nodded.
"Good. I don't care what it takes—keep eyes on him at all times. If he tries to escape… or harm himself…"
My jaw tightened.
"Stop him. He's not allowed to die."
Andrew's eyes flickered with the briefest surprise. But he said nothing. Just bowed his head again.
"As you wish."
I turned to my desk, where today's reports lay scattered. Among them was a sealed envelope—heavy, stamped with the official mark of Nazareth Village.
Andrew placed it in my hand.
"His family signed everything. The coin we sent was more than enough. He no longer holds name, home, or rights. All identity now belongs to House Velmora."
I opened the letter, scanned the contents, and placed it silently on the desk.
"Perfect," I murmured. "Now… he truly has nowhere to run."
I looked up at Andrew again.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll begin training him in swordsmanship."
"He's a child," Andrew said carefully. "Are you sure—"
"So am I," I cut in, tone sharp. "Do you think I'll go easy on him just because he's my age? I expect the same discipline you'd give an elite knight."
"Of course, Young Master."
I stepped forward, voice low but resolute.
"I want him to become more than just strong. I want him to be perfect. No fear. No failure. Just a sword sharp enough to carve my path back."
Andrew's posture straightened. He placed his hand on his chest.
"Then I swear on my blade… I'll forge yours."
Once he left, I stood alone by the window, looking out at the training field.
Somewhere out there, Irori was likely curled up in that small hut I gave him—still frightened, still confused.
But he'll understand soon.
This isn't cruelty.
It's survival.
One day, he'll thank me.
One day… when I stand at the top again, and he's standing beside me—not as my slave…
…but as my sword.
To be continue...