The sun hung directly overhead, spewing heat that seemed capable of melting marble and incinerating the last remains of sanity held by the city's slaves. Yet, for Alaric Vane, this heat was a mere nuisance compared to the storm awaiting him in four months. As long as Lunate was away from the villa, every second was gold that had to be forged into steel. He knew no fatigue—or more accurately, he had deadened the nerves that sent signals of exhaustion to his brain.
This afternoon, Alaric had just finished twenty laps around the field without a break. His lungs felt as if they were filled with hot sand; every breath he took triggered a violent burning sensation in his throat. Sweat, mingled with the dust of the field, streamed into his eyes, causing a stinging, searing pain. He stopped for a moment in the center of the field, hunching over with his hands resting on his trembling knees.
Blood from the old wounds on his back, which had only just dried the night before, seeped out again due to the extreme muscle movement. The red fluid mixed with his perspiration, dripping slowly onto the dusty ground and creating dark stains that evaporated almost instantly. As he wiped his watering eyes, his blurry vision caught a silhouette in the distance.
Alaric squinted, trying to focus his swaying sight. At the edge of the field, near the entrance to the inner garden, a young girl stood still.
It was Elara Kenet.
What is the youngest lady doing here? Alaric thought silently, his heart beating faster—this time not from the exercise, but from alertness.
The girl began to walk. She approached Alaric with slow, graceful movements, a sharp contrast to the disheveled, blood-stained Alaric. Elara wore a pale pink silk gown that seemed to shimmer under the sunlight. Her face was adorned with a thin smile that felt far too calm, as if she weren't standing in front of a man who looked like he had just emerged from a torture chamber.
The girl's clear yellow eyes traced every inch of Alaric's body. She stared at the crisscrossing whip scars on his shoulders, his protruding ribs, and his abdominal muscles that tensed every time Alaric took a breath.
"Hi!" Elara greeted in a warm voice, sounding almost like a greeting from an old friend.
Alaric went still, his body tensing instinctively. This presence was completely beyond his expectations. *Is the youngest lady going to take her sister's place in torturing me? Has she grown bored on the top floor and decided to make me her magical punching bag?* His mind was immediately filled with bitter despair.
The Kenet family were not just spoiled, wealthy nobles; they were a legendary bloodline of fire mages in Oakhaven. Their talent for manipulating the element of heat was the reason this city bowed beneath their heels. Even though Elara was only twelve, Alaric knew that a single snap of those tiny fingers could unleash a tongue of flame capable of burning his skin to the bone.
"Hi?" Alaric replied after a moment. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears—harsh, hoarse, and thick with suspicion.
"You're... a slave, right?" Elara asked innocently. Her slender fingertip pointed toward the iron chains wrapped around Alaric's wrists—chains that now clinked softly as Alaric moved.
Alaric wasn't surprised by the question, yet he did not lower his guard. Rumors among the servants said Elara was the only one in the family who still possessed a conscience. But Alaric had learned the hard way: in Oakhaven, kindness was often just a mask for deeper cruelty. He chose not to reply, merely staring at the girl with a flat gaze.
Elara didn't seem bothered by Alaric's silence. On the contrary, her curiosity seemed to peak. She began to walk in a circle, pacing around Alaric as if he were a fascinating artifact newly unearthed from an ancient site.
Elara's footsteps were incredibly light, almost silent upon the dirt of the field. Yet, to Alaric, every step felt like the thud of a hammer. Elara's gaze was strange—it wasn't the look of disgust he often received from Brane, nor was it the bloodthirsty glare Lunate possessed. It was a look of... intimate observation. As if she were studying how an insect struggled under a microscope.
"My Lady?" Alaric finally muttered, feeling the air around him grow increasingly stifling due to the girl's presence.
Elara stopped directly in front of him, smirking slightly to reveal rows of neat, white teeth. "You're a hard worker, aren't you..."
Seeing that smirk, Alaric felt a cold shiver crawl up his neck despite the sweltering heat. The smirk held no sympathy; it was a smirk of satisfaction. Dammit. She's insane. The rumors were dead wrong. This entire family has been poisoned by the same blood. She's crazy too! he screamed in his heart.
"Do you have specific business with me?" Alaric asked with a firmer tone. "If not, I wish to return to my training. Please do not disturb me."
It was a very risky sentence. A slave had no right to dismiss a master. However, Alaric felt the clock ticking. Every minute he spent talking to Elara was a minute lost in strengthening himself before Lunate's return. He had to be ready. He had to become stronger than the pain Lunate could inflict.
Elara blinked slowly, her smile never fading. "Fine," she replied shortly.
The girl moved away, but she did not leave the field. She walked to the corner of the field where a maid who had been following her already had everything prepared. Within seconds, a luxurious ebony lounge chair had been set up, complete with a large velvet umbrella to ward off the scorching sun.
Elara sat there with the grace of a little queen. Her maid immediately poured cold tea into an expensive porcelain cup. From her comfortable position, Elara's yellow eyes locked back onto the figure of Alaric in the middle of the field.
Alaric took a long breath, trying to ignore the presence of his new spectator. *Heaven knows what this little demon wants,* he thought bitterly. He picked up his wooden sword again, feeling the weight of the wood in his calloused hands.
Target for today: 12,000 swings in one hour.
Swish!
Alaric's arm sliced through the air. The sound of wood cleaving the wind was sharp. He did it again. And again.
Ten swings... a hundred swings... a thousand swings...
Sweat began to pour from his forehead, soaking the wounds on his back until it felt like salt water was being poured over them. The pain throbbed in rhythm with his heart, but Alaric used that pain as a metronome. He forced every muscle fiber to work beyond its normal limits. He imagined Lunate's face, he imagined the heel of her shoe, and every swing of the sword was his attempt to cut through that wretched fate.
All the while, Elara never looked away. She sat in silence, sipping her tea slowly, while her eyes followed Alaric's every movement with an unsettling fixity. She watched how Alaric's chest muscles contracted, how his breath came out in a raspy gasp, and how the droplets of blood from Alaric's back fell to the ground.
Elara's pupils seemed to dilate slightly every time Alaric let out a groan from the strain on his muscles. The servants standing behind her glanced at each other anxiously, but they were too terrified of the Kenet family to dare speak up or ask their young mistress to leave.
Two hours passed. Alaric was nearing his limit. His vision began to dim, yet he did not stop. He could feel Elara's gaze burning his skin—a gaze that felt sharper than the sunlight.
That child... how long has she been staring at me like that? Alaric mused as he finished his final set.
His body was now a total wreck. He smelled, he was drenched in blood and sweat, and his face was dull and covered in dust. The sight of him should have made a pure noble girl feel nauseous and want to vomit. However, as he glanced toward the corner of the field, he saw something that made his skin crawl.
Elara Kenet did not look disgusted. On the contrary, she looked mesmerized. Her breathing appeared slightly faster than before, and her hands gripped the edges of her chair tightly. There was an intensity in her yellow eyes that showed that for her, the sight of the broken and struggling Alaric was the most beautiful entertainment she had ever seen in her life.
Underneath the luxury umbrella, the youngest Kenet princess was enjoying the spectacle of how a man's dignity and physique were being forged through suffering, and she seemed to love every single second of it.