The sound wasn't a gentle awakening; it was an invasion. It tore through the thin veil of sleep, a grating, familiar roar that scraped against the inside of my skull.
"TREVOR! WAKE UP AND BRING YOUR LAZY ASS OUT HERE!"
John's voice, perpetually hoarse from a lifetime of shouting orders, was the only alarm clock I'd ever known. I groaned, the sound lost in the scratchy straw of my pallet. A bed, they called it. It was a joke. A thin blanket offered little protection from the hard-packed earth beneath, and every morning I awoke with a new constellation of aches painted across my back and shoulders.
Why does the old fool have to be such a morning person? I thought, pushing myself up. The pre-dawn chill seeped through the cracks in the wooden shed I called a room. Seven years. Seven years of this. Back home a place that felt more like a dream with each passing season this would be a crime. Child labor. Here, in the world of Nepheliem, it was just the natural order. A rule written not in ink, but in blood and the cold, unforgiving clink of chains.
I pulled on my worn tunic and trousers, the coarse fabric rubbing raw against my skin. My boots were falling apart, the soles thin enough to feel every pebble. I was a slave of House Eldoria, and my uniform was decay.
Dragging my feet through the dewy grass, I found John waiting, arms crossed over his barrel chest, a smug smirk plastered on his face. He stood beside a monstrosity of granite, a boulder three times my size, jagged and imposing.
"Ah, there you are, Trevor," he said with mock delight, his voice dripping with false cheer. "About time. Hurry up and move this stone. And once you're done, you'll be serving breakfast to Duke Aamon and Lady Elena. They have important guests. Don't keep them waiting."
I stared at the boulder, then at him. My face must have been a canvas of pure, exhausted disbelief. Seriously? But I had learned, through years of harsh lessons, to keep my mouth shut. Talking back only added extra chores, or worse, a lash from John's whip. Silence was my only armor.
With a tired sigh that fogged in the cool air, I approached the massive rock. The earth around it was churned up from where it had landed, a recent and unwelcome addition to the estate's perimeter. I planted my feet, feeling the familiar hum of strength that always answered my call, a dormant river of power waiting to be tapped. My fingers, calloused and dirty, curled under its jagged edge.
In a world where legends could lift mountains and bend steel with their bare hands, my own strength felt like a cruel joke. I was barely a whisper among giants. Just a boy who had seen too much, forced to serve those who would never see him as anything more than property a tool with a pulse.
But I moved the stone. Just like I always did.
The muscles in my back and legs coiled and erupted. With a grunt that was torn from the depths of my being, I heaved. The boulder shifted, then lifted, its immense weight a familiar burden. I carried it across the field, my boots sinking into the soft earth, and with a final, explosive heave, I hurled it deep into the forest near the city walls. The crash of splintering trees echoed back at me, a satisfying testament to the deed done.
By the time I trudged back to the main estate, the sun had climbed, painting the sky in hues of gold and orange. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead and my tunic to my skin. The gravel of the main path crunched wearily beneath my worn boots. As I approached the manor's rear garden, I stopped short.
Where there had once been an immaculate display of roses and sculpted hedges, there was now a catastrophe. A crater, large enough to swallow a carriage, dominated the space. The earth was raw and exposed, surrounded by the tragic, colorful confetti of crushed flowers and uprooted shrubs.
And there, standing amidst the roses and ruin, was Duke Aamon himself.
My master cut an imposing figure. His long, dark coat fluttered just slightly in the morning breeze, and his sharp, aristocratic features were set in an expression of calm observation. He turned as I approached, his eyes missing nothing.
"Ah, Trevor, there you are," he said, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his immaculate cuff. His voice was a low, controlled baritone. "My father has been expecting you for a while now, but I figured you were still out dealing with that damn boulder."
He gestured with a languid hand toward the devastation. "Gods know where it came from. A meteorite, perhaps. It fell last night. Shook the entire west wing. Destroyed half the garden. My father nearly had a fit."
He turned fully to me, and his expression tightened, a minute contraction of the muscles around his eyes that I had learned to recognize as impatience. "I need you to fetch a mage. Someone competent. Someone who can fix this before the guests arrive. We're expecting visitors from the capital today, and the last thing I want is for them to see this... this disaster."
His tone then shifted, dropping lower, becoming almost thoughtful, as if he were confiding in me. It was a dangerous tone. It often preceded requests that were anything but simple.
"You might recognize one of them... Sir Victor Morley. He's an old friend. Or used to be." Aamon's lips thinned. "Presents himself as the kindest soul you'll ever meet. Speaks with the voice of a poet, charms the birds from the trees. But don't let that fool you."
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the morning light catching a flicker of cold disdain in their depths. "I know what kind of man he truly is."
He paused, letting the unspoken warning hang in the fragrant, ruined air between us. Then, with a dismissive wave, he was all business again. "Anyway, go. Find the mage. I want this garden spotless before noon."
Without another word, he turned and strolled back toward the manor, leaving me alone with the shattered earth and the heavy, sweet scent of crushed roses.
The city of Craterhelm was already bustling by the time I navigated its cobbled streets. I knew where to find her. Jessica wasn't part of the stuffy, official Mages' Guild; she operated out of a small, cluttered apothecary near the merchant's quarter, where the smell of herbs and ozone always clung to the air.
I found her grinding something luminous in a mortar, her silver-blonde hair tied back hastily, her sharp eyes focused on her work.
"The Duke requires your services," I said, my voice formal, the way you had to speak when delivering a summons, even to an independent mage.
She looked up, a wry smile touching her lips. "Another crisis, Trevor? What is it this time? Haunted silverware? A cursed rosebush?"
"Crater. In the main garden."
Her eyebrows rose. "Interesting. Lead the way."
A while later, we stood before the ruin. Jessica didn't gasp or murmur prayers. She simply assessed the damage, her sharp eyes calculating the scope of the work. She rolled up the sleeves of her simple tunic, took a deep breath, and began.
There was no grand spectacle, no shouted words of power. Just a single, fluid motion of her hands and a murmured incantation that sounded like a sigh on the wind. The air shimmered. The raw, torn earth rippled like water, smoothing out, rising up, until the crater was simply… gone. The scattered soil flew back into place. The crushed flowers straightened, their petals re-knitting, their colors deepening back to vibrant life. The stone pathways gleamed as if freshly laid. The garden wasn't just repaired; it was perfected, more pristine than it had been even before the impact.
I stood frozen, awe-struck. Magic wasn't new to me I'd seen parlor tricks and battlefield blasts but this, the precision, the effortless restoration, was something else entirely. It was art.
Jessica turned toward me, brushing that stray strand of silver-blonde hair behind her ear. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, the only sign of the immense energy she had just channeled. She gave a small, tired smile.
"There you go, Trevor," she said. "The Eldoria estate garden is spotless. Better than new."
Then her tone shifted, becoming casual, yet laced with something heavier, something old and bitter.
"You know," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the flawless roses and manicured hedges, "it's a tragedy, really. The Eldorias love to act like saints now, parading around in their finery. But half of their clan was wiped out by the Kingsleys in the war and the other half? Torn to pieces by demons. And now, the few who remain, they get to be nobles. Celebrated as heroes."
She shook her head, a gesture of profound disgust. "What a shame."
I looked at her, curiosity stirring. Her words were treasonous, but her tone wasn't one of anger. It was one of grief. Something about it didn't quite match.
"What do you think of the Kingsleys, Jessica?" I asked, the question leaving my lips before I could reconsider.
She crossed her arms, her expression tightening as if confronting a bad memory. "Dark mages were never seen as good people, Trevor. They were feared. Hated. Rightly so, in many cases. But they weren't monsters. At least, not all of them."
She exhaled slowly, a long breath that seemed to carry the weight of years. "They saved lives. More than people care to admit. Their leader, Richard Kingsley… he was a legend. A saint in his own right. He held the demon line at Blackpass for three weeks alone. Three weeks. He saved entire regions from being swallowed."
Then her voice turned hard and bitter, and she gestured sharply toward the pristine manor house. "But they, these cowards, they attacked in the dead of night. No challenge, no honor. They wiped the Kingsleys off the face of this planet in one ambush. They didn't just kill soldiers. They killed children. Innocents. They burned their libraries, erased their history."
I swallowed hard. Something about the way she said children sent a cold spike through my chest, a phantom pain for a loss I couldn't name.
Jessica looked at me again, her expression softening slightly, as if she remembered who she was talking to.
"But remember this, Trevor, the Kingsleys were still dark mages. They weren't saints. They lived like liches with skin, powerful, secretive, and, yes, sometimes cruel. Especially to the people of Sylvaris. But to their own? They were protectors. Family."
She paused, then placed a firm, grounding hand on my shoulder. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Look around you," she said, her voice low and intent. "Nepheliem is a mystery that will never be solved. Its history is a tapestry woven with blood and shadow. No one's hands are clean. Not mine, not yours, not theirs."
She gave my shoulder a light shake, ensuring her words sank in. And for a moment, I saw something profound in her eyes a weight, a memory, a wound. One she hadn't healed from either.
The sun was at its zenith when the estate gates finally creaked open, the sound echoing through the perfectly restored courtyard. I stood at my assigned post, off to the side near the rose arbor, hands clasped behind my back, doing my best impression of a piece of furniture.
A small procession entered, a splash of color and steel against the grey stone. Finely-dressed nobles on elegant horses, flanked by armored knights whose polished plate gleamed. They bore the golden insignia of the Crown's Emblem a lion with wings, a symbol of authority that stretched from the capital to the farthest reaches of the kingdom.
At the center rode the man I'd been warned about.
Sir Victor Morley was tall and lean, with ash-gray hair swept back from a sharp, intelligent face. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue, scanned the courtyard with practiced efficiency. His smile was wide and polished, a perfect tool that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He dismounted with an effortless, theatrical grace. His cloak, a deep midnight blue, shimmered with intricate silver embroidery that spoke of unimaginable wealth. Remarkably, his tall boots didn't carry a single speck of dust from the long journey.
Duke Aamon awaited him, regal and composed in his dark robes. And beside him, like a diamond set against velvet, stood Lady Elena.
My breath caught, as it always did. At seventeen, she was the jewel of the estate, her beauty matched only by her grace. Her hair, the color of winter sunlight, was swept up in an elegant style, and her gown of pale blue silk mirrored the stormy shade of her eyes. Those eyes now flicked over the arriving guests with a cool, calculating politeness that was every bit her father's daughter.
Victor approached, his smile widening. "Duke Aamon," he said smoothly, his voice a rich, mellifluous baritone designed to charm. "It's been far too long. The estate is just as magnificent as I remember, perhaps more so now that Lady Elena is grown." His gaze swept over her, appreciative but overly familiar.
Aamon nodded politely, though his smile was a tight, controlled line. "You flatter us, Sir Victor. Welcome to Craterhelm. I trust your journey from the capital was uneventful?"
Victor laughed, a warm, practiced sound. "Dull as ever. I was hoping for a rogue mage or a bandit attack to spice things up, but alas, only boring countryside and good weather."
Elena stepped forward, her tone polite but impeccably distant. "We've prepared your quarters, Sir Morley. I hope you find them comfortable."
"I'm sure I will," Victor replied, his gaze lingering on her for a heartbeat too long before turning back to Aamon. "And I must say, your hospitality is as grand as your reputation."
From my post, I watched it all, Jessica's warning echoing in my head like a drumbeat. He talks sweet, but I know what kind of man he is.
As the household servants scurried forward to take cloaks and lead horses away, Victor's eyes continued their scan of the courtyard. They swept past statues, over manicured hedges, and then they landed on me.
He paused. It was just a moment, a fleeting hitch in his otherwise seamless performance. But it was long enough. Something flickered in his gaze a spark of recognition, or perhaps intense curiosity. It was the look a collector gives an unfamiliar, but potentially valuable, artifact.
"Who's the boy?" he asked casually, gesturing toward me with a flick of his be-ringed fingers.
Duke Aamon barely glanced in my direction, his attention already moving on to the next noble dismounting. "Just a servant. No one of importance."
Victor didn't respond right away. His eyes stayed on me, probing, assessing. For a brief, terrifying second, I felt like prey under a hawk's unwavering stare. He saw the dirt on my clothes, the weariness in my posture, but I feared he saw something else, something deeper.
Then the polished smile returned. "Well, he looks sharp. Good help is so hard to come by these days."
I kept my head bowed, my heart thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn't know if Victor Morley knew who I was, or what I was but for a moment, it had felt like he was looking at a ghost.
The days that followed were a strange, tense blur. Sir Victor Morley, I learned through the servants' gossip, was a man who had spent decades building a vast fortune, traveling across continents and seas. From humble origins in the very heart of Nepheliem, he had risen to become one of the wealthiest and most respected merchants in the capital, his influence weaving through every guild hall and trade route.
The capital. The very word sparked a dull ache of a dream I'd never dared to fully entertain. A city of glimmering spires and endless opportunity, crowned by the Royal Magic Academy. It was where the gifted honed their power, where destinies were carved from will and wonder. Elena, they whispered, would be leaving soon to attend. It was her birthright.
And whenever I heard her name, Elena, a different ache, a warmer one, stirred in my chest. What a woman she was. Kind where her father was cold, graceful under pressure, and possessed of a quiet strength that belied her noble upbringing. She was the only soul in this entire estate who ever looked at me and seemed to see a person, not a tool. She would ask me how I was, her voice devoid of condescension. She once offered me a cloth to wipe the grime from my face after a long day. Small things, but to me, they were everything.
Because I loved her. I loved the sound of her laugh, the thoughtful way she bit her lip when reading, the unexpected kindness in her stormy blue eyes. To me, she was perfection itself, a star I could never reach, but whose light made the darkness of my existence bearable.
"Oi, Trevor! Stop your dawdling and get over here this instant! The stables won't muck themselves!" John's voice was a bucket of cold water, always perfectly timed to shatter any fragile dream.
And so, the work went on. Sir Victor remained in the house for seven days, and each day his attention felt more focused, more intense. At first, I told myself it was my imagination, a paranoia born of Jessica's warning. But soon, I could no longer deny it. During a demonstration of arms for the guests, I was ordered to move training dummies solid oak posts weighted with stone bases. I lifted and carried them two at a time as if they were kindling. Victor was watching, his eyes alight with interest.
Another day, a spooked horse broke loose in the courtyard, charging toward a group of visiting ladies. I moved without thinking, a burst of speed that carried me across the gravel faster than anyone could follow, my hand snapping out to grab the bridle and bring the massive beast to a shuddering halt. The thunder of my footsteps seemed to hang in the air for a moment after. Victor was standing on the terrace, watching. Not at the horse, not at the frightened women. At me.
He was fascinated by my strength, my speed. To me, it was simply survival, the only thing that made me useful enough to be fed. To him, it was clearly something more. A curiosity. A potential asset.
But what did I know of assets? I'd been a slave here for as long as my memory stretched. I have vague, dreamlike impressions of before a woman's voice, perhaps? A feeling of safety? But I was so young, maybe three, when I was first brought to this place. Who my mother was, or my father I never knew. That absence was a hollow space inside me, a question with no answer, a silent scream that echoed in the quiet moments of the night.
The end of the week found me on my knees in the grand hall, a bucket of soapy water by my side, a scrub brush in my hand. The air smelled of lemon oil and polished stone, a place where every whisper seemed to be amplified by the high, vaulted ceilings. I was a part of the scenery, invisible. It was the best position to overhear conversations.
Two figures paused near the large eastern window, their shadows stretching long in the late afternoon light.
"Duke Aamon," Victor Morley's voice was smooth as silk, the merchant's cadence back in full force. "I have spent the last week watching one of your slaves with great interest. Remarkable physical prowess. His strength is unnatural. His speed, breathtaking. I would be a fool to ignore such a unique talent. I'd like to purchase him."
The brush stilled in my hand. My blood ran cold.
Aamon's reply was low, a knife sheathed in velvet. "Purchase? You speak as if he were an ox or a fine stallion. This one is different. He has been in my household since he was a child. Loyal. Thoroughly broken in. He serves my purposes quite well."
"Indeed, he seems devoted," Victor conceded, though his tone suggested he saw that as a flaw to be corrected. "But I am prepared to make an offer worthy of your great house. Gold, obviously. Gemstones from the Veiled Mountains. Exclusive contracts with the Merchant's Collective of Sylvaris whatever you name. His abilities are wasted on menial labor. In the right hands, he could be molded into something truly valuable."
My hands began to tremble, the brush shaking against the marble. I kept my head down, my hair falling over my face. Valuable? To be spoken of as a weapon, a thing to be molded, rather than a boy forced to scrub floors, made something sick and dark twist inside my gut.
Aamon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound of amusement. "You bargain well, merchant. You always have. But some possessions hold a value that transcends coin. He is mine. A piece of my household. And mine he shall remain." He let the silence hang for a deliberate moment. "Unless"
The word was a hook, baited and dropped into still water.
Victor's silence was eager. Listening.
"Unless," Aamon continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper I had to strain to hear, "you can prove that your offer exceeds even my considerable imagination."
The silence that stretched between them was thick and heavy with unspoken implications. My heart pounded a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. I was no longer just a slave going about his day. I was a coin on a table, a card in a hand, a pawn suddenly aware of the players looming above the board. For the first time, I felt the immense, invisible forces of power and greed beginning to pull at the chains of my fate, testing their strength.
The silence in the grand hall was broken only by the soft, final click of Duke Aamon's signet ring against the parchment. The deed was done. The negotiations, conducted over fine wine in closed chambers, had concluded. I had not been present to hear my price, but the hushed, awe-struck whispers among the other servants spoke of a sum so vast it could have purchased a small duchy.
I was given no time for goodbyes. My world the dusty shed, the backbreaking labor, the fleeting glimpses of Elena was stripped from me in an instant. John tossed my meager bundle of belongings at my feet with a grunt of disdain. There was no farewell, only the satisfaction of a man who'd finally sold a troublesome piece of livestock.
Sir Victor's manner was brisk, efficient. He watched as I was fitted with new, heavier manacles, not of crude iron, but of cold, polished steel. They were a statement. This was not a mere change of ownership; it was an upgrade to a more secure prison.
The journey to the capital was a blur of dust, jolting carriage wheels, and the oppressive weight of Victor's silence. He spent most of the ride studying ledgers or gazing out at the passing countryside, treating me with the absent-minded consideration one would afford a newly acquired hunting dog. Yet, I could feel his occasional glance, a scientist observing a fascinating specimen in its cage.
We arrived as the sun began to set, painting the sky in fiery hues behind the city's immense silhouette. The capital was not just a city; it was a living, breathing entity of roaring crowds, clattering commerce, and towering spires that pierced the clouds. The air itself was different thick with the smells of spices, forge-smoke, and a thousand different lives intersecting. It was overwhelming, a sensory assault that made the quiet oppression of Craterhelm seem simple by comparison.
Victor's city residence was not a manor but a fortress of commerce, a stark, imposing structure of dark stone that stood apart from the more elegant noble houses. It was built for security, not beauty. He led me inside, past armed guards who nodded with silent deference, and into a spartan, windowless chamber deep within the building's heart. The door was reinforced iron.
"This is where you will stay when not being of use," Victor stated, his voice echoing slightly in the barren room. There was a simple cot and a bucket. Nothing more. "Your strength is a curious anomaly, boy. A tool without a craftsman. Here, you will learn purpose."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at me. The merchant's charm was entirely absent, replaced by a cold, analytical sharpness.
"The world believes the Kingsleys were monsters, their dark magic a blight to be cleansed," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "But power is never so simple. It is a river. It can irrigate a field or drown a city. The only sin is to let it flow unused, or worse, to let fools try to dam it."
He looked me up and down, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, not kindness, but a hungry, possessive curiosity.
"You, Trevor, are a very unexpected tributary. We will see where your river flows."
The iron door clanged shut, the lock engaging with a final, deafening thud. The silence of the cell was absolute, broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing. I was alone, chained in the belly of a stranger's fortress, in the heart of a city that knew nothing of me. The familiar weight of servitude was still there, but its nature had changed. I was no longer a laborer. I was an investment. And I had just heard my new owner speak the name Kingsley not with hatred, but with the tone of a man discussing a lost masterpiece. The game had changed, and I was utterly unprepared for the rules.