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 saw it. Only she understood the silent agony that consumed him, the loneliness that clawed at this soul. And so, she made a choice. She let go of her fire that once defined her, choosing instead to stay by his side, as nothing more than a servant.

"If I stay by your side, maybe… you won't have to bear it alone", she whispered. At first, Nathan hadn't liked being pitied by her, but overtime her presence became 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. Still, she served.

"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. If she so much as spoke to another 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.

Then, the commands turned to demands.

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.

And then, he made sure she understood—she was no longer a person.

She was a possession.

She existed for him, for his wants, his needs.

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."

Because by then, Clara no longer had a self left to protect.

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, wielded his power, having his memories. His sins were mine to bear. She would definitely hate me for this or she should.

I glanced at Clara again—standing there, waiting, as if expecting something. No hesitation, no fear. Just quiet obedience.

A sickening realization crept over me. She doesn't even flinch anymore.

The old Nathan had crushed her spirit so thoroughly that even now, with me standing in his place, she was ready. Willing. Because that's all she knew.

My stomach churned. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't take advantage of her in this state.

"I'm not in the mood today. Leave."

My voice came out steadier than I felt.

For the first time, she hesitated. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face.

Surprise? Doubt?

And then—something else.

Disappointment.

I froze.

Why?

I expected relief. A breath of freedom. But instead, she lowered her head, murmured a quiet, "....Yes, master," and turned away.

Not fleeing.

Not relieved.

Just… empty.

She walked with the same practiced grace as always, her steps light, unhurried. And yet, for some reason, it felt like she was waiting.

Waiting for an order.

Waiting for punishment.

Waiting for me to be the same as before.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with a question I wasn't ready to answer.

Just how broken is she?