"What do you want from the boy?"
Nikolai did not answer at once. He studied Aster the way one studies a blade. Not for beauty, but for balance.
"I keep what proves useful," he said at last. "Those who bite when cornered. Those who don't beg."
A low murmur crept through the chamber.
"Then it is decided," the Black-Veiled Judge intoned. "A binding decree."
Chains screamed as Aster jerked upright.
"Binding?" His voice cracked once, then steadied. "You mean ownership."
The word landed hard.
The jury erupted, whispers ricocheting across stone walls. Even the Judge stiffened as Nikolai rose and descended the steps, boots echoing like a countdown.
"You misunderstand," Nikolai said calmly. "Ownership implies carelessness. This is custody."
"I don't even know you," Aster snapped.
Nikolai stopped an arm's length away. His presence pressed in, heavy as a closing gate.
"You know what I am," he replied. "And that is enough."
He turned, addressing the court as if Aster were already a sealed matter.
"Three outcomes were placed before him. Exile, where he dies slowly. Execution, where he dies honestly." A pause. "Or service under my name, where he lives and is watched."
Aster felt the weight of every eye. His life reduced to columns in a ledger.
"You will stand as proof," Nikolai continued. "Proof that the crown is merciful. And that mercy has a price."
Silence followed. Thick. Expectant.
"I have a request," Aster said suddenly.
That did it. Gasps flared like sparks.
Nikolai turned back, eyebrow lifting. "You are persistent."
"Let me see my family," Aster said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "Let them be fed. Let them be untouched by whatever punishment you plan for me."
For the first time, Nikolai hesitated. Not long. Just enough for everyone to notice.
"Very well," he said. "They will be protected. Provided you remain… cooperative."
The Judge struck the floor with the staff.
"Let it be recorded. The boy lives. Bound to the crown."
The chains were unlocked.
Not removed.
Aster straightened anyway. If his life was a currency now, he would spend it carefully.
Nikolai watched him with something close to approval.
"Welcome," he said quietly, "to the part of the world where survival is never free."
As he was guided out of the hall by Nikolai, Aster suddenly snapped. He grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the stone wall, the impact echoing down the corridor.
"What are you planning, huh?" Aster hissed. "Look, I appreciate what you did for me, but binding me to you like that? Are you sick, Your Majesty?"
For a moment, Nikolai only laughed. Low. Almost curious. He seemed more entertained than offended, as if testing the weight of Aster's anger.
"So that fire wasn't for show," he said lightly. "Good."
With a sharp twist, Nikolai broke free from Aster's grip. In the same motion, he wrenched Aster's arm behind his back, pinning him in place with practiced ease. The corridor suddenly felt much narrower.
"That," Nikolai said quietly near his ear, "is not how you speak to someone who just rewrote your ending."
Aster clenched his jaw, refusing to cry out. "You call this saving me?"
"I call it control," Nikolai replied. "Without it, you'd be a corpse by sunset."
He released Aster abruptly, stepping back as if the struggle had meant nothing. Guards shifted uneasily nearby, unsure whether to intervene.
"You live because I chose you," Nikolai continued, voice cold now. "And as long as you stand under my name, you will do exactly that. Live."
He straightened his coat and turned away.
"Learn the difference between a cage and a shield," he said over his shoulder. "It may be the only reason you survive what comes next."
"Make him presentable to stand in front of my mother," Nikolai ordered.
Aster scoffed. "What's wrong with how I look now?"
Nikolai glanced at him once, sharp and assessing. "You look like you survived three full-on wars," he said bluntly. "And lost all of them."
Before Aster could snap back, hands were already on him. Not rough, not gentle. Efficient. He was ushered away like a task already scheduled.
Food was placed in front of him first. Real food. Hot, rich, unfamiliar. He ate because his body demanded it, not because he trusted it.
Then came the clothes. The bath. The scrubbing that stripped away weeks of dust, old blood, and the unmistakable scent of the streets. Water darkened as it ran off him. Powder followed, sharp and floral, clinging to his skin like a lie.
When they were done, the street rat was gone.
In the mirror stood someone else entirely.
White-collared fabric framed his neck. Satin trousers fell clean and precise, untouched by dirt or desperation. At his chest, a brooch of black emerald caught the light, dark and polished, unmistakably royal.
He looked unreal. Like a character pulled from a novel and dressed by someone who had never known hunger.
Aster stared.
His stomach twisted.
"This isn't me," he muttered.
All he could feel was disgust. Not at the reflection itself, but at how easily the world had decided he could be remade. How quickly misery could be washed away and replaced with silk, as if suffering were just a costume change.
He was presented in the throne room by the Queen herself.
The doors opened without a sound.
Light spilled across marble floors veined with gold, climbing the pillars and settling around the throne like a held breath. Aster had seen splendor from a distance before, but this was different. This was weight. History pressed into stone.
And then he saw her.
Queen Eliza rose slowly from the throne.
Up close, she was even more striking. Not sharp like Nikolai, but radiant in a way that felt steady, practiced. Grace shaped her posture, and her gaze carried the calm authority of someone who had survived both war and court. That's where it comes from, Aster thought distantly. That quiet power. Those looks.
Her eyes found him immediately.
She studied him without hurry. Took in the straightness of his spine, the set of his jaw, the way his hands curled and uncurled as if always ready to fight or flee.
Strong, she noted.
Defiant.
Sturdy enough to endure.
Something warm stirred in her chest. Not approval. Not affection. Recognition.
She descended from the throne, each step deliberate. The court fell silent as she stopped in front of him and gently cupped his face, thumbs brushing the faint marks life had carved beneath his eyes. She tilted his head left, then right, inspecting him like one would inspect a blade not yet tested in battle.
His red eyes did not waver.
At last, she nodded.
"I do not know why my son chose you," Queen Eliza said softly. "But you seem… kind."
The word startled him more than any insult could have.
She released his face and sighed, the sound tired but sincere. "Please take care of him. For our sake."
A pause. Then a faint, resigned smile.
"He is unpredictable. Stubborn beyond reason." Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "I hope you can live with that."
She straightened. "Nevertheless, welcome to the royal family."
Aster froze.
No condemnation.
No sermon.
No warning disguised as praise.
He had expected judgment. Instead, it felt as though he had been handed a responsibility he never asked for.
"It is an honor, Your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply.
She waved a hand lightly. "And feel free to scold or bicker with him. We would not blame you." Her expression softened, then sharpened with something like old sadness. "I only hope you stay longer than the others."
Aster's head lifted. "Others?"
A flicker passed through her eyes.
"I tried," she admitted. "Fair maidens. Princesses from allied houses. Brilliant, capable souls." She sighed. "They all left. His attitude drove them away."
"I understand why," Aster muttered before he could stop himself.
The Queen laughed. Not offended. Relieved.
"Still," she said, "it is new for Nikolai to take interest in anyone at all."
Aster swallowed.
He's not interested in me, he thought. Not really. It's just that whatever weight carries… whatever pressure he exerts on others… it doesn't work on me.
Not charm.
Not fear.
Not that oppressive presence Nikolai wears like a crown.
He met the Queen's gaze again, uncertain whether he had just been spared, chosen, or quietly trapped.
Above them, the throne loomed