Chains Unbroken

As I searched through Nathan's memories, I found this child Clara. An orphan, taken in by Brille—Nathan's mother—after witnessing her extraordinary gift for fire magic.

Back then, Clara was meant for greatness. She trained, she excelled, and above all, she was happy.

Nathan had been happy too.

They had been children together—laughing, running through the halls, pretending to be heroes from old stories. In another life, perhaps they would have stayed that way. But happiness had no place in this household.

Everything changed when his mother vanished one day and his magic affinity turned out to be below average. Despair consumed him, drowning him in a suffocating darkness. And noone had cared.

The Dutchess—his step mother— had never liked him—he had always been a stain on her perfect image. His stepsisters, rather than offering comfort, were too absorbed in their own growth, sharpening their skills, chasing their ambitions. His father, always indifferent, hadn't even visited him once. To them he was nothing but a weak, broken heir—not even worth acknowledging.

The world moved on, but Nathen was left behind.

Only Clara noticed. She saw the quiet agony eating him, the loneliness clawing his soul. So she chose—dropped her fire, the thing that made her shine, to stay by his side as a servant.

"If I stay," she'd whispered once, voice soft over the clink of a tray, "maybe you won't have to face it alone." He'd hated her pity at first, but soon her presence was his only warmth.

But soon, warmth turned to poison.

The whispers began.

"Can you believe it? The kingdom's most promising fire mage wasted her future on that useless brat?"

"Even a genius will rot if they stay by his side."

"She must be in love with him… or is she just a fool?"

The weight of those words twisted something inside him. Their pity, their scorn – he couldn't bear it. And Clara, always by his side, became a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. And soon he began to resent her.

At first, it was just words. Sharp, cutting words meant to push her away, meant to remind himself that she was beneath him.

"You're nothing special. Just an orphan my mother took pity on."

"You exist because of my family's mercy. Don't forget your place."

Clara never argued back. She endured it all with a quiet, unwavering gaze, as if she could still see the boy he used to be. That only made it worse.

The torment escalated. He began to test her limits—shoving, slapping, breaking her down piece by piece. Still, she stayed.

"Why won't you fight back?" he had spat on her face, gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. Clara, bruised and trembling, had only whispered, ,"Because I know this isn't you."

But it was him.

At least, it was the Nathen of that time.

The Nathan of that time had become a monster, and monsters do not stop at bruises.

At some point, cruelty turned into control.

Nathan dictated when she ate, when she spoke, when she could breathe without consequence. He stripped away her choices, one by one, until she no longer had any to make.

He forced her to kneel at his feet, her forehead pressed against the cold marble floor, waiting for his permission to rise. He made her bow so low, so often, that it became second nature—her back curved, her head lowered, a posture of absolute submission ingrained into her very being.

She was not allowed to speak unless spoken to. If she faltered, if she hesitated even for a moment, his fingers would tighten around her throat, his grip pressing just enough to remind her who held her life in his hands.

"You belong to me," he had told her once, his voice quiet, eerily calm. "Say it."

Her lips had trembled, but she had whispered it all the same. "I belong to you, Master."

It wasn't enough.

Nathan ensured that no one else would acknowledge her—not as a person, not as a peer, not even as a servant. She was his, and his alone. If someone dared to look at her for too long, he made sure they regretted it. And she wasn't allowed to speak to others without his permission, he reminded her that she had no one else.

No family. No friends. No escape.

And when that still wasn't enough—when simply owning her wasn't enough—he took more.

Nights became a different kind of prison.

It started with commands. Stay in his chambers. Stand by his bed. Sit by his feet while he drank, while he indulged in whatever twisted pleasure he found in watching her exist solely for his convenience.

She wasn't allowed to leave. Not even when exhaustion weighed down her limbs, when sleep pulled at her, begging for release. He made her stay by his side, silent and obedient, waiting for his word. He made sure she understood—she was no longer a person.

She was a possession.

She existed for him, for his wants, his needs. But he never went all the way—never r*ped her. Why bother? She wasn't even human to him, just a thing to break, not worth the effort of that final step.

He traced her scars with lazy fingers, marveling at the bruises, at the evidence of his ownership imprinted onto her skin. Some nights, he simply reminded her of his control, whispering in her ear, relishing the way she shivered—not from warmth, but from the knowledge that she had nowhere to run.

"If you ever try to leave… if you ever speak of this to anyone… I will bury you myself."

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I saw it all unfold. Clara—loyal, unwavering Clara—had sacrificed everything for him. And Nathen had repaid her with a fate worse than death.

I exhaled, the weight of it all settling like a stone in my chest.

'Damn… we're practically the same age, yet he treated her like this? What kind of pathetic bastard—'

My fingers curled into a fist before I forced them to relax. It wasn't me who had broken her. It wasn't me who had stripped away her dignity. But now, I wore Nathen's face, carried his name, his power. His sins were mine to bear. She would definitely hate me for this or she should.

I looked at her again—kneeling there, waiting. No hesitation, no fear. Just quiet obedience. My stomach turned. She didn't even flinch anymore.

The old Nathan had crushed her so hard, she was ready. Willing. It's all she knew.

I couldn't do it. Wouldn't. "I'm not in the mood today. Leave."

My voice held steady, firmer than I felt.

She hesitated—a flicker crossed her face. Surprise? Doubt? Then—disappointment.

I stopped cold.

Why?Not relief. Not freedom. Just a soft, "…Yes, Master," as she stood, head low.

Her steps were light, graceful, but slow—like she expected me to call her back, to punish her.

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with a question I couldn't face.

Just how broken is she?