Kael turned to Arinelle, still watching him like she was counting the ways she could kill him in his sleep.
He clapped his hands, grinning.
"Well, welcome to the team."
Renald sighed again. It was going to be a long week.
Arinelle stood tall, even in chains, even with magic binding her will. Her posture was regal, spine straight, chin lifted as though she still had a title to defend. Her silver hair fell messily over one shoulder, but her eyes—those sharp, violet eyes—held nothing but defiance.
"I will not call you master," she said, every syllable pronounced with the clarity of someone raised to give orders, not obey them.
The room stilled. A few handlers paused mid-step. Even the auctioneer blinked twice, uncertain if this was a prelude to a rebellion—or an execution.
Kael tilted his head, lips twitching with amusement. He stepped a little closer, just enough to cast a casual shadow over her form.
"Then call me honey," he said.
Silence.
Complete, utter silence.
One of the mages dropped his chalk. A nearby slave audibly choked. Somewhere, a rat in the wall reconsidered its life choices.
Arinelle's mouth opened slightly.
"…W-what?" she stammered, eyes wide for the first time since she'd been dragged from her cell.
Kael laughed, the sound light and amused, cutting through the tension like a blade made of audacity.
"Haha, I was joking," he said, waving it off as if they were old friends and not bound by arcane servitude.
"You can call me Kael when we're alone. But during formal meetings—'Master' will save us both a lot of headache. Nobles are allergic to informality. It's a real disease."
The room began to breathe again. The auctioneer let out a discreet cough and mumbled something about "next item." A few slaves rolled their eyes behind their collars.
Arinelle, jaw tight, gave a reluctant nod. It was the smallest motion—but it felt like swallowing shards.
She knew she couldn't refuse. The spell binding her ensured obedience to direct orders. But that didn't mean she had to like it.
And somewhere, buried under all her pride and fury, a darker thought stirred.
If he ever orders me to do something… degrading…
Her fingers clenched.
I'll kill myself before I let him strip away who I am.
Kael, unaware—or perhaps just pretending to be—clapped his hands and turned toward the exit, calling out cheerfully to Renald.
"Let's go, before I end up buying a second one out of boredom."
Behind him, Arinelle followed, her eyes still fixed on his back.
Kael, she thought bitterly. Not "Master." Not in my heart. Not ever.
And yet, her feet moved. The magic compelled her forward.
Her war had begun. Quietly. Invisibly.
But she would find a way to win it.
Arinelle moved toward the rear of the carriage without protest—not because she accepted her station, but because she refused to give him the satisfaction of resistance.
Her pride was already bleeding; no need to let it scream.
But as she reached for the door to the back compartment, Kael's voice cut through the air—calm, almost lazy.
"Sit with me."
She froze.
Even Renald, ever the portrait of dignity, gave an audible choke. The kind that spoke volumes of alarm, etiquette, and a thousand years of noble protocol being violated in one breath.
Arinelle slowly turned, brows furrowed. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"I'm a slave."
Kael gave her a look—tilted slightly, unreadable, something between amusement and calculation.
"And I'm the master, right?" he said, glancing at Renald with mock innocence.
"Isn't that how this works?"
Renald, to his credit, looked like he'd just tasted vinegar.
"Young master… that is highly irregular."
"Irregular," Kael echoed thoughtfully. "So is buying a noble prodigy from a slave auction, but here we are."
He opened the main carriage door himself and gestured with all the smug grace of a man who enjoyed turning social order into a drinking game.
"Come on. You've been paraded like cattle all day. Sit somewhere that doesn't smell like sweat and fear."
Arinelle didn't move at first. Her fists were clenched at her sides.
Every part of her upbringing screamed that this was a trap—mockery in silk gloves.
But then, slowly, she stepped forward and climbed in.
Still proud, even in chains.
Kael slid in beside her, lounging back like he hadn't just shattered a rule of class, culture, and common sense.
Renald shut the door behind them, jaw tight. He muttered something about "a generation lost to chaos" before climbing onto the front bench.
As Renald moved to climb onto the front bench, Kael stopped him with a lazy gesture.
"Actually, get up. I want a private chat with Arinelle."
Renald paused mid-step, turned slowly, and blinked. "...Pardon?"
Kael leaned forward and pulled the carriage door shut with a satisfying click.
"You heard me. Go pretend to be a coachman or something."
Renald opened his mouth to argue—but thought better of it. With a grimace that could curdle milk, he gave a stiff nod and stalked off toward the driver's seat, muttering something about "nobility gone rabid."
Inside the carriage, the moment settled like dust in sunlight.
Kael turned to Arinelle, who sat with her arms crossed, posture ramrod straight and gaze sharp enough to skin fruit.
"Cast a soundproof spell," he said casually.
She arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
"I said cast a soundproof spell. You know, silencio, muteus maximus, whatever fancy school jargon they taught you."
She narrowed her eyes. "And why, exactly, would I do that?"
Kael sighed.
"Do I need to explain basic logic to the academy's former prodigy?"
He leaned back, voice a touch more pointed now.
"If I wanted you to scream, I wouldn't need the spell, would I? I just want to talk without Renald's ears flapping."
Arinelle frowned. "You're either very honest or very stupid."
"Can't I be both?" Kael smiled, then added dryly, "Now, either you cast the spell or I'll have to mime my entire speech, and trust me—my interpretive dance is lethal."
She looked at him for a moment longer, clearly weighing her options.
Then, with a muttered incantation and a flick of her fingers, a shimmer of light briefly encased the carriage interior. The air grew still—too still. Soundproofed.
"There," she said. "Private."
Kael nodded.
"Good. Now, let's talk like two civilized people—one of whom recently bought the other in a public auction. Charming start, really."
Arinelle scoffed.
Kael tilted his head, watching her with a mix of interest and mild suspicion.
"So. Your house fell from grace in… what, a tragic accident involving treason, tax evasion, or did someone forget to bow to the wrong noble?"
Arinelle gave him a flat look.
"False accusation. Entirely orchestrated by House Virell. Bunch of arrogant peacocks with too much money and too little chin."
Kael blinked. "Chin?"
She nodded, eyes dark with offense.
"Have you seen Lord Virell? His profile looks like it was drawn by a drunken toddler. And yet somehow, he convinced the High Court we were trafficking enchanted contraband across borders."
Kael leaned forward, curious. "Enchanted what, exactly?"
"Everything," she said, throwing her hands up. "Potions, scrolls, cursed lingerie—whatever sounded scandalous enough to stick. They made it sound like we were running an underground cabal of horny witches and warlocks."
Kael let out a laugh, rubbing his temple. "Well, you do have the cheekbones for an archvillainess."
Arinelle narrowed her eyes. "If I were guilty, you'd already be a frog."
"Fair point," he said, raising his hands.