Chapter One II: The Collar and the Curse

The stone beneath my feet was slick with rot—damp, uneven, and cold like the breath of something long dead. Every step here whispered of mold and blood, like the house had swallowed screams over the years and never digested them.

I stood still, shoulders straight, posture perfect. That damn collar dug into the back of my neck again—cold, biting, and metallic.

Gods, how many times had I tried to rip it off?

Too many.

Broken nails, bruised fingers, a cracked wrist, and a shattered ego.

I exhaled sharply, grounding myself. No use slipping into memory now. Not when he was present.

The room was brighter than usual. Daylight filtered in through the cracks in the dusty curtains, painting the walls with pale streaks of gold. Maybe it had always been this bright. But I wouldn't know. I spent most of my time locked beneath this house—down in the cellar, in the dark, with nothing but the rats and my own thoughts for company.

What a charming way to treat a girl.

Krevyr leaned lazily against the adjacent wall, looking like he hadn't slept in a week—and even worse, didn't care. His knuckles dragged along his scalp as he scratched halfheartedly, eyes locked on the buyer sitting across from Victor.

Great. Another one.

Just another bloated sack of coins with a twisted sense of ownership. His clothes screamed wealth and arrogance—the kind of man who overpaid to feel superior, then underpaid to feel clever. His silver beard was oiled and curled, like he gave more attention to it than to the girls he probably bought.

I lost count of how many of them I'd seen by Day Thirty-Four. Or maybe it was Thirty-Seven. Time blurred here. Twisted. Useless.

Time, I thought bitterly, is just a cruel joke when you're waiting to be sold.

My cuffs pulsed—searing hot against my skin, like they didn't like me thinking that. They probably didn't.

"Two hundred silver coins for the Archathor," the buyer finally spoke, his tone sickeningly casual. Like he was haggling for fruit.

Victor didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair with the grace of a man who thought the whole damn world belonged to him. Technically, this world—my world—did.

"Oh?" Victor hummed. "For a well-to-do man like yourself, shouldn't you be aiming a little higher?"

He gestured to me with a flick of his fingers. A sharp jolt of pain laced down my spine and wrists as the collar and cuffs flared together, crackling faintly beneath my skin.

That was his way of saying play nice.

So I did what he wanted.

I bowed my head—low, quiet, submissive.

And gods, I hated myself for it.

I clenched my jaw as the buyer eyed me. The older man raised a brow, his eyes crawling across me like I was meat on a hook.

"Archathors are… very rare," Victor began, his voice as smooth as the liquor he downed. "Selling her to the highest bidder is simply common sense."

Rare?

He made it sound like I was a limited-edition sword or a bottle of wine, not a person.

I stared at the floor, not daring to breathe too loud.

The buyer hesitated, fingers drumming on the rim of his glass. "But, Vic, times are tough. Silver doesn't just fall from the sky anymore."

Victor laughed. A slow, smug little chuckle that made my stomach turn. "Then you understand why I must make the most of this transaction."

He waved a hand dismissively and took another long sip. "Still, since you're a favorite…"

He smiled. Gods, that smile. Like a rotting peach.

"…I might be willing to cut a corner or two."

Ryke groaned dramatically from the side, loud enough to interrupt. He yanked his eyepatch slightly, bored to tears. Then his gaze slid toward mine—smirking, playful, and condescending.

I wanted to stab him.

No—gut him.

Consequences be damned.

Last time you said that, my thoughts reminded me, you spent seven hours in the cellar with broken ribs.

I shifted slightly, careful not to draw attention. The bruises were still there. Faded on my ribs, darker along my legs. I didn't even want to think about my back.

Still… I was lucky. Victor kept me untouched—for now. His words still burned in my ears:

"Can't have the merchandise stained."

Five hundred silver coins. That was the number that made Victor finally stood from his seat. He walked to the window, blocking the sunlight with his silhouette.

"Final offer," he said flatly. "Take it or leave it."

The buyer's eyes widened. "Five hundred?! That's… that's double the opening offer."

Victor didn't even blink. "Two hundred off her full price. That's generous."

He turned slightly, finally giving the buyer his full attention, voice laced with smug certainty. "And trust me—she's worth every coin."

The man dropped to his knees.

Hard.

His weight hit the stone floor like a sack of flesh and shame, arms outstretched, hands trembling, groveling. "Victor, please—please! You know the market's dried up. The economy's dead! This is all I have!"

He clutched Victor's leg like it was a rope keeping him from drowning, his face pressed to the cuff of his trousers, lips smeared with desperation. I wanted to puke. Not just from the smell—gods, he reeked of old perfume and anxiety—but from the sheer patheticness of it all.

I stood silent behind the chair, eyes locked ahead, collar burning against my throat like a warning. I didn't move, didn't speak, but every nerve in me hissed.

This was what men did when power slipped from their fingers—they begged. Cried. Bribed. Like groveling could rewrite fate.

He whimpered again. "Two-fifty—three hundred! You know I'm good for it—!"

Krevyr shifted just barely, arms still folded against his chest, watching like this was nothing more than morning entertainment. He didn't blink.

The collar sparked again. My spine went stiff. A tiny jolt to remind me who I belonged to. As if I could ever forget.

Victor, ever the theatrical bastard, looked down like he'd just stepped in something sticky. "Really now?" he drawled, brushing invisible lint off his pants. "You're going to get your sweat on me."

Then he kicked.

Right into the man's chest.

The buyer let out a choked yelp as he crashed into a table. Bottles shattered, a chair tipped. I didn't flinch. My eyes just followed the motion like I was tracking a fly.

"Disgusting," Victor muttered, dabbing his leg like the man had bled filth on him.

Then Ryke came back in, dragging something.

Something dripping.

It was a head.

Fresh.

Hair matted with blood, eyes frozen in shock. Ryke tossed it right onto the buyer's lap like a fucking appetizer. The man screamed, stumbling back as the head rolled off onto the floor with a wet thud.

Victor didn't even turn. "Ah. Was that the assassin he had waiting for us?"

Ryke nodded, grinning with way too much joy. "Yep. Hiding in his supply carriage. Didn't even last three seconds."

The man looked up, pale as death, hands shaking like he'd just touched the grave.

"You—you can't do this," he stammered, scrambling to his feet. "I came with a—a legion! I have men! Armed! I—"

Victor snorted. "And now they're either dead or pissing themselves in the woods."

The buyer's face twisted. Rage bubbled under all that fear. He reached into his coat and flung a dagger.

Straight. At. Me.

I saw it coming.

Slow. Almost elegant. The blade spun through the air like it had all the time in the world.

Do I dodge? Let it hit? Maybe it'll end this hellhole once and for all…

But before I could even decide—

KLANG.

Krevyr moved.

His hand shot up midair, catching the blade like it was a leaf on the breeze. Blood dripped from his palm, but he didn't even flinch. He just looked at it. Let it fall. Stepped back.

"You missed," he said, voice flat, like we were discussing the weather.

The man snapped.

"You think this is over?! I've got assassins ready to strike—you're already dead, Victor! You hear me?! DEAD! You smug, arrogant—"

Victor and Ryke both laughed. Not a chuckle. Full-on cackling.

"Oh gods," Victor said, wiping a tear. "You actually thought this was going to work."

Ryke was wheezing. "Best. Joke. Ever."

Then Victor snapped his fingers.

And everything went to hell.

The shadows on the floor twisted. Rose. Black tendrils slithered up like serpents made of ink and hatred, hissing as they moved.

The buyer bolted.

Straight for the door.

And slammed face-first into nothing.

He bounced off it like a toy, crashing backward, blood pouring from his nose. The air shimmered, warping. I didn't need to ask—I could feel it.

Krevyr's magic.

It crawled along my skin like frost. Cold. Patient. Thick like oil, but clean. Always clean. Always controlled. That was his curse. His gift.

"Please!" the buyer screamed, pounding at the invisible wall. "Victor, I BEG YOU—mercy! I didn't mean it—I didn't know!"

Krevyr leaned on the wall next to me like he had all the time in the world. "You were going to kill us," he said, voice devoid of any emotion. "I don't call that mercy."

The man collapsed again, hands out, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Please! I have family—I was desperate—please!"

Victor smiled. Offered his hand.

The man took it. Hope bloomed in his eyes.

Then—

CRRRUNCH.

The sound of bone being violated.

The man froze.

Blood burst from his chest as black tendrils erupted from beneath him—spikes that pierced through him from every angle, lifting him off the ground like a marionette of gore.

I flinched. Just slightly. The sound hit too close. Too familiar.

He tried to speak. Mouth twitching, bubbling with blood.

Victor stepped back. Snapped again.

The tendrils retracted, slithering back into his shadow.

The body dropped.

Limp.

Motionless.

And the floor soaked it all up like it was hungry for it.

I didn't say a word. Didn't move.

I just watched the blood crawl toward my boots and thought—

He begged too soon.

"Now the floor's all stained," Ryke muttered as he slumped into his chair, propping one leg over the other with exaggerated annoyance. "Who knew this was going to end in a bloody encounter?"

"You did," Krevyr replied from my right, voice cool, and eyes half-lidded like none of this surprised him. "I gave you the info yesterday."

Ryke's head snapped toward him with a glare sharp enough to crack bone. "You always know when to ruin the mood, huh?" he snapped, twirling in his chair like a child denied a treat.

He spun lazily in his chair, muttering curses beneath his breath. I didn't waste a second on him. My eyes locked on Victor, who stood calmly dusting off his gloves, a smug curl teasing the corner of his mouth. He looked proud. Proud of what he'd done. As if painting the room in someone's blood was just another item checked off his list.

"So much for effort put in," Victor finally spoke, hands folding behind his back with the grace of a man who believed himself untouchable.

The room reeked of iron and magic—thick and cloying, wrapping around me like poisoned air. The cuffs bit into my skin, the collar warm against my throat, not from heat but the way they pulsed with tethered magic. My knees buckled slightly, still stiff from being forced to stand too long.

I took a step toward the stairwell, hoping to disappear into the cellar—anywhere but here.

"And where do you think you're going, brat?"

Ryke's voice cracked across the room like a whip. I paused mid-step, casting a sideways glance over my shoulder.

"Aren't slaves supposed to satisfy their masters?" he added, smirking.

The gall.

 "If I recall," I rasped, throat dry from disuse, "I'm bound to him." I nodded at Victor. "Not to the likes of you."

Ryke's grin twisted into something vile—like a devil trying to mimic amusement but failing, because all that oozed out was rot. He stood, lazy but sharp. "Ohh, so the pretty doll's finally talking back." He stalked closer. "Where was that voice when I made you scream the other night?"

Memories surged—flashes of pain, of fingers pressing too tight, of bruises I still hadn't counted. I buried them before they consumed me.

"Maybe next time," he whispered, leaning close, "I'll go for your throat. Without it, maybe you'll finally shut up."

I held still. Not out of fear. Out of control. I will not give him the satisfaction.

Then I stepped forward again.

A hand clamped down on my shoulder and yanked me backward with brutal force. My back slammed against the stone wall, the air whooshing out of my lungs. Ryke pressed in close, both hands now on my shoulders, fingers squeezing so hard I felt his nails pierce skin.

I met his eyes—close enough to count the flecks of old blood in them. That hideous scar carved from brow to chin was clearer now, almost like it was mocking me too.

"Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you," he hissed, breathe hot and sour with liquor and meat gone bad.

"You're not talking," I said, voice low, dry. "You're just throwing up words and calling it conversation."

Behind him, Krevyr stood still, arms folded, watching. He didn't speak, but the way he ruffled his hair—a quiet, consistent tick—I knew he was ready to act.

Ryke's grip tightened, his nails digging deeper until pain bloomed under my skin.

"You fuckin' with me, bitch?"

I fought the twitch at the corner of my mouth. Not a flinch. A smirk.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare."

His lip curled in a snarl. "Maybe I should've taken out your windpipe last time."

I tilted my head. "Oh?" I said, mocking.

Kaya, don't.

"Is that what you said to my mother…"

You're going to die.

"…right before she took your eye?"

I saw the fire ignite in him before he even moved. His fist drew back, ready to swing.

"BITCH!"

The wind shifted before his hand came down.

Crack.

Krevyr appeared like a ghost—smooth and silent—his hand clamped around Ryke's wrist mid-swing. The other boy's grip on my shoulder faltered. I staggered slightly, heart thudding.

Their eyes locked. Ryke's furious, wild. Krevyr's... blank.

"You defending this bitch?" Ryke snarled, jerking against his grip. "Let go of me!"

"Yeah. And if I hadn't, she'd have an imprint of your temper on her face," Krevyr replied, monotone.

"You don't get to tell me what to do!"

Ryke slapped his hand away. That... stunned me. Not because it hurt Krevyr—but because he did it.

Krevyr stepped between us.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said again, eyes narrowing slightly. "Unless you want to spend the night at the infirmary… back off."

His voice rose—a warning sign. Even Ryke knew it.

But the bastard didn't listen.

Maroon flames erupted from Ryke's fists, spiraling around his arms like demonic snakes. He lunged forward, hurling a blast at Krevyr.

"ENOUGH. BOTH OF YOU!"

Victor's roar shattered the air like a divine judgment. Even my cuffs tightened as if bowing to his tone.

Ryke froze, the flames dissipating inches from Krevyr's chest. Krevyr hadn't even moved. Hands still by his side, like he knew Victor would stop it all.

Victor turned from the window, expression unreadable. "Acting like children, the both of you."

He stalked into the room again, voice calm. Dangerous.

"Ryke, clean up this mess. Then go handle the rest of our guest's crew."

Ryke dropped his arms, shoulders twitching with resentment. He grumbled under his breath, then turned to me—eyes full of promise. Next time. I just smirked at him.

He slammed the door on his way out.

I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Krevyr stepped back toward the wall.

"And you, Krevyr," Victor called again, "go retrieve the supplies."

Krevyr nodded, wordless, already turning toward the exit.

Finally. A moment alone. A chance to sink back into the silence of the cellar and rot like the dust they kept me buried under. Maybe even end it—because death felt kinder than this life.

But—

"Take Kaya with you."

I stopped dead. My spine locked. I turned to Victor, confusion knitting between my brows. Even Krevyr paused, brows slightly lifted in surprise.

"Let her breathe a little," Victor said. His voice had softened, mockingly kind. "She's still human, isn't she?"

Krevyr blinked, wary. "That's not the case, boss. Don't want to argue with your call but…" He scratched the back of his neck, hair ruffling again. "You think this is wise?"

Victor turned slightly, smiling with that same poisonous charm.

"I never make unwise decisions."

Victor chuckled—a bone-deep, spine-pricking sound that slithered under my skin like maggots in a festering wound.

"Is it wise?" he mused aloud. "She could escape if the opportunity presents itself…"

He paused, just for dramatic effect.

"…As long as those things are on her."

As if on cue, the cuffs tightened around my wrists and neck, flaring hot with magic. They burned—vicious and personal. I winced, biting down the hiss that clawed its way up my throat.

"There's no way in hell she can hide."

He said it like a joke. Like he was proud of it.

Like I wasn't standing right here.

Every word made me want to sink a blade into his throat and twist. My hands itched with the phantom of a dagger. My pulse pounded like a war drum. But instead of acting on it, I just stood still. Seething. Silent. Controlled. That was the only power I had left.

I hated him.

No—I despised him. Everything about Victor was a desecration of what it meant to be human. The way he smirked. The way he toyed with people. The way he smiled like pain was a currency and he was filthy rich.

To him, I wasn't even a girl.

I was a product.

A possession.

A slave.

And the word alone made my stomach twist in violent rejection. Slavery. That title branded my soul worse than any magic artifact. I wasn't born to kneel. I wasn't born to be shackled. I was Kaya Ashworth—an Archathor by blood, a daughter by love, and I swore on the grave of my mother that one day I'd be the one standing over his broken body.

"Besides, you with her" He added

"Okay then," Krevyr said, motioning toward the door.

I clenched my fists and rolled my shoulders—still sore from Ryke's grip. The bruises would bloom by morning.

I passed Krevyr without so much as a glance, just wanting to get out of this place, even if it was for a moment. My fingers reached for the door handle.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Victor's voice cut in smoothly behind me, like a serpent coiling around my neck.

Gods, I knew this was coming. I'd known before he opened his smug, serpentine mouth.

"Every time you leave the house, Kaya… what do you have to do?"

He said it with that mock softness he loved to wear when he was being cruel. It made my skin crawl.

I let go of the doorknob slowly. My movements were stiff, mechanical. I turned and walked back to him; feet dragging like every step were a sacrifice. I stopped in front of him and lowered my head slightly.

That should be enough. It should be enough.

"All the way," he said casually, almost humming.

The cuffs flared again, heat searing into my neck and wrists. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

Slowly—deliberately—I dropped to my knees.

Forehead pressed against the floor.

Wooden splinters pierced my skin.

The position was demeaning. Dehumanizing. And worst of all... familiar.

Behind my closed eyes, the memories stirred—ugly, violent, true.

My fingers twitched, digging into the floorboards, gouging shallow lines into the wood.

But it wasn't Ryke's face I saw.

It was hers.

"Mother crumpled, face-first, collapsing hard in front of us.

"Mother!" I screamed, grabbing her hand. Naial shrieked, clinging to her other arm.

"Please—wake up—don't—Mother, please!"

Her bloody hand lifted weakly, brushing my cheek. Then Naial's. She tried to smile.

Gurgled blood filled her throat.

I shook her harder. I didn't care how it looked. I wanted her to move.

She looked at us both... and mouthed one word. One fragile word:

Run.

Her hand dropped.

Her body stilled.

And her eyes... faded.

I slammed my fists against the floor, hard enough to dent the wood. My breath was ragged. I couldn't look at him. Not yet.

"Wonderful," Victor chuckled behind me. That chuckle again, like applause after a performance. Disgusting.

I raised my head slowly, stood to my full height. My body trembled—not with fear, but with the fury of a thousand broken promises. I looked him dead in the eyes, and for a moment... I felt nothing.

"When I get out of here," I said, my voice cold and steady, fists clenched, "my face will be the last thing you see, Victor."

The cuffs responded violently—shocking me hard. I winced but didn't back down. My eyes didn't leave his.

Victor stepped closer, breath brushing my ear as he whispered, "I didn't hear that. Mind saying it again?"

I gritted my teeth and forced my lips into a tight smile. "It was nothing… Master Victor."

I turned every step screaming restraint. The longer I stayed here, the more likely I was to kill him. My hand reached again for the door.

Krevyr silently stepped aside. The room's stench hit harder now—blood, rot, alcohol, and smug superiority.

"And Kaya," Victor called casually.

I gave him a side glance, already imagining his head split in two.

"I would love to see that day."

I didn't answer.

I just opened the door... and walked out.