Chapter Text
The people of Castrum Kremnos are known for three things: their cruel and ruthless warriors, their bloody wars that leave only destruction, and their prisoners. All of this stems from a strange tradition. At the end of every war, the warriors return with war prizes—living spoils of their conquest. It doesn’t matter who they are: child, man, or woman, all are doomed to captivity. Some are taken as servants, others for entertainment. And if one is lucky enough, they might even catch the eye of the royal family.
But the life of the luckiest one was anything but comfortable. Their days were filled not with luxury, but with hatred—a seething, quiet rage. A desire to burn the kingdom that had taken everything from them: their land, their family, their hope, their very faith. Yet they could do nothing. Even the thought of escape meant certain death. A single wrong move, a single moment of defiance—and their life would be snuffed out, like a flame under a boot.
But there was a fate even worse than death, worse than a life in eternal captivity. And that was the honor—so-called—of bearing a royal child. For such a burden would bind them forever to the royal bloodline, a chain no blade could sever. There would be no escape, no freedom—not even in death—for their legacy would be claimed by the throne, and their body would no longer belong to them alone. It would belong to the kingdom. Forever.
His homeland lay in ashes, destroyed by the very soldiers who now led him in chains.
He had been taken as a prisoner, a war prize, his fate still unknown.
Did anyone escape?
Had anyone reached safety?
Did she survived?
He didn’t know—and likely never would.
Once, the fields of his homeland had been golden with life, stretching wide beneath the sun. Now, they were scorched to flame, reduced to nothing but smoke and bone.
The homes were shattered, their walls cracked open like ribcages.
The earth itself had turned against them, swallowing forests, crumbling rivers, bleeding smoke.
A calamity brought not by gods, but by men who worshipped violence like it was divine.
He was brought to the bustling square of the city—alive with noise and color.
Markets stretched endlessly in every direction, filled with shouting merchants, costumed performers, cloaked scholars, and metal-clad guards.
Everything was unfamiliar.
Everyone was foreign.
The people spoke in a tongue he could not understand.
It was harsh, unyielding, and rude—not like the language of his homeland, soft and flowing like a river winding through fields.
This language felt like scorching flame.
It wasn’t a language of song or story.
It was a language of war.
A tongue you didn’t speak—you survived it.
You heard it when the air split with screams,
when your hands gripped a sword slick with blood,
when the ground beneath your feet was soaked in ash and bone.
You didn’t learn this language.
It branded itself onto your skin—
on the battlefield, among the corpses, crushed under the weight of conquest.
Soon, he was placed at the center of the square, just like countless men, women, and children before him.
A platform of shame, surrounded by curious eyes and indifferent faces.
Then a man approached—a merchant, draped in fine fabrics and reeking of wealth and rot.
He raised his voice, practiced and loud, addressing the crowd in that same blade-sharp tongue:
“Those with value shall be sold for gold.
The rest—for silver.
A man—five silvers, six golds.
A woman—ten silvers, twelve golds.
A child—thirty silvers, fifteen golds.”
He paused, grinning as if announcing a festive event.
“You ready?
Our audition has begun.”
The crowd murmured in anticipation.
He was no longer a person.
He was a number,
a price tag, a product.
“I offer forty-five gold coins.”
The voice cut through the crowd like a blade—calm, clear, and final.
A murmur spread like wildfire. Even the merchant paused, surprised.
“Forty-five? That’s... an unusually high price.
Who dares such a bold offer?”
“I do.”
A man stepped forward, and the square fell silent.
He didn’t need guards.
He didn’t need armor.
His presence alone silenced the world.
He was the embodiment of war—
His upper body bare, flesh marked with old scars and fresh burns.
Red eyes burned beneath heavy brows, and his hair was strange: short in the front, long in the back, falling like a black curtain over his shoulders.
On his left arm, two tattoos coiled like serpents.
On his right, a metallic shackle glinted in the sun—part ornament, part restraint, or maybe a symbol of rank.
But no one questioned him.
No one even breathed too loud.
Because in those eyes was fire,
and in his stillness—power.
Was he a general?
A warlord?
Or perhaps... royalty?
Yes.
Even the bravest didn’t dare meet his gaze.
He could only be of royal blood.
Why?
The question burned in his chest like a second heart.
Why would that man rescue him?
Why him, of all people?
But the question never made it to his lips.
There was no chance to ask.
“You. Come with me.”
A voice. Cold, final.
Hands gripped his arms—not gently—and he was led away from the square.
Dragged through alleys, streets, through the heart of a city he did not know.
He didn’t resist. What would be the point?
He didn’t know where they were headed.
A prison?
A fortress?
A personal execution site?
He couldn’t tell.
One of the men pulled something from a pouch—he caught a glint of metal, but didn’t see what it was.
They said nothing.
They didn’t have to.
The silence was louder than war.
After what felt like hours of marching, they arrived.
A palace.
But not the grand kind built for a crowned king—this was smaller, more private.
Still regal. Still sharp with wealth and power.
But this wasn’t the main royal residence.
It was... something else.
A private estate.
Personal property.
His thoughts spiraled.
Why here?
Not royal yet, maybe. But someday. A prince? A son of the warlord? An heir waiting to take his place?
And so, this became his home.
New.
Cold.
And utterly alone.
Not a home for a person.
A home for a soldier. A tool. A weapon in waiting.
But not for him.
He didn't want this kind of home.
He wanted freedom.
It ached inside him like hunger, like thirst—
But he couldn’t even speak it aloud.
Because here, in this place, freedom wasn’t a word.
It was a crime.