"What do you mean the current Duke was once a sex slave? The pride and sword of House Beaumont—sold like cattle? Ridiculous, mate!"
Past
The sun sagged low over the slums, turning the crooked rooftops into teeth of shadow. Aldric walked alone, hood drawn, boots scraping dust from the narrow alleys. It had been two months since his mother's death, yet the grief refused to scab over. Her final words echoed in him still—soft, unraveling threads that bled into every breath.
"God forgives us, my emerald. No matter who we are, or what we've done. what matters most is never sell yourself to the devil."
That day, he had laughed. Now, the memory burned.
His hand brushed the small obsidian stone veined with gold—the one Elias had given him. He carried it always, sometimes out of faith, more often out of weakness. It pulsed faintly now, warm against his palm, like it remembered their bond even if he tried not to.
The familiar cottage emerged from between the trees—a patchwork thing of stone and moss. Smoke drifted lazily from its crooked chimney, curling with scents of burnt rosemary and baking bread. The smell hit him like a memory—of his mother, and of a boy with a voice too soft for the world he lived in.
Aldric's hands trembled as he knocked.
The door opened to reveal him. Elias. His silvery braid peeking loose from its ribbon, flour dusted on his sleeves, the faintest sheen of sweat on his temple.
His blue orbs that whispers secrets to the unseen widened. "Aldric?"
He swallowed hard. "I... I need to talk to you."
Elias stepped aside, gesturing wordlessly for him to come in. The hearth crackled softly inside, bathing the room in amber light.
Aldric sat heavily by the fire, tension coiled tight beneath his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, the words hoarse, broken. "For what I said before. For… blaming you. For hating you when my mother—"
Elias knelt beside him quietly, his gaze steady, kind. "You don't need to apologize."
"I do." His breath shook. "I was cruel. You didn't deserve that."
"Neither did you," Elias murmured.
He reached out and placed a hand on Aldric's arm. The touch was feather-light, hesitant—like he was afraid to linger. The pulse beneath Elias's sleeve fluttered, delicate, more fragile than Aldric had ever noticed before. His fingers were fine, almost too fine for a boy's hand hardened by herbs and work.
Aldric met his eyes and felt his throat tighten. "I needed you to know… that I care."
Color touched Elias's cheeks. For a heartbeat, he looked young—unguarded. "I care too," he whispered.
Before either could speak again, a knock split the quiet.
They both froze. The cottage stood deep in the forest. No one should have been here.
Elias rose, voice low. "Stay here."
He disappeared into the gloom toward the door.
Moments passed—too many.
Then the hinges shrieked open.
"Elias?" Aldric stood, unease rising.
A man's voice replied instead, oily and cruel. "Well, well. Look what we've got here."
Aldric's blood turned to ice.
The man who stepped through the doorway reeked of sweat and wine, his grin a jagged scar. "You've been hiding him," he sneered, fingers clamping onto Elias's chin. "But not well enough."
"Please," Elias stammered, tremors running through his frame. "Don't hurt him. He's just a boy."
The man laughed. "Hurt him? Oh no. He's worth too much for that."
He shoved Elias roughly against the wall—the impact thudded sickeningly. Something small slipped from his sleeve—ribbons, glint of clasp—before he righted himself again. For an instant Aldric saw it: bare skin at the collarbone, too pale, soft… too smooth.
But then rough hands seized Aldric's arms and twisted.
"Let me go!" Aldric struggled, fury cracking through the panic.
"You're coming with us, pretty boy," the man growled. "Nobles pay handsomely these days—for obedient sons and wayward orphans."
His partner appeared behind him, grinning. "Specially ones that still look untouched."
He leaned close and inhaled at Aldric's neck, laughter bubbling, vile and hungry.
Elias surged forward, a desperate cry escaping him. "Aldric!"
Before he could reach them, a strike sent him crashing into the table. Bottles shattered, shards spraying across the wooden floor. His braid had come loose; silver hair spilled around his shoulders like silk. Aldric's eyes widened—his mind catching on the wrongness, the fleeting difference—before he was dragged out the door.
"Elias!" he cried.
The traffickers' laughter swallowed his voice.
The Slavers' Wagon
The night was long and merciless. The air stank of hay and fear. Aldric sat chained among other boys, metal biting into his wrists. None of them spoke; their silence screamed louder than words.
When the wagon finally stopped, torches threw wavering shadows against damp stone. Aldric was hauled out and shoved toward a low-ceilinged chamber reeking of sweat and despair.
At the far end, a figure stood cloaked in black, his silhouette long against the wall.
"So this is him," the man said—his voice deep, dispassionate. "The one from Valencrest."
Aldric did not answer. He only trembled, eyes burning with fury and fear.
Another man grabbed his chin, forcing his head up. "You'll fetch a good price, boy." He smirked. "And if you behave, maybe earn yourself comfort."
Aldric spat blood at his boots. "You can kill me first."
The man's hand struck his face—once, twice—and then the world tilted, sound collapsing into nothing.
The last thing he heard before the dark took him was his own whisper.
"Elias..."
But Elias was not there.
He was alone.