"This young man is the final and most prized possession of this festival! Look at that dazzling face; the body beneath those clothes must be exquisite, too, yes? He is exceptionally knowledgeable, highly capable, and promises far more glory than mere courage to any who claim him. A genius in medicine as well! I should say no more your eyes are already ready for the bid. Starts at 300,000 silvers!"
Ett's chest tightened. Recognition struck like a dagger. That earring, those eyes, the faint sweep of sun-colored hair there was no doubt. Who could have imagined this was his existence before fame spread like wildfire across the Empire? The boy who would one day ignite paranoia, whose very survival would force her to risk entire nations, was trapped here, vulnerable, in a cruel spectacle she had long read about but never envisioned witnessing firsthand.
Starlight cerulean eyes, hollow and cold. Hair the color of dawn. A wooden ear piercing, unassuming to most but Ett knew. This boy was the pivot of destiny, the thread upon which violence, fear, and calamity would eventually unravel.
Her mind flickered to the past: the extreme measures she had considered, the restraint forced upon her by Moran, the Grand Strategist, who had halted her from obliterating everything in a blind surge of desperation. Sixty percent of the potential devastation had been curtailed but even that did not soothe the pit of dread gnawing at her stomach.
The host's voice continued, oblivious, praising the boy's genius in medicine. In this era, skill like his was rarer than gold; youth paired with such aptitude was irresistible to nobles and commoners alike. Ett filed the facts away: this child was more than beauty. He was a weapon, a treasure, a mind worth a kingdom.
"400,000 silvers!" a maid shouted, piercing the growing chaos.
The crowd surged, cries and gestures merging into a frenzy. Curtains rustled, revealing a carriage where an elderly lady whispered instructions, and the bids climbed:
"600,000 silvers!"
"600,500 silvers!"
"750,000!"
"900 silvers! I mean—900,000 silvers!"
"950,000!"
"100 gold!"
Ett's jaw tightened. How could a single human command such fevered devotion?
"2,000 golds!"
The crowd gasped, a tide of astonishment. "Oh my! Who dares outbid Mrs. Peringerine?"
Her gaze fixed on him little Moran, the boy she recognized instantly adored beyond reason. Especially by older women, by people who should not have held sway over such tender fates.
Ett's pulse surged. What is this unseen magnetism, this subtle gravity about him?
Nearby, a gruff man leaned in, suspicion and reluctance in every line of his face.
"Mister, can you do me a favor?"
"You don't know me," he snapped, sharp as a whip.
"I don't need you to," Ett said, voice cold and unwavering. "Save that child. He's about to be roped in."
His eyes widened. He had neither the funds nor the intent. Ett, deliberate and unhesitating, pressed her hand into her sleeve, producing thirteen thousand gold coins and thrusting them into his palm.
"This is enough. Keep the change."
It was the villainess' personal cache, not a treasury of the Empire. A calculated, deliberate investment in a future she was only beginning to comprehend.
"Y-you!" he stammered.
"Silence," Ett hissed, "discretion."
He hesitated, curiosity ignited. Nobility. That much was certain.
The host thundered: "No more bids? Then the festival's most beautiful and talented—"
"8,000 golds!" Mrs. Peringerine interrupted, fanning herself.
The uncle beside Ett swallowed hard, sweat trickling down his temples, caught in the whirlwind of wealth, spectacle, and bewilderment.
"Going once! Going twice! Thrice! Sold! Congratulations to the buyer!"
The uncle's bewildered gaze searched for the boy. But Ett had vanished, slipping away like smoke in the sun.
"Buyer, come to the stage, please!" the host demanded.
The boy was guided down discreetly.
Fenar, the uncle, was unwittingly the agent of Ett's silent heroism, a pawn in the hand of an unseen benefactor.
"T-Thank you. I-I will work hard," Moran murmured, awe and caution intertwining in his wide eyes.
Fenar shook his head, whispering, "It wasn't me who saved you. The money… came from someone else. She asked me to free you, and that was it."
Moran's gaze glimmered, innocent and awestruck. "R-Really? Where… is she?"
"She acted on a whim," Fenar said, voice soft, matter-of-fact. "Noble children are… unpredictable."
His mind churned. My life belongs to her. Who is she?
"She is a brunette with brown eyes," Fenar added lightly. "Nothing extraordinary, though she carries herself like a noble."
Moran frowned, overwhelmed by the injustice of his helplessness. "She… threw me away."
Fenar chuckled gently. "Not quite. She had reasons. Nobles can be eccentric, deliberate, whimsical… She acted on impulse."
The boy's shoulders finally relaxed as they entered Fenar's modest home. The contrast between the auction's cruel chaos and this quiet refuge was jarring. Warmth, simplicity, dignity life without the constant gnaw of fear.
"Sit here. I'll prepare a bath for you," Fenar instructed.
"Why… why are you so kind if you didn't pay?" Moran asked, suspicion shadowing his voice.
"Does being common preclude helping someone?" Fenar replied, voice rich with empathy.
"You're safe here. Stay as long as you like. That money… consider it yours. Spend it wisely."
Moran's small hands trembled, the gesture foreign to him. Survival had been the sum total of his life counting coins, measuring risks, fearing every breath. He traced the tabletop, simple yet cared for, as if pride had been woven into every joint and grain.
Desperation welled within him. He bit his own finger, tasting the coppery tang of blood a reflex born from years of hopelessness. Life had been nothing but grinding struggle.
Fenar's voice, warm and steady, anchored him back to reality.
"What are you doing with your finger?"
Moran froze, eyes wide, then slowly innocence and trust returned.
"I… I thought I'd be left alone forever," he whispered.
"You're not alone," Fenar said, threading empathy into each word.
"You've suffered, but that ends now."
Moran slumped in relief. "I… I'm sorry."
"For what? You did nothing wrong," Fenar reassured.
He guided the boy to the bath, watching him cautiously move, every motion steeped in the habits of someone who had known nothing but hardship and fear. Small dignity, small comfort—it was all he had known until now.
"Call me when you're finished. I'll set out clothes, and we'll buy more tomorrow," Fenar said.
Moran nodded, eyes wide, drinking in the quiet strength of this sanctuary. For the first time, he felt a fragile, delicate sense of safety.
Moonlight sliced through the kitchen window, pale and sharp, catching the edge of a knife that gleamed like liquid silver in the shadows. Every step was silent, deliberate, the figure moving with the patience of a predator, muscles coiled, senses acute.
Fenar slept unaware, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
Moran's hand tightened around the hilt. His breath was shallow, controlled, heart a quiet drum in the silence. One motion, one perfect arc and it would be over.
The air seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the faint whisper of the knife cutting through the night.
It happened in a blink. Cold, precise, and merciless. Fenar's body slumped against the bed, eyes wide, frozen in disbelief, still searching for an answer that would never come.
Silence slammed down like a weight, pressing against Moran's chest.
He crouched beside the corpse, eyes scanning, calculating. No tremor. No flinch.
The innocence, the fragile traces of childhood, had been stripped from him long ago. Life had taught him to move before fear could catch him, to act before mercy slowed him.
The room smelled of iron, metal tang sharp in the moonlight, and yet Moran remained disturbingly calm.
The light in Fenar's eyes began to fade, yet he still looks at Moran, searching for something. A questioning eyes.
"Why?" he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might summon consequences. "Because you watched. Because that's all the reason anyone needs to take control."
Fenar worked methodically, wrapping the body with the efficiency of someone who had rehearsed this act a hundred times in his mind. There was no hesitation, no pang of guilt only the cold, surgical precision of survival honed into instinct.
The kitchen, once mundane and domestic, felt suddenly claustrophobic, a theater for ruthless calculation.
When it was done, Moran straightened, knife still in hand for a heartbeat, before letting it drop into the shadows. His eyes, pale and unreadable, swept the room, mapping escape routes, noting sound, noting silence.
This house, once a place of warmth and care, was now his domain by blood and choice.
"Now… this will be my new home," he said, voice low, steady. The words carried no triumph, no joy only the measured authority of someone claiming what the world had never offered willingly.
The moonlight traced the contours of the scene, highlighting the stark contrast between the boy who had survived too much and the man who had unknowingly sheltered him. Moran's gaze lingered on Fenar's unmoving form, and for a fraction of a second, the coldness faltered but only just.