One month had passed since Alaric Vane surrendered his freedom for a rotting wooden structure in a corner of Kenet. Thirty days that felt like a century in hell. In that time, he finally learned the name of the demon draped in silk: Lunate Kenet.
Luna. A name that should have been beautiful and radiant like the moon, but for Alaric, it was a synonym for endless pain. Lunate was the heir to the title of City Governor of Kenet after her father passed away without leaving a male heir. In this sprawling villa, Luna lived with her two teenage sisters, yet Alaric had never once laid eyes on them. The young ladies' rooms were located on the topmost floor—a sacred zone untouched by a lowly "object" like himself. They lived at the pinnacle of luxury, while Alaric crawled at the bottom of the abyss of Lunate's suffering.
Alaric's job was singular: to be the outlet for Lunate's sadistic desires. The woman had repulsive tastes. She took pleasure in the skeletal frames of men, their pale skin, and faces that looked far older than their years due to the burdens of life in the slums. To her, the wrinkled expression of Alaric's agony as he suppressed his screams was a form of art.
"His face is so... delightful when he tries to swallow his own cries," Luna had once remarked to her secretary with a casual tone, as if discussing the quality of a new painting.
Now, Alaric was once again beneath that heel.
Lunate's private study smelled of sandalwood and expensive ink. Luna sat gracefully in her study chair upholstered in rare animal hide, her right leg raised, resting atop Alaric's back as he prostrated beneath her. The youth truly functioned as a living footrest now. Luna sipped her harun tea calmly, her bright yellow eyes staring straight ahead, while the tip of her shoe slowly pressed into Alaric's protruding shoulder blades.
Behind Luna's chair stood a man in a perfectly tailored gray suit without a single crease. Brane Vohln, the City Governor's private secretary. Brane's face was rigid, his eyes fixed on Alaric with a disgust hidden behind cold professionalism. Having a master like Lunate was a curse upon his sanity.
Brane placed several sheets of documents on the mahogany desk. "Lady Lunate, regional taxes have recently suffered an alarming deficit. The merchants in the western sector have begun a covert boycott," his voice was steady, yet carried an undertone of deep frustration.
Luna's expression did not change. She took the report with one hand while the other continued to hold her teacup. She scanned it briefly, and then, a dim flash of red light glowed from her palm. In an instant, the documents were scorched, turning into black dust that scattered over Alaric's hair.
"I've been relaxing lately because I thought those rats had repented," Luna murmured, her voice low and threatening.
She stood up abruptly, causing Alaric to flinch in surprise. Without warning, Luna slammed her foot down with her entire body weight.
Stab.
The sharp heel of her shoe pierced the skin of Alaric's back, tearing through flesh until fresh blood seeped out, soaking the marble floor beneath his chest.
"—but it seems I cannot relax for even a moment, can I?" Luna continued coldly. She stomped her foot once more into the same wound, causing Alaric to arch in silent agony.
Bastard! They are the ones causing trouble, so why am I the one suffering beneath your feet?! Alaric screamed in his heart. He scratched at the floor with trembling fingernails, his eyes reddening as he endured the sting burning through his back.
Paying no heed to her dying victim, Luna strode out of the room in a hurry, her gown rustling in sync with her overflowing rage. Brane followed behind after casting a single, meaningful glance at Alaric.
Once the door closed, Alaric slowly pushed himself up. His body shook violently. Blood flowed warm down his back, but the mental anguish was far worse. "Madwoman... insane demon..." the venom dripped from his cracked lips.
Only yesterday had he realized the bitter truth: he was no longer just a pet. He was a slave. A pet was given proper food and a place to sleep, but him? He was merely a consumable object whose dignity had been trampled into the very crust of the earth.
Alaric dragged his footsteps out of the room toward the vast field at the back of the villa. For a month, one thought had haunted him: how to survive? If he continued like this, he would die as trash before two months were up.
The only solution his near-mad brain could devise was: Training.
He had to strengthen his body. Not to fight back—for that was suicide—but so that he would not break so easily. He wanted his skin to become as hard as steel, his muscles as tough as oak, so that when Luna's heel pierced him, he could stand tall without spitting out the screams that brought her so much joy.
Alaric approached a pile of wooden swords in the corner of the field. He took the heaviest one, his thin hands trembling as he gripped the hilt. He ran to the center of the field under the scorching sun and began to swing.
One... two... ten... a hundred...
Sweat mixed with blood from the wound on his back flowed down to soak his tattered trousers. Every swing felt like pulling his muscles until they snapped. Yet, Alaric kept counting. He imagined each swing as a way to build a fortress within himself.
As he reached his 321st swing, hesitant footsteps approached. A young maid stood at the edge of the field. "Lady Lunate... is calling for you in her room now," she whispered.
Alaric stopped. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving. He let the wooden sword drop, then took a long breath, attempting to stabilize his wild heartbeat. For several minutes, he stood motionless, letting the pain in his back become a familiar companion before finally turning to follow the maid.
When they arrived at the large wooden door of Lunate's room, a horrific sound exploded from within.
CRACK! Followed by the piercing shrieks of several old men begging for mercy. The sound of a whip cleaving the air and the wet thud of tearing flesh was unmistakable. Alaric remained still, his face flat. He had heard this symphony of death often enough.
The maid beside him, however, was different. She was a new servant who had started last week to replace the previous one who died from an "accident" while serving Luna. The maid's face was deathly pale, her body shaking as if she were standing at the gates of hell. She held a silver tray with trembling hands, not daring to knock, not daring to even make a sound.
Alaric watched her in silence. He remembered being in that position for the first time. The paralyzing fear, the disbelief that a human could be so small in the face of power. In the world of Kenet's nobility, morality was but dust swept away by the winds of luxury. A human life here was cheaper than the price of the tea Luna sipped in the morning.
The door shuddered again from a heavy impact within. Alaric closed his eyes for a moment. He knew that behind that door, a demon's dance was underway, and he had just been summoned to become a part of the ballroom floor.