The following day, the sun of Terris rose once more with a light that offered no warmth—only a searing bite that baked the skin. Before the towering iron gates of the City Governor's estate in Kenet, Alaric Vane stood rigid. Two guards in polished steel stood watch, their spears glinting in the unforgiving light. They stared at Alaric with hollow eyes, making no move to drive him away as long as the boy in tattered rags did not cross the invisible line of their threshold.
Suddenly, without a single word, Alaric dropped to his knees onto the jagged cobblestones. Thud. The sound of bone meeting stone was dull and heavy. He bowed deeply, his forehead nearly brushing the grime of the street.
"I implore you... let the City Governor hear my plea," his voice was hoarse, yet clear enough to make the two guards flinch in surprise.
They exchanged confused glances. Alaric did not mention "taxes" or the "orphanage." He spoke only of a "plea," a word that sounded alien and naive in a city as decayed as Kenet. His bizarre display immediately drew attention. Passersby began to slow, whispering and pointing with cynical glares. News of a youth "selling his life" before the Governor's gates spread like a plague through every corner of the city.
Two days passed.
Alaric remained. He did not move, he did not eat, and not a single drop of water passed his throat, which now felt as though it were lined with burning embers. The sun scorched him by day, and the biting winds of Kenet's night sought to freeze the very marrow in his bones. The guards had barked at him countless times, telling him to leave before he became a carcass on their doorstep. But Alaric heard nothing. His mind was anchored to a single truth: two months. Two months before his siblings at Gray Cradle lost the only roof over their heads.
On the second day, crowds gathered from a distance. They watched as if Alaric were a pathetic circus attraction. Among the throng, several small children from Gray Cradle appeared. They stared at their eldest brother with wide, terrified eyes. Yet, for reasons unknown, they stood motionless in the distance. None dared approach to offer him water. They only watched in a suffocating, deathly silence.
By the middle of the third day, Alaric's body reached its breaking point. His world began to spin. His legs had been numb since the second night, the nerves seemingly dead, leaving only a hollow, freezing sensation. His vision blurred; the colors of the world melted into a singular, agonizing gray. His consciousness flickered like a dying candle between reality and hallucination.
Suddenly, the heavy groan of the iron gates shattered the silence.
Ten soldiers in full plate armor marched out in unison. They surrounded Alaric, staring at the near-corpse with clinical detachment. Without a word of warning, two soldiers seized Alaric's arms, hoisting him up brutally as if he were nothing more than a worthless slab of meat. Alaric did not resist; he lacked the strength to even groan. The gates slammed shut behind them, leaving the crowd to wonder: had the boy been taken for justice, or for execution?
Inside the City Governor's opulent villa—a place of velvet and marble beyond the imagination of the slum-dwellers—Alaric was dropped without mercy. His body crashed onto the cold lobby floor. Crack. His head slammed against the stone, and he could only manage shallow, ragged breaths. The soldiers departed instantly, as if fearing the "filth" from Alaric's body might stain their armor.
From the grand spiral staircase, the rhythmic click of high heels echoed. Click. Click. Click.
A woman appeared. She wore a gown of deepest black that hugged her silhouette perfectly, providing a blinding contrast to her milk-white skin. Her hair was the color of fresh blood, flowing like frozen fire. But most terrifying were her eyes—bright yellow like the sun, yet possessing pupils sharp and cold. The eyes of a predator looking down at prey already broken.
The woman stopped directly in front of the weakened Alaric. She did not bow her head; she only glanced down, her chin held high. Her expression was a cocktail of bewilderment and pure disgust.
"What is this filth that dares obstruct my path?" her voice was crystalline, yet laced with venom.
"Guard!" she barked. A soldier immediately knelt beside her. "What is this? Why is this creature in my lobby?"
"Report, Lady Governor... this is the one who knelt before the gates for three days," the soldier explained tremulously. "We brought him in under your orders because... reports from the secretary mentioned his presence was beginning to disturb public opinion."
The woman exhaled, looking profoundly annoyed. If not for her nagging secretary and the mountain of reports that would likely be thrown in her face if this "attraction" continued, she would never have permitted this youth to step upon her expensive marble.
Suddenly, she lifted her foot, clad in a sharp, spiked heel. With deliberate intent, she slammed her heel into Alaric's cheek, pinning his face to the marble with shocking force.
"Hey, trash," she snarled, her voice booming through the silent lobby. "If you came here just to sleep on my marble floor, you'd best go home. This is my house, not a shelter for stray animals!"
The sharp pain and the cold pressure of the shoe forced Alaric's consciousness back to the surface. His glassy eyes opened slightly, seeing the tip of the expensive heel crushing his dignity against the floor.
"Are... you... the City Governor?" Alaric asked, his voice nearly gone, his lips cracked and bleeding.
The woman lost her patience. She smiled, but it was a grin more akin to a bloodthirsty snarl. "Who else do you think has the right to step on your face here?"
"My Lady... please listen..." Alaric struggled for every syllable. "I beg of you... do not raze... Gray Cradle... do not take my home..."
The woman raised an eyebrow, looking momentarily amused yet still profoundly condescending. "Your tongue wags well for one at death's door. But tell me, trash, why should I care? Why should I grant a plea from a creature like you?"
Alaric gathered the final remnants of his soul. "I... will do anything... for it... anything... Please...."
With those final words, his world went pitch black. Alaric fainted directly beneath the woman's heel.
The red-haired woman stood silent for a moment, staring at the unconscious youth. She took a long breath, then pulled her foot from Alaric's face, leaving a dirty, crimson bruise on his cheek.
"Take this to the guest room," she ordered coldly to the soldier. "But not on the sofa. Lay him on the floor. Let him feel exactly where his place is."
She paused, her eyes glinting with a strange, sadistic light. "Strip him of his shirt. And... fasten a slave collar around his neck."
The soldier hesitated for a second but moved quickly to obey. The City Governor turned, her black gown sweeping the floor as she walked away.
"What a coincidence; my previous toy just died because it was too weak," she chuckled softly, a sound like beautiful yet lethal grinding metal. "Perhaps this one will last a little longer. Wouldn't you agree? Hehe..."
The rhythmic click of her heels faded into the darkness of the villa's corridors, while Alaric Vane—who had now surrendered everything—was dragged toward a fate more agonizing than death.