The sunlight filtering through the cracks of the massive windows felt like thousands of white-hot needles stabbing into Alaric's eyelids. He blinked, trying to force his fractured consciousness to knit back together. His head felt heavy, as if his brain had been replaced by throbbing, molten lead that pulsed in time with his weak heartbeat. The intensity of the light in the room was far too bright for eyes that had been clamped shut in the darkness of unconsciousness for hours.
As his vision began to focus, the first thing he felt was no longer hunger, but a biting cold. The marble beneath his body felt like a vast, merciless sheet of ice. Alaric tried to move his hands, but the harsh clatter of metal shattered the silence.
He jolted. Around both his wrists, a pair of black iron shackles locked his movements. A slightly rusted iron chain connected his hands, trailing up toward his neck. Alaric fumbled at his throat with trembling fingers, and his heart sank. Something hard, cold, and tightly wound was there. A neck shackle—a slave collar.
"This..." His voice was nothing more than a broken whisper that drowned in his parched throat.
His last memory was of iron gates, the arrogant faces of guards, and a red-haired woman stepping on his face. But this place was different. This was not the vast villa lobby. This room was slightly smaller but radiated a suffocating opulence. A red velvet carpet stretched across the center of the room, surrounded by sofas with intricate gold carvings and tables of shimmering ebony wood. The scent of expensive incense lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of rust from the chains coiled around his body.
Alaric realized one more thing that made his skin crawl: he was shirtless. His upper garments had been forcibly removed, leaving his pale skin and protruding ribs exposed to the cold air of the room. He felt naked—not just physically, but in his very dignity.
He tried to rise, sitting on his knees with legs that were still numb. The chain at his neck clinked, restricting his head's movement. Alaric stared at his wrists, then fumbled at the shackles again, hoping this was all a nightmare born of dehydration. But the cold bite of the iron was very real. Why? Why was he being treated like a wild beast that needed to be caged?
Click.
The twin doors at the end of the room opened with an authoritative sound. Measured footsteps approached. Click. Click. Click. The rhythm of the high heels was enough to make the hair on the back of Alaric's neck stand up.
The City Governor of Kenet entered. Her black gown swept the floor, while her flaming red hair seemed more vivid under the light of the crystal chandeliers. Her bright yellow eyes gleamed as they landed on the figure crawling on her floor.
"Oh? You're awake?" she said softly, her tone as light as morning dew, yet carrying a blood-chilling authority.
Alaric turned his head with great effort. The chain at his neck pulled taut, causing a sharp sting. He looked at the woman from the ground up, his eyes full of unspoken questions and an agonizing thirst.
"What... what is this?" Alaric asked. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, like the scraping of sandpaper. He hadn't swallowed a drop of water in three days, and speaking felt like swallowing shards of glass.
The woman stopped in front of him. She did not answer. She simply stared at Alaric with a hollow gaze for a few seconds, as if assessing the quality of damaged merchandise. Without warning, her right leg lashed out.
Thwack!
A horizontal kick slammed into the right side of Alaric's face with a speed he couldn't hope to evade. Alaric's head was thrown to the left, hitting the marble floor with a sickening thud. His ears rang violently; his world spun in a chaotic swirl of colors. The pain exploding in his jaw made him want to scream, but what came out instead was a heavy cough that spat a mouthful of thick blood onto the pristine white marble.
"What is with that tone of yours?" The woman chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded hauntingly melodic yet utterly insane. "Who do you think you are, speaking to me as if we were equals? You are merely an 'object' that crawled into my home, trash."
Alaric wheezed, blood trickling from the corner of his lips and dripping slowly onto his bare chest. He truly did not understand. He didn't know what sin he had committed to deserve such cruelty. Yet, amidst the blinding pain, only one thought occupied his mind. The welfare of his siblings was the compass guiding him through this storm.
"My Lady..." Alaric struggled to sit back up, even though his head felt like it was going to split open. Every word was an ordeal. Fresh blood seeped from his mouth again as he spoke. "You... you are free to do anything to me. Torture me, kill me if it pleases you... but please... grant my request first. That orphanage... do not raze the orphanage."
The woman leaned in slightly, gazing at Alaric's battered face with a smile beginning to bloom on her crimson lips.
"Ah... the Gray Cradle orphanage?" She smirked, an expression that looked both breathtakingly beautiful and demonic. "Rest easy, little rat. I was never interested in razing that heap of junk to begin with. My secretary's reports were simply overzealous."
Hearing that, a heavy weight seemed to lift from Alaric's chest. His ragged breathing began to steady. He let out a long sigh of relief, ignoring the fact that he was chained like a dog. As long as his siblings were safe, as long as Gray Cradle stood, his current suffering felt worth it. His limp body finally slumped back onto the marble floor, no longer possessing the strength to support itself.
He saw the woman step closer. The hem of her black gown touched the splatters of Alaric's blood on the floor.
"My Lady... then... what will happen to me from now on?" Alaric asked with a resigned curiosity.
The woman did not answer immediately. She stopped right beside Alaric's exposed abdomen. Slowly, she lifted her right leg. The sharp, shimmering tip of her high heel hovered over Alaric's pale stomach.
Stab.
Without the slightest hesitation, she drove her shoe down. The pointed heel pierced directly into Alaric's solar plexus.
"Ugh—!" Alaric let out a guttural groan, his body arching instinctively. His eyes went wide, his pupils shrinking from shock. He stared at the woman's face, searching for an answer behind those cold yellow eyes.
"About that..." The woman smiled broadly, revealing rows of perfect teeth. "You'll find out for yourself!"
She pressed the heel of her shoe harder. Alaric felt a sharp, cold sensation pierce through the layers of his skin, tearing through the fibers of his abdominal muscles. The pain was so pure, so intense, that his brain felt as if it were on fire. Blood began to seep out from the puncture point, flowing down the side of his tensed stomach. The heel did not penetrate deep enough to hit internal organs, but she deliberately tore the muscle tissue, creating a wound designed to inflict maximum pain without killing him.
Alaric's scream broke.
It was no longer a human sound. It was a cry of such agonizing suffering—a long, high-pitched shriek that filled every corner of the luxurious room. Anyone hearing it would feel a phantom ache in their very bones. The sound was a manifestation of shattered dignity and unimaginable physical pain.
But for the woman above him, the sound was a symphony.
The woman smiled, and then her laughter exploded. She laughed with pure madness, her head tilted back as she savored every note of her victim's scream.
"Quite a noisy rug, aren't you!" she shouted amidst her booming laughter.
She didn't stop there. With a movement both graceful and horrific, she lifted her left foot off the floor. Now, her entire body weight was supported solely by Alaric's stomach. She stood atop the youth's belly using both her high-heeled shoes. One heel was still embedded in the oozing wound, while the other heel pressed into the opposite side of his abdomen.
Alaric felt as if his lungs were going to burst. He couldn't draw in oxygen; every time he tried to breathe, the weight on his stomach crushed him deeper into the hard marble floor. His world now consisted only of throbbing pain and the face of the woman above him, who looked utterly jubilant in his agony.
The woman wore a twisted expression—one of perverted satisfaction. To her, Alaric had truly ceased to be human. The boy was merely an object, a "human rug" that served to cushion her steps and entertain her with his screams. Every time Alaric screamed louder, the woman's smile widened, and her laughter filled the room even more, swallowing the clatter of the chains.
Madwoman! A demon in human skin! Alaric cursed in his heart, though his mouth could only produce a raspy sound choked with blood.
The pain nearly caused him to lose consciousness again, but he forced himself to stay awake. He remembered the small faces at Gray Cradle. He remembered the promise he made to his Matron. If suffering as a rug for this insane woman was the price to pay so their home wouldn't turn to ash, then he would swallow it. He would swallow every bit of this pain, grinding his dignity into dust, as long as they remained safe.
Beneath the heels that continued to press down and the laughter that deafened his ears, Alaric Vane began to understand one thing: his new life had begun, and in Oakhaven, there was no place for those who still clung to the remnants of humanity.