Sol remained frozen, his breath still uneven as the pain from the blow throbbed in his stomach. The first soldier stared at him with cold indifference, as if he were nothing more than a piece of dirt beneath his boots, not even worth an explanation.

The second soldier, gripping Elara’s arm, nudged her toward one of the waiting horses. She resisted, her confusion turning to anger.

“What are you doing?!” Elara demanded, struggling against his grip. “Why did you strike him? He has nothing to do with this!”

The soldier offered no response, no sign of acknowledgment. Instead, in one swift, practiced motion, he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing and threw her onto the horse.

“Elara!” Sol called out instinctively, but his voice barely made it past his lips before the first soldier stepped forward and shoved Sol back with a brutal force.

Elara twisted in the saddle, eyes wide with fury. “Stop this at once! I demand to—”

But before she could finish, the second soldier mounted swiftly behind her, seized the reins, and spurred the horse forward. The beast reared up before galloping into the night, carrying her away.

Sol groaned, forcing himself up to his elbows, his chest heaving with frustration, fear, and helplessness. He could still see her form shrinking into the darkness, the sound of hooves pounding against the earth growing fainter by the second.

The small man, still lingering in the room, let out a quiet, belittling chuckle. His lips curled into an amused, knowing smile as he watched Sol, as if savoring his helplessness.

“You forget your place, boy,” the small man sneered, stepping forward with slow, deliberate steps. His voice was laced with amusement, but beneath it was something far more sinister. He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with mockery.

“One too many days in the sun, and you forget where you belong.”

The small man’s smirk widened as he suddenly lashed out, delivering a swift kick to Sol’s stomach. Despite his small size, the impact was weak, barely making Sol shift from where he sat. Still, the strike forced a small grunt from his lips, more from surprise than pain.

The small man’s smirk never faltered as he dusted off his sleeves, his voice smooth and controlled, carrying an air of practiced authority.

“Sir, please take him away,” he said, his tone almost casual. Then, with a slow, deliberate glance at Sol, he added, “This is my lady’s command.”

Sol’s breath hitched. My lady? His mind raced, confusion flickering beneath the lingering anger.

The soldier nodded without hesitation, stepping forward and grabbing Sol roughly by the arm. The grip was tight, unyielding, as if handling a criminal. Sol didn’t resist, he knew there was no point. But his heart pounded as the weight of those words settled over him.

The soldier gripped Sol’s arm tightly, dragging him across the room with little effort. Sol staggered, his mind still clouded with confusion, trying to piece together what was happening. Before he could react, the soldier crouched down and swiftly looped a thick black rope around his ankles, pulling it taut with practiced ease. “What—?” Sol barely had time to speak before a quiet, sinister chuckle filled the air.

“And so, the show begins,” the small man murmured, amusement dripping from his words.

Sol’s breath hitched, an uneasy chill creeping up his spine.

Then, without warning, the ground beneath him was ripped away.

The soldier had mounted his horse in a single swift motion, gripping the other end of the rope as he kicked the beast into motion. The horse lurched forward, and the rope snapped tight around Sol’s ankles, before he could so much as brace himself, he was yanked off his feet.

Pain shot through his body as he hit the hard ground, the breath knocked from his lungs. Dust and dirt filled his vision as he was dragged mercilessly across the rough terrain. The jagged stones and uneven path scraped against his back, tearing through his clothes, his skin burning with each brutal pull.

The world spun around him, the sounds of hooves pounding against the ground mixing with the distant laughter of the small man. Sol gritted his teeth, trying to twist his body, trying to grab onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop the merciless pull of the rope.

His hands scraped against the dirt, but it was useless. He was at their mercy.

He was dragged mercilessly across the cobbled path, the same path he traveled every day. The once-familiar road, where he had walked countless times in quiet solitude, now became a trail of agony. The stones he had stepped over so many mornings now tore into his skin, leaving behind raw flesh and bloody bruises.

The serene roads he had come to find a small peace in were now nothing but a blur as the world whisked past him. Trees, houses, distant figures, everything passed in fleeting glimpses, distorted by the dust and pain clouding his vision. The journey stretched on endlessly, every second an eternity of torment.

The soldier showed no sign of slowing, his horse galloping steadily forward as if dragging a sack of grain instead of a living, breathing person. Sol clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought against the ground protecting his head. If he was going to be humiliated, beaten, and tossed aside like nothing, he would not give them the satisfaction of hearing his pain.

Time lost meaning, but eventually, as his body grew numb from the relentless assault of the road, he saw it.

Rising over the horizon, dark and unyielding, were the black city gates

They loomed ahead like an omen, towering and foreboding. The Black City Gates stood against the horizon, an unrelenting symbol of power and control.

Sol’s body ached beyond comprehension, every nerve screaming in agony. His vision was blurred, his surroundings barely registering in his mind. The once-familiar road had torn him apart, quite literally. The back of his body was barely recognizable as human flesh. The skin had been stripped away, replaced by raw, exposed wounds where blood and dirt mixed into a grotesque mess. A trail of crimson followed him, seeping into the cobbled path like a silent testament to his suffering.

His face, too, was in ruin. His forehead had struck the ground one too many times, leaving deep gashes that oozed fresh blood. His cheek was torn open, the impact of his body against the unrelenting road leaving bruises and swelling that distorted his features. Blood dripped from his lips, mixing with the dust that coated his tongue.

As they passed through the city streets, the world around them seemed to slow. The once-bustling streets fell into an eerie hush as people turned to see the bloodied, broken figure being dragged through the roads but no one recognized him.

The boy who had once walked these streets in silence, running errands unnoticed, was now unrecognizable, reduced to a battered mass of flesh and blood. His face, swollen and disfigured, bore no resemblance to the quiet servant they had once ignored. His body, stripped of skin in places, left a gruesome trail in his wake. Yet, despite the horror of the sight, no one stepped forward.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the horse began to slow, its heavy breaths filling the silence. The soldier, showing no care for the near-lifeless body he had dragged for miles, brought the beast to a halt.

Sol’s eyes fluttered, his vision hazy. His body had long since gone numb, but exhaustion weighed on him like an iron shroud. His consciousness teetered on the edge, flickering between awareness and oblivion.

Through his blurred vision, he barely registered the guard dismounting. Heavy boots struck the ground, followed by the sensation of rough hands grabbing onto him.

He was dragged. Sol’s head lolled to the side as his body scraped against the cold stone beneath him. His eyes struggled to open, but through half-lidded exhaustion, he caught glimpses of his surroundings.

A grey steel door swung open with a harsh creak.

Screams could be heard from within the depths of whatever lay beyond that door, agonized wails filled the air. The cries of people he could not see, suffering he could not yet comprehend. The sound rattled against his skull, but he had no strength to react.

And then, suddenly—pain.

He was tossed, his body crashing down what felt like a set of stairs. The impact forced the last of the air from his lungs, his already broken frame slamming against the hard stone before finally coming to rest.

His fingers twitched. His mind screamed at him to move, to react—but nothing responded.

His breath was ragged as he barely pried his eyes open, his lashes sticky with blood and gore. Darkness. That was all that surrounded him. A cold, lifeless void with only one faint glow piercing through it, a dim golden light seeping through the cracks of a steel door.

The soldier crouched beside him, wordlessly untying the rope that had bound his legs.

But freedom did not come instead, a far colder restraint replaced it. A chain.

The cold metal bit into his bloodied ankle, the heavy links rattling as they were bolted to the wall.

Without another word, the soldier rose to his feet, turning away without so much as a glance back. The door groaned as it swung shut, and the sound of heavy locks clicking into place sealed his fate.

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And then—Silence. Sol was alone, Surrounded by nothing but darkness and four unyielding walls, Sol’s mind began to race. What had happened? Everything had been too sudden, too chaotic. He couldn’t think straight. His head pounded, his thoughts a tangled mess of confusion and fear.

His body burned.

The floor beneath him was cold, but it was soaked with blood, his own blood filling the room. The guard had thrown him down onto his back, where no skin remained, where only raw, exposed flesh met the unyielding stone. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that made his vision blur, his breath shallow.

He twitched instinctively, his body reacting to the torment. But even the smallest movement sent fresh waves of pain surging through him, as if his very skin were being torn apart all over again. His breathing grew ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven shudders.

Yet, he made no sound, his lips parted slightly, but no cry escaped, only silence. His voice had abandoned him, or perhaps his pride still clung to him even now.

The more he moved, the more it burned. The sharp sting of open wounds pressed against stone, the sickening sensation of fresh blood trickling beneath him so he remained still, taking in the pain.

Letting it consume him.

Back at the Helvig Manor, Elara arrived at the grand estate, her face composed, but her mind restless. The moment the horse came to a halt, the soldier behind her swiftly dismounted and turned to offer his hand to help her down.

Elara huffed, brushing him off with a flick of her wrist. “No need,” she said coolly, stepping down on her own, her posture poised despite the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

The soldier straightened, bowing slightly. “Where is my father?” she asked without hesitation, her tone carrying a tone of anger.

“Yes, Miss. Right away,” the soldier replied, nodding quickly before turning to lead the way.

Elara followed, her steps quick and purposeful. The grand halls of the Helvig Manor loomed around her, the flickering glow of lanterns casting long shadows against the polished floors. The manor was alive with movement, servants moving about, guards stationed at every corner.

“I’ll have your head for what you did to me” Elara said sharply, not even sparing the guard a glance as she followed behind him.

The guard stiffened for a moment, then let out an awkward chuckle, clearly unsure if she was serious or merely venting her frustration. “O-Of course, my lady,” he said hesitantly, forcing a weak smile.

Elara didn’t respond. Her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts racing as they moved deeper into the manor. The towering halls, the familiar scent of burning incense, the gleam of polished marble beneath her hurried steps, none of it mattered.

What mattered was the conversation that awaited her.

She clenched her fists slightly, steadying herself. Whatever was happening, whatever this was, she needed answers. And she would get them, one way or another.

They soon turned toward a small private garden nestled within the manor’s vast estate. Unlike the grand halls, this place was quiet and secluded. Five guards sat scattered in the garden, their expressions unreadable. Unlike the regular city guards, these men wore a distinct black cape draped over their backs, and their armor bore the Helvig family emblem instead of the Black Pearl City insignia. They were not just soldiers; they were personal guards of the Helvig household, handpicked and fiercely loyal.

Their gazes briefly flickered toward Elara as she approached, but none of them moved, none of them spoke. They knew better than to question where she was going.

At the end of the garden stood a beautiful wooden door, its surface adorned with intricate carvings—patterns of winding vines and celestial symbols, a design that had been in the Helvig family for generations. Behind it lay the study of Lord Cedric Helvig.

Elara didn’t hesitate. Without a word, she strode past the guards, her steps firm and unyielding. Her fingers curled around the ornate handle, and with a single push, she threw the door open.

The room beyond was warm, dimly lit by golden candlelight. The scent of aged parchment and ink filled the air, mingling with the faint fragrance of incense that always seemed to linger in this part of the manor. But as Elara stepped inside, her stride faltered slightly, her father was not here.

Instead, sitting gracefully behind the grand desk, her delicate fingers resting lightly against a stack of parchment, was Lady Seraphine Helvig.

Elara’s eyes flickered with surprise. “Mother?” she said, barely masking her confusion.

Lady Seraphine lifted her gaze, her expression calm and composed. A small, knowing smile played at her lips. “Elara,” she greeted softly.

Elara quickly straightened, regaining her composure. “Where is Father?” she asked, her tone surprised. “The guards said he was expecting me urgently.”

Her mother’s smile remained, unreadable. “Does it matter?” she said smoothly, as if brushing away the concern.

But Elara was in no mood for cryptic answers. Her brows furrowed, frustration lacing her voice. “Mother, the city guards have grown too bold,” she declared, stepping closer. “They hurt my friend, and they were extremely disrespectful to me. And worse, they dared to lie using Father’s name.”

For the first time, Lady Seraphine’s expression shifted. It was subtle, but Elara knew her well, a flicker of something passed across her mother’s face, something deep and unreadable, lurking beneath the carefully constructed mask of composure.

Elara clenched her fists, her frustration boiling over. “Punish them, Mother,” she demanded, her voice unwavering. “They must be dealt with.”

But Lady Seraphine did not react.

Instead, she leaned back into her chair, her movements slow, deliberate. Her sharp, calculating gaze settled on Elara, and when she finally spoke, her tone was calm, almost indifferent.

“Where were you at this time of the night?” she asked.

Not a single note of anger. No reaction to Elara’s demand. It was as if she had dismissed her words entirely.

Elara felt taken aback. For the first time in her life, she was denied something, not refused outright, but ignored. The weight of that disregard was heavier than any outright rejection. Elara had never been ignored before. The reason she had been so direct with her demand was simple, she had never needed to ask twice for anything in her life.

From the moment she was born, her wishes had been fulfilled without question. Every request met, every demand answered. She had never known hesitation, much less outright dismissal.

And yet, here sat Lady Seraphine, unbothered, unmoved. Not refusing her, but something far worse

She stumbled with her words, uncharacteristically unsure of how to respond. “I—I was—”

Lady Seraphine simply waited, watching her daughter with an expression that revealed nothing.

Elara straightened slightly, grasping for control over the conversation, but for the first time, she felt on the defensive.

“I was out…” she began, her words still stumbling over themselves. “I was preparing a gift for Father.”

Lady Seraphine didn’t react. She simply nodded, her fingers tracing absent patterns over the parchment on her desk. Her expression remained unreadable, her gaze unwavering.

Then, after a long pause, she asked again, her voice smooth and deliberate.

“Who were you with?”

Elara stiffened.

“No one,” she answered quickly, her heart hammering. “Just… a friend who was helping me with the gift.”

Silence settled between them like a blade waiting to fall. Lady Seraphine’s lips curled into a smile, but it was not a kind one. It was sharp, calculated, a smile filled with anger rather than warmth.

“And may I know,” she said slowly, her voice dangerously smooth, “who this friend of yours might be? I was under the impression that you were assigned a servant for that task, not a friend.”

Elara’s breath caught in her throat.

For the first time in her life, she felt afraid.

A strange, foreign sensation crawled up her spine, one she had never known before. Fear. Real, unmistakable fear.

Her mother’s gaze was piercing, leaving no room for escape. The weight of it pressed down on her like an iron chain. Elara had always been in control. She had always been untouchable.

But now, she was the one being cornered.

“Ye—Yes, Mother… th—” she faltered, her voice stumbling over itself, the confidence she always carried crumbling beneath the weight of her mother’s presence.

She had never stuttered before. But now, under Lady Seraphine’s cold, knowing stare, she could barely force the words out.

Lady Seraphine’s gaze never wavered from Elara as the silence stretched between them. Elara’s heart pounded in her chest, her words tangled in her throat.

“Who exactly is this friend of yours, Elara?” Lady Seraphine asked again, her voice laced with a cold, controlled anger. “I don’t remember assigning you anyone but a servant for such tasks. A servant, Elara. Not a friend.”

Elara’s breath caught in her throat, her mind racing, but nothing seemed to come out. She couldn’t bring herself to answer.“I… I…” Elara stumbled, trying to find the right words. “I was just… being nice, Mother,” she finally managed to mutter, but even she could tell how weak it sounded. The uncertainty in her voice only made the situation worse.

“Being nice?” Lady Seraphine raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips curling into a humorless smile. Her gaze grew sharper, more calculating. “Is that what we call it now? Being nice? To a servant?”

Elara flinched at the sharpness of her mother’s tone, but still, she remained silent.

The longer she tried to avoid it, the more the weight of her mother’s gaze pressed on her chest. She felt like she was sinking, her words failing her.

Elara’s mouth went dry. She had spent her entire life learning to be the perfect daughter, the perfect lady—but nothing had prepared her for this. Her mother’s words were like ice in her veins, and the distance between them felt like an ocean.

“Bring the imp in,” Lady Seraphine commanded coolly, her voice dripping with venom.

A soldier entered, followed by a small man about four feet tall, the same man who had been there with the guards, his presence now a palpable weight in the room. The moment he stepped forward, Elara’s stomach sank.

Her face went pale, her heart pounding in her chest. The worst fear she had tried to avoid was coming to life before her eyes.

The small man bowed low, his movements exaggerated, and spoke in a voice that still held the cold, mocking undertone that had unsettled her from the very beginning. “My lady,” he said, addressing both Elara and her mother, still bent in reverence.

Elara could barely breathe. Her mother’s unreadable gaze sent a shiver down her spine, but it was the tension in the air that made her feel small and powerless. Lady Seraphine’s silence felt as sharp as a blade, and her voice, when it came, was the calm before a storm.

“Tell me,” she said softly, dangerously calm, “What were you able to see?”

The small man raised his head, eyes flickering with an unsettling glint. “Of course, my lady,” he began, his voice low, smooth. “I’ve been following Lady Elara, as per your orders, for some time now. And…” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Let me recount to you what I have seen.”

As he spoke, his voice grew more flamboyant, each word growing heavier than the next. He recounted moments where Elara and Sol seemed to grow closer, moments that seemed innocent enough but, in the imp’s version, became a tale of clandestine intimacy.

The small man painted a picture far more intimate than Elara had ever imagined—too intimate, too close for comfort. Every time Sol had stayed by her side, every shared glance, every conversation seemed to be inflated into something much more than it had been. His words carried an air of betrayal, an accusation wrapped in exaggeration.

With every exaggerated detail, Lady Seraphine’s expression grew colder, darker. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass she had been holding. The tension in the room became suffocating, as if the air itself was becoming thicker, more oppressive.

Elara’s cheeks burned with humiliation, her throat tightening as she listened. The imp’s recounting lingered on moments of quiet closeness, the simple touches, the shared laughter, the way they had spent time together, as though each innocent interaction was a grave offense.

Then, the small mans tone dropped lower, a glint of maliciousness in his voice.

“And then, my lady,” he said, his words almost gleeful now, “I saw them…” He paused, drawing out the silence, before continuing in a whisper, “They kissed. They embraced each other.”

The words felt like ice in Elara’s veins.

Her blood ran cold. Her breath hitched in her throat, her pulse racing with a fear she had never known. Her body seemed to give way, her legs no longer able to hold her up. She stumbled backward, her back slamming into the cold stone wall for support.

It felt as though the entire room spun around her, the walls closing in, her world unraveling.

Lady Seraphine’s gaze was pure seething rage. Her grip on the wine glass tightened further, and Elara could hear the sickening crack of the glass starting to splinter beneath the pressure.

Before Elara could even register what was happening, Lady Seraphine threw the wine glass across the room. It soared through the air with deadly precision, shattering against the mans head with a sharp crack. The small man staggered backward, his face contorting with pain and surprise as he clutched at his bleeding forehead.

Elara could barely look. The world felt as though it was collapsing in on her.

Lady Seraphine didn’t wait for him to recover. Her voice rang out, cold and commanding, the fury evident in every syllable.

“Leave.”

The small man, blood streaming down his face, barely managed a bow before rushing out of the room, fear and desperation in his eyes.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the room in silence, save for the faint sound of Elara’s ragged breathing.