The transaction complete, Harlan turned from the door, a look on his face that was both gratifying and disdainful. He called for his personal assistant to attend him. "Miriel, come here."

A moment later, Miriel entered, his carriage perfectly straight, his face smooth, reflecting confidence and command. Harlan handed the boy over to him, a slight tremble in his voice undermining the casualness of the gesture. "Take this one. He's yours now."

Miriel's eyes, cool and calculating, studied the boy. "Of course, Master Harlan." He made a graceful, almost languid gesture for the boy to follow, his movements those of a conductor in front of an orchestra. The boy went forward, curiosity bubbling beneath his surface, the world now unfolding around him from behind the door of Harlan's office.

Miriel took him through narrow corridors in which the air lay heavy with the musty smell of dampness and rot, shadows stretching ominously, their fitful dance a grotesque ballet on the walls. In all of them, the boy looked about-the soft clinking of chainage echoing from afar, the quiet murmur of voices from unseen nooks.

They came to a storehouse area, with items piled high and the air thick with the heavy feeling of confinement. Miriel pointed to a discreet hatch hidden beneath a pile of crates. The boy's eyes went wide with surprise when Miriel lifted the cover aside, showing him a dark descent below. Wordlessly, he gestured for the boy to follow him into the hatch, and the boy did so-heavy with curiosity, yet reluctance.

As they descended, the air grew cooler and the sound of dripping water echoed back from ahead in the narrow corridor. At its end, a heavy metal door barred the way, with no handle, only a sliding peephole. Miriel knocked sharply; the sound reverberated ominously.

In an instant, the peephole opened, and a guard slave appeared on the other side, cautious. His eyes narrowed down to scrutinize the boy with suspicion and curiosity.

"Miriel," he acknowledged, his eyes darting back to the boy as he sized him up.

"Let us in," Miriel commanded, his voice firm yet civil. The guard nodded. hesitated a moment. then opened the door with a hesitant creak.

Inside, a cavernous space breathed odors from the mingled smells of sweat and fear. On the walls, the flickering of torches gave off amber lighting that outlined cages of many beasts and enslaved souls. The mind-swerving view was one of young, healthy men, with some bearing battle scars and women whose eyes told volumes of the horrors they had to face-all caged like animals.

His gaze wandered, curious and confused at the same time. He saw how brightly colored the beasts were and how dull the expressions of the slaves. The atmosphere was tinged with the promise of hopelessness, yet he felt no fear; instead, his soul wrapped itself around a deep curiosity about this reality.

Miriel ushered him further into the room, deeper, toward a chamber used for provisions. The room was dark and filled with food sacks containing grain, salted meats, and other supplies. What caught the boy's attention, however, was something entirely different: a set of metal slave collars openly displayed on a table.

The collars shone with a malevolent light in the torch's smolder, perfect and well-fashioned. They were heavy, cold, contrived to bind flesh not only but to dampen the spirits of their wearers. They had been intended for beasts at first, taming them, but became the tool of control the slavers used. Every collar stood as a grim reminder of captivity, a shackle that compelled obedience.

Miriel lifted one collar, surveying it with a mix of pride and dominance. He turned to the boy, his head at a slight tilt, as if gauging a reaction. The boy looked up, curious yet utterly unaware. For an instant, something flickered across Miriel's face; a hint of disdain leaked into his posture, preparing him for the task of placing this around the boy's neck.

The boy instinctively recoiled backward, a sudden flare-up of natural resistance welling up inside him at that moment. Curiosity held him firm, however-an innocence paradox standing firm against the looming reality.

In one swift motion, Miriel snapped the collar shut around the boy's neck. The metal felt chill against his skin. The boy had the strangest sensation, almost of a whisper stroking his mind, yet he couldn't quite grasp what had occurred. Miriel watched him, observing the lack of defiance:.

"Welcome to your new home," he said, a sneer only barely hidden beneath his mask of civility. The boy said nothing. His face betrayed a mix of confusion and curiosity.

The boy was already well-secured with the collar, and Miriel moved him to a cell at the far end of the room. The heavy iron door groaned as it opened, and he motioned for the boy to go inside. With one step past the threshold, the oppressive weight of the metal door went shut behind him; his sentence was sealed.

In this, the boy accepted his plight. He had entered a world alive with control and power, yet he was firm in his need to absorb all that came around him. He sat motionless, as the fire of the torches danced along the walls-a small figure in a large sea of the unknown; powered by a growing urge: to learn all about this dark, new world.

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The cold, dark cell he sat in had him quiet, his fingers tracing the outline of the metal collar that was around his neck. It was an alien thing to wear and feel-unerving, an unrelenting constriction that no garment was meant to bear. His fingers tracing the cold surface, the gaze went keen, and curiosity started to rise in him. Grasping the edges with both hands, he heaved against it with all his might. Suddenly, a surge of heavy power coursed through his small body, down into his hands. The metal resisted, but finally yielded, just a little, to the squeeze of his hand, giving the faint impression of his fingers. In one swift instant, something new was revealed to the boy-a spark, an instant realization of his power. But just as suddenly as the power came, an instantaneous stabbing pain lanced his mind.

His vision blurred, and the anguish that wrapped around him was unlike any he had ever experienced. His body stiffened, and he reached for his head in confusion as his muscles convulsed with the onslaught of torment. He knew pain, but this. this was beyond anything.

From the other cell, a soft voice cut through the silence: "Don't do that."

The boy turned his head slowly, his eyes, as golden as a sunflower, coming to rest upon the speaker. It was a girl—though, not quite human. She could be counted well within her twenties, yet long, soft rabbit ears jutted from the top of her head while a fluffy tail swayed gently behind her. Her eyes were large and kind, glowing softly in that dim light.

"If you try to force that collar off, it will kill you," she continued, her tone soft but firm. "I've witnessed it.

His fingers came down from the head to his throat, reaching again for the metal-bearing collar but more cautiously now. He heard the warning of the girl again: death. The boy knew what that meant, remembered it in the eyes of those he had met before-beings that stopped moving, stopped breathing. He didn't want that.

She studied him silently for a while, then presented a warm smile. "I'm Lyra," she said, presenting herself as her rabbit ears twitched ever so slightly. "What's your name?"

The boy merely blinked, his lips parting as if in speech, but no sound escaped him.

Lyra tilted her head, a hint of confusion in her eyes. "Can you speak?" she inquired, leaning in slightly.

The boy shook his head, his movements slow yet purposeful. Lyra's eyes softened, reflecting a deep understanding.

"You're mute, aren't you?" she whispered; her voice now sounded more tender.

The boy nodded slightly, his eyes caught on hers, entranced by her strange features. The ears and the tail were odd, but not intimidating to him, just another peculiarity of this strange new world he was suddenly caught up in.

Lyra cast a quick look around, confirming that no guards were in sight, before leaning against the bars that divided their cells. "You must be new to all this," she murmured gently. "In just a week, they will hold an auction. A secret one, meant for nobles—individuals wielding more power than anyone ought to possess. They'll sell us as if we are mere. objects." She released a soft sigh. "If fortune favors you, someone decent may purchase you. If not. well."

Her voice trailed off, the rabbit ears on her head folding down ever so slightly. She didn't feel the need to continue-after all, the options regarding slaves were numerous and most were tinged with cruelty. "For someone like me," she continued, "beastmen catch the fancy of some nobles. Young masters guided by their spoiled desires.

Her voice modulated into a soft, sad tone, but before she could dwell on that thought, another voice cut in from across the room.

"At least you get to live."

The boy turned his head to the new voice. In the other cell, still standing, was a young man, no older than his early twenties, his face white and etched with fear. His hands shook slightly as they held onto the bars of his confinement.

"For me," the young man went on, "it will probably be the arena. I have seen it. these noble bastards love to buy men like me just to throw them into the ring. They make us fight until we can hardly stand. They just don't care if we die. Really." His voice quavered with fear, and his eyes were wide with terror. "Day in and day out, against beasts, against other men. for them, it's a show."

Lyra gave the young man a sympathetic glance. "Callum," she said softly, "I understand. but some do survive. Some really do."

Callum shook his head, his face setting in a grimace. "I don't want to survive like that. I won't be their form of entertainment. I won't be just another name on a betting sheet." His voice trailed off and his grip on the bars tightened further, the knuckles turning white. The boy watched the exchange, the words dancing in the air: death, suffering, pain-these words swirled around him but refused to light up the least bit of fear within his heart. Lyra's sadness and Callum's terror were emotions he had understood but couldn't claim as wholly his. It was rather the elaborate pattern of this world that scared him: an auction, masters, a collar-all pieces of a great jigsaw falling into place in his mind.

It wasn't until the words of Lyra and Callum had sunk into his mind that the boy finally began to understand his reality. He looked down again at the neck chain around his neck, tracing his fingers against the metallic surface, feeling its weight, its purpose. "So this is what I am now-a slave."

His thoughts unfolded clearly, like the lessons he'd absorbed along the way. "I eat only when instructed." "I speak only when prompted." "I move only when commanded."

Yet another idea took root in his mind as he recalled Lyra's words-people with more power than any person should have. The auction was a fight for control, where nobles ruled their slaves and masters had dominion over the beasts and men alike. Power did not lie with a man's strength but originated from a place, from status. This was an unwritten force that would decide who gave orders and who would obey them.

This was his second lesson—power was not just strength, but control.

The masters grasped it, the nobles personified it, and now, well, he was the lowest of the low, maintained by the collar, by the slaver, by the world surrounding him.

"So this is how power works," he thought, when men have power because others hold them in sway.

Not yet having fully connected his place within this grand machinery, he began to see the threads that sewed it all together-the bigger picture. Power was more than strength; it was being able to make others bend to one's whim. Now, he lay down on his cot with half-closed eyes, pieces of this strange, new world falling into place inside his mind.

Lesson two—power lies in control.