The Price of Chains

The room was dark, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the small barred window high above. Dust and the stench of blood clung to the damp stone walls. She lay there, unmoving, her body curled in on itself as if trying to disappear into the straw-covered floor. Thoughts drifted aimlessly in her mind, memories blurring into a dull hum of past battles, betrayals, and regrets. But none of it mattered now. Not anymore.

How long had she been here? Months? Years? Time lost meaning in a place like this. Hunger gnawed at her insides, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the dull throbbing pain of bruises that had never been given time to heal. The chains around her wrists had left raw, red marks against her skin, but she hardly noticed anymore. There was no point in feeling pain. Not when she had nothing left.

The heavy creak of iron hinges shattered the silence. The door swung open, and with it came the laughter of men—low, mocking, and sharp as daggers. Three figures stepped into the dim light.

"Look at her," one of them sneered. "Not much fight left in this one."

"A waste of coin, if you ask me. Just another stray waiting to be put down," another chuckled.

"Or used," the third added with a cruel grin.

Their words slid off her like water against steel. She didn't flinch, didn't react. There was nothing they could say that she hadn't already told herself a thousand times over. She was worth nothing to them. Worth nothing to anyone.

"Get up," the third knight ordered, his voice tinged with irritation. "You're being summoned."

She moved, slow and mechanical, pushing herself up from the cold floor. Her muscles ached, stiff from disuse, but she followed them without resistance. The hallway beyond her cell stretched endlessly, lined with others just like her—slaves. Some stood, hollow-eyed and silent, others crouched in despair. All were nothing more than bodies to be used and discarded when the time came.

She walked past them, feeling their gazes on her, yet offering nothing in return. What was there to offer? Pity? Comfort? Neither existed in a place like this. Some had once whispered of escape, but that hope had long since died. There was no freedom here—only death or servitude.

The knights led her to a large wooden door, adorned with golden inlays and the emblem of the Holy Kingdom of Solmaria. Without hesitation, they pushed it open, revealing a grand chamber filled with noblemen and their ever-watchful knights. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and wine, masking the rot beneath their gilded exteriors.

Her owner, Lord Veylan, stood near the center of the room, engaged in conversation with another man clad in shining silver armour. Captain Cedric, leader of the Holy Knights.

"We are losing too many on the frontlines," Cedric was saying. "The demons are relentless. We need more capable warriors."

"And that is exactly why I've gathered the best for you," Veylan replied, motioning towards her with a smirk. "Slaves well-versed in combat, trained in the darkest corners of the underworld. They are killers, bred for this."

The weight of realization settled in her stomach like a stone. She was not here for entertainment, nor to be paraded before nobles for their amusement. No—she was here to be sold. A war slave. Another piece on their board, meant to be thrown onto the battlefield and left to rot.

The door opened again, and four more figures were ushered in, their hands bound like hers. She knew them instantly.

The infamous assassins of the underworld, the ones whispered about in fear—the Night Reapers. And she, their leader.

Cedric's lips curled into something resembling satisfaction. "Perfect. I've heard rumours of your work. None who encounter the Night Reapers live to tell the tale."

A motion from Veylan, and a maid entered, carrying a heavy wooden chest. She set it down, lifting the lid to reveal an assortment of weapons—blades honed to deadly precision, cursed relics radiating dark energy, armour reinforced with enchantments.

"Consider this a gift, Captain," Veylan said, his voice dripping with false generosity. "May they serve your cause well."

The weight of the moment pressed against her, but she remained still. Veylan's gaze flickered to them, his smirk deepening.

"You should be grateful," he said. "You are nothing. And now, you have a purpose. A family."

A bitter smile ghosted across her lips.

A family? He had no idea what that word even meant.

She glanced at her comrades, their faces unreadable. They all knew better than to react. The chains may have bound their wrists, but they would not shackle their minds. Not forever.

She said nothing, only nodding as he passed by, dismissing them like one would swat away a fly. But deep inside, one thought burned brighter than all the rest.

She would not die on this battlefield.

Not until she killed him.

That was what kept her alive. That, and the faintest whisper of envy—for those who had never known the chains she wore.

 *

*

*

Three days had passed since the audience with the king, yet Leon still could not make peace with the so-called reward he had been given. He sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. The weight of the iron collar that hung loosely around the girl's neck haunted him. His fingers clenched involuntarily.

A slave. A person given to him as if she were an object.

He hadn't even asked for her name.

Leon ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, exhaling sharply. The king had left him no choice. Either he accepted her or let her be sold off to some noble who would likely treat her far worse. It wasn't right. None of this was. He was supposed to be a hero, yet he felt powerless against the world he had been thrown into.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at his door. He stiffened.

"Leon," a soft voice called.

The girl.

For the past few days, he had avoided her. He had tried to apologize—to explain his outburst—but each time, the words refused to come. What could he even say? That he was sorry for being given ownership over her? That he wished things were different? Would she even believe him?

"Come in," he finally muttered.

The door creaked open, revealing the girl standing in the dim light of the corridor. Her golden-brown eyes met his, unreadable as always. Her frail frame was now clad in a simple dress, clean but plain. The bruises on her arms had faded slightly, but they were still visible—remnants of whatever hell she had endured before ending up here.

"It's time to leave," she said, her voice steady but devoid of emotion.

Leon swallowed the lump in his throat. "Right."

He grabbed his katana and strapped it to his waist, standing up and walking past her into the hallway. The moment he stepped outside, he felt it—the stares, the whispers.

Knights shot him glares of contempt, their faces twisted in disdain. Maids lowered their voices as he passed, their hushed conversations barely audible, but he knew what they were saying. They were all talking about his outburst in the throne room—about how the so-called hero had dared to challenge the king. He had insulted their traditions, their way of life, and to them, he was an ungrateful fool who did not understand the world he now lived in.

Leon clenched his jaw and kept walking, the girl following silently behind him. Every step down the grand hallways of the castle felt heavier than the last. The weight of judgment pressed on him, but he forced himself to ignore it. He had no regrets for speaking his mind, but it was clear that his standing among the nobility had suffered because of it.

Finally, they reached the throne room.

The massive doors swung open, revealing King Edric seated on his throne, exuding an air of unshaken authority. Beside him stood Sir Alden Greystorm, the kingdom's knight captain, his expression as impassive as ever. But what caught Leon's attention was the group standing before them.

The Crimson Vow.

Darius, their leader, stood at the front, his great sword resting on his back. Lyra, the rogue, leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. Gaius, the towering tank, stood firm, his usual grin absent. Selene, the sorceress, watched with keen interest, while Iris, the healer, cast Leon a concerned glance.

The king gestured for silence, and the murmurs among the gathered nobles ceased. "You are all here because the war is far from over," Edric began. "The Holy Kingdom of Solmaria is in dire need of reinforcements. Their divine barriers are weakening, and if they fall, the demons will gain an insurmountable advantage."

He turned his gaze to Leon and The Crimson Vow. "Your mission is to travel to Solmaria and aid in its defence. The enemy grows stronger with each passing day. You must not fail."

Leon remained silent. He wasn't sure if he even had the right to refuse. Not after everything.

The king raised his hand, and suddenly, the air in the room shifted. A strange energy pulsed through the chamber, and then—

A deep, blinding blue light erupted from the center of the throne room. Arcane symbols burned into the ground, glowing with raw power. The air crackled as figures in black robes stepped forth from the shadows, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. They raised their hands in unison, chanting in an ancient tongue. The spatial magic they wove shimmered like a cascading waterfall of stars.

Leon squinted as the brilliance of the spell intensified. It was beautiful—almost hypnotic. But beneath its mesmerizing glow lay something unnerving, something that made his skin crawl.

The magic reached its peak, and in a flash of radiant blue, the world around them vanished.

The sensation of teleportation was unlike anything Leon had ever experienced. His stomach lurched as if he were falling through an endless abyss, weightless and unanchored. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, and for a brief moment, he felt as if he were being pulled apart and reassembled all at once.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

When Leon's vision cleared, the first thing he noticed was the overwhelming sense of purity in the air. The second was the towering white spires that stretched into the heavens, bathed in divine light. The architecture was unlike anything he had seen in Eldoria—pristine, celestial.

They had arrived.

The Holy Kingdom of Solmaria.

Leon's eyes wandered across the landscape before them. Grand cathedrals, marble streets, and banners embroidered with golden emblems fluttered in the breeze. Statues of armoured saints stood at every major crossroad, their solemn expressions etched in stone. There was an undeniable holiness to this place, a sanctity that set it apart from the rest of the world.

Yet beneath the beauty, Leon could sense something else. A quiet tension lingered in the air, as if the people were holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable storm to break.

A war was coming, and Solmaria was its next battlefield.