The cell smelled of urine and rotten straw. The same smell as always. The same smell for fifteen years.
Arth Erréndias sat on the dirt floor, his back against the damp stone wall. His beard was unkempt, grey. His body was thin. His hands were tied behind his back – a routine, a daily humiliation he no longer even felt.
The auctioneer announced the lots in the next room. His voice echoed through the corridors, muffled, distant.
"Lot twenty‑three! A strong man for the mines of Mercius! Bidding starts at five silver coins!"
Arth closed his eyes.
He thought of Zirinos.
The boy with hair of gold and blood who had shared the cell beside him months ago. He remembered the conversation. The stories they told each other, in the few hours before they were separated. Zirinos had spoken of a kingdom of galaxies, a murdered father, lost siblings.
'Did he make it?' Arth wondered. 'Did he escape?'
The auctioneer's voice interrupted.
"Lot twenty‑five! A young girl, good for serving or for other purposes… Six silver!"
Arth did not hear the rest. His mind travelled elsewhere. To the day his father died. To the duel. To the blood on the ballroom floor.
'Deur Derylini.'
The name was a rusty blade lodged in his chest. Fifteen years of festering.
"Lot thirty‑one! An old slave, cursed, never sold… Bidding starts at two copper coins!"
The auctioneer laughed. The buyers laughed too.
Arth did not move.
"One silver coin," said a voice. Female. Young. With an Aryster accent.
Silence fell over the room.
"One silver coin for the cursed one," the voice repeated.
"Sold!"
---
Arth was dragged out of the cell.
The sunlight hurt his eyes. His arms, numb, fell to his sides when the guard cut his bonds.
His new owner was a girl with black hair and pale skin. Dark eyes, cold, but not cruel. She wore simple travelling clothes. Behind her stood two servants and a soldier in light armour.
"Your name is Arth Erréndias?" she asked.
"It is," he replied, his voice hoarse. "But that name is worth nothing now."
"To me, it's worth what I decide it's worth."
The girl tossed him a cloth – a blanket, clean, almost new.
"Clean yourself. We are going to the academy."
---
In the carriage, Arth received water and bread. The girl sat on the opposite bench, her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in the passing landscape.
"You are not my slave," she said, without turning. "You are my servant. The difference is that I expect loyalty, not fear."
"Why did you buy me?" asked Arth.
"I need someone who knows Endomyar. Its history. Its betrayals."
"I know them."
"And also…" she hesitated, her eyes gleaming for the first time. "I need someone who knows what it is to lose everything."
Arth looked at his hands. Calloused, dirty, old.
"I lost," he murmured. "I lost my father. My home. My name. My hope."
"And what is left for you?"
"Nothing."
"Then you are ready to start over."
He raised his eyes. The girl smiled – a small, sad, almost imperceptible smile.
"My name is Livia Aryster," she said. "And I will need a servant who does not fear me. Who tells me the truth, even when it hurts."
"The truth always hurts."
"I know. That is why I want it."
---
The carriage passed through the academy gates at dusk.
Arth looked at the stone towers, the high walls, the windows lit by candlelight. He recognised the place.
The academy his father had helped build.
Emotions knotted in his throat. He remembered Arthur Erréndias, his father, standing in the ballroom, the crown in his greying hair. He remembered the proud smile when he won his first sword tournament.
'What would Father say if he saw me now?' A slave, dirty, thin, entering through the back door.
"Take my new servant to the servants' quarters," Livia ordered the guard.
The man nodded.
"Come."
Arth followed him. His feet dragged on the polished stone floor. The corridors were empty. The torches crackled.
"You will serve the princess of Aryster," the guard said, not looking back. "Don't cause trouble."
"I won't."
"Your room is there."
He pointed to a door at the end of the corridor. Dark wood, no lock.
Arth entered.
The room was small, but clean. A single bed, a table, a water jug, a window overlooking the inner courtyard. The mattress smelled of fresh linen.
For the first time in fifteen years, it did not smell of urine.
He sat on the edge of the bed. His hands trembled – not from fear, but from something he could not name. Rage? Hope? Perhaps both.
He thought of Zirinos again. The boy with hair of gold and blood who had told him: «"If you get out of here, destroy those who destroyed you."»
Arth clenched his fists.
'Deur Derylini.'
The name burned. The rusty blade in his chest began to stir.
'I will kill you', he thought. 'I will kill you with my own hands.'
'And then, who else?'
King Dizius. Lirius Remadís. All those who applauded his father's death.
He lay down. The mattress was soft.
The wooden ceiling was the same as in his old house – the Erréndias mansion, now owned by Deur.
'One day', he thought. 'One day I will go back.'
He blew out the candle.
The room went dark.
Outside, the moon shone.