The VIP room was quiet—too quiet for Renold's taste.
Padded walls, rich upholstery, a faint chill of mana-infused air keeping everything uncomfortably perfect.
Kael sat by the window, coat draped loosely over his frame, one hand resting near the wine decanter, untouched.
Renold paced behind him like an anxious ghost.
"Seventeen thousand gold coins" he muttered for the third time.
"On one slave, Kael.
You could've bought an entire staffhouse.
Or a bonded spellcrafter. Or five."
Kael didn't look at him.
"Then buy five," he said flatly. "And be quiet."
Renold's mouth opened.
Then closed.
Kael exhaled through his nose, slow.
A thousand gold meant nothing to him.
Not when his family's estates stretched across whole province.
Not when his name alone opened vaults and silenced questions.
But still—he hadn't spent that coin on a whim.
He remembered her clearly.
Selene.
White hair like fallen ash.
Eyes the color of cracked ice under moonlight.
Not trembling.
Not crying.
Just watching—still and sharp as a drawn blade.
There had been fire in her eyes.
Not the reckless kind.
Not screaming rage.
No—this was colder.
Controlled.
Like someone who understood exactly what cage she was in, and was already planning which lock to pick first.
She was waiting.
Biding her time.
And what struck him most wasn't the fire.
It was the calm.
A silence that didn't belong in a place like that—an unsettling, unnatural composure.
Like the quiet before a storm.
That was what he liked.
What drew him.
The door creaked open.
The fat slave trader waddled in first, beaming the oily smile of a man who thought coin equaled power.
Selene followed.
She walked with restraint, but not fear.
No dragging of feet. No wilted shoulders.
Her eyes found Kael immediately.
Curious.
Cool.
Not submissive, not defiant—just watching, as if trying to puzzle out exactly what kind of man had bought her.
Kael didn't speak.
He just looked at her—measured and silent.
She looked at him.
Really looked.
The man who had bought her.
He was handsome, yes—but not in the fragile, too-pretty way nobles often were.
Sharp cheekbones.
Black hair swept back with the lazy precision of someone who didn't need to try.
And those eyes—
Pitch-black.
Not dark in the usual sense.
Just... void.
Something dangerous lived behind them, coiled and watching.
Selene blinked once.
Behind her, Renold coughed.
Reality clicked back into the room like a snapped thread.
Kael moved first.
He smiled—a small, elegant curve of the lips—and then bowed slightly, like a noble in an old storybook.
Not too deep. Not too shallow. Polished to effortless grace.
He had practiced that bow this morning.
In front of the mirror.
Six times.
"Hello," he said smoothly.
"I'm Kaelion Drenlor.
The third son of Duke Thelran Drenlor.
You can call me Kael."
There was a moment.
Selene stared at him.
Then blinked again.
Kael stood straighter, quietly triumphant.
You nailed it, he told himself.
Flawless. Dignified. Charming.
She's impressed.
And then—
She tilted her head, expression unreadable.
"Don't tell me…" she said slowly,
"…you're the Kaelion Drenlor? The infamous magicless son?"
A pause.
A blink.
"Disgraced in the Drenlor bloodline?"
Silence fell.
Heavy. Absolute.
Renold blinked.
The silence after Selene's comment hung thick in the room—like someone had just dropped a priceless vase and everyone was pretending not to look at the shards.
The slave trader, red-faced and sweating through his embroidered collar, broke first.
"What are you saying, bitch?" he snapped, sputtering as he turned to Kael.
"To Lord Kaelion—gods, milord, she just needs a bit of discipline.
A few weeks in chains and she'll learn respect—"
Kael didn't answer.
He stood completely still, like a statue sculpted out of quiet humiliation.
His perfectly practiced bow…
His mirror-polished introduction…
His carefully controlled moment, crafted to impress…
All shattered by a single sentence.
Infamous.
Magicless.
Disgraced.
Each word had landed with the elegance of a brick to the face.
Selene, realizing what she'd just said—and to whom—blinked hard.
Her spine straightened.
"I… I apologize," she said quickly, voice suddenly quieter.
Kael turned to her, slowly.
And smiled.
Not a smirk.
Not the self-satisfied grin of a noble unbothered by insult.
No.
It was too calm for that.
Too… composed.
It was the kind of smile that felt like a closed door.
The kind that said:
Noted. Catalogued. Filed under "to be repaid."
"Process the contract," he said lightly to the slave trader.
The man jumped.
"Right away, my lord! Of course!"
Selene, watching that smile linger on Kael's face, mentally curled in on herself.
Why do you always speak nonsense, she thought bitterly.
Why can't you shut up for once in your gods-damned life.
Kael, meanwhile, was still smiling.
But in his head, he was thinking:
Bitch, you're going to regret that.
Renold sighed.
Deep. Weary.
Regretful in the way only long-time employees can manage.
The slave trader fumbled with the mana contract, his fat fingers nearly dropping it twice.
He held it out with a bow.
Kael stepped forward without hesitation.
He pressed his thumb to the seal.
A single drop of blood bloomed on the parchment.
The circle flared gold.
And just like that, the contract closed.
It was done.
And just like that—Selene Vael belonged to him.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time.
It was expectant.
Like the hush before a play begins.
Or a storm.