Chapter 57 – Shackles of Choice
Lirael's lips parted as if to object the moment Ethan casually mentioned a custom collar. Her instincts screamed to refuse, to protest this unnecessary expense. But when she saw the sharp glint of determination in his eyes, words froze in her throat. He wasn't jesting—he intended to follow through.
And when his hand unflinchingly pointed to the collar worth five gold coins, her heart nearly stopped.
Her eyes widened, breath catching in her chest. Five gold coins—an outrageous price for low ranking nobles of bustling capitals would hesitate to pay on mere ornamentation. For a collar. For her. The words what are you doing? almost slipped past her lips, but she swallowed them down, choosing silence.
The trader, meanwhile, rubbed his palms together, clearly invigorated by such extravagance. "A fine choice, sir," he said, his voice syrupy with professional cheer. Then his tone shifted, dipping into something more instructive. "Since you are new to this trade… allow me to explain. Slave traders are not equal in skill. The higher one's level, the more… restrictive clauses they can weave into a slave's contract. More restrictions, naturally, demand higher fees."
He leaned closer across the counter, lowering his voice as though sharing privileged knowledge. "You are fortunate, sir. I myself am a high-level trader. I can bind your slave with conditions most cannot even attempt."
Ethan folded his arms, expression unreadable. "I don't need much," he said after a beat of thought. "Just two clauses. She cannot harm me. And she cannot disclose my secrets."
The trader blinked, taken aback. His brows furrowed, lips parting in hesitation. "Sir… forgive my forwardness, but… are you certain? With so few clauses, she will be free to resist your orders. You will not be able to… ah, compel her obedience in uh..certain… ways."
Lirael's spine stiffened.
Ethan only leaned back, his grin faint yet sharp. "Don't trouble yourself about that. A slave can only resist if she holds more power than the master." His eyes slid to Lirael, lingering just long enough to make her heart skip. "And that, she doesn't."
For the briefest moment, his grin curled into something sly and wolfish—an expression meant to fool the trader into believing he intended to exploit power, when in truth… his meaning lay elsewhere.
But Lirael flinched all the same. Whether from the act, or from the meaning behind his words, even she could not tell.
The trader studied him for a heartbeat, then chuckled knowingly, rubbing his chin. "Ahh, I see… yes. Yes, of course. The loopholes of contract magic. You speak like one who understands the game. Those with strength often prefer such simplicity—it allows them to toy with boundaries and exploit the freedoms others fear to grant. Heh… very clever, sir, very clever."
His words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
And Lirael, silent beside Ethan, could only lower her eyes, a storm of emotions swirling within her chest.
The trader rolled up his sleeves, pulling out a parchment that shimmered faintly with a residual glow. His quill, tipped with a crystalline nib, dipped into ink that rippled like liquid starlight. As he wrote, the symbols didn't just stain the parchment—they crawled and pulsed as though alive, embedding themselves into the fibers with every stroke.
"The clauses," he murmured under his breath, his hand moving with practiced precision. "Not able to harm the master. Not able to disclose secrets."
Once finished, he leaned back, signaling his young assistant. "Bring the needle."
The boy hurried forward, tray in trembling hands. Two slender silver needles rested atop a clean cloth. The trader took one, pricking Ethan's finger first, guiding the drop of blood onto the parchment. Then he repeated the ritual with Lirael. Her blood sizzled faintly against the glowing ink, and she stiffened, suppressing a shiver as the sting lingered unnaturally long.
Lastly, the trader pricked her once more, pressing a single bead of crimson onto the collar itself.
The reaction was immediate.
The parchment burst into motes of light, dissolving into a cascade of runes that spiraled upward like a storm of fireflies. They swirled around the trio—dancing, weaving—before splitting into three streams. One flowed into Ethan's chest, another into Lirael's trembling form, and the last into the collar resting between them.
Then, with a faint hiss, the glowing symbols sank into their skin and vanished.
The trader wasted no time. He lifted the collar with both hands and stepped toward Lirael. Her throat tightened as he brought it near; the cold metal brushed her skin, then snapped closed with a crisp clink. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet chamber.
The clasp locked itself seamlessly, becoming one unbroken band of golden steel. No latch, no hinge. Unopenable—except—
Ethan felt it. A strange tug, deep in his chest. The knowledge that, if he willed it, the collar would break free in an instant. That it was bound, not by key or metal, but by his sole command.
"With this," the trader said solemnly, dusting off his hands, "she is officially yours."
Ethan tilted his head. "Are there… other ways to prove ownership?"
The trader blinked, caught off guard. "Other… ways, sir?" He hesitated, as if measuring whether this was a trick. "The collar itself is proof enough, of course. But… should you wish for something else—you may link with the collar through your mind. Think the word contract. Then, a translucent copy of this parchment will appear for all to see. However—" he leaned forward, tone cautionary, "I would advise against using it casually. It reveals not only the ownership, but also the clauses written in it. Its not always… wise to bare one's hand."
"I see." Ethan gave a small nod. His eyes turned inward, focusing, and indeed—there it was. A subtle link. The pulse of a connection to Lirael, as though a faint string tied her soul to his.
Then—
Ding!
> New soul connection detected between host and subject: Lirael Vaerune.
System update in progress… estimated time: 24 hours.
Ethan's eyes flickered. System update? Because of the contract? His lips thinned. So it really ties into the soul itself… Damn.
Breaking his thoughts, he straightened, dusting his cloak. "That concludes my business. How much for the service?"
The trader stroked his beard, calculating. "Since the clauses were minimal… fifty silver, sir."
Ethan reached into his pouch, produced six gold coins, and placed them on the counter. The sound of the weighty clink silenced the assistant mid-breath.
"Keep the change."
The trader's brows rose, but he bowed deeply, eyes glinting with sudden understanding. "My gratitude, sir. Your generosity will not be forgotten." He did not need to be told—this extra fifty silver was payment for silence.
Ethan turned on his heel without another word.
Behind him, Lirael followed with her head lowered. Her silver blue hair shadowed her face, hiding the turmoil in her eyes. To any who saw, she looked like the perfect image of a broken, fearful slave.
But only Ethan, walking ahead, knew just how much of that act was truth.
---
The streets outside were still alive with the bustle of trade, the air filled with the chatter of merchants, the creak of cart wheels, and the tang of roasted meat from nearby stalls. Ethan walked ahead, his figure cutting steady through the crowd, while Lirael trailed behind, her silver blue hair catching stray glimmers of lanternlight. To the eyes of strangers, she looked defeated, quiet, and docile—exactly what her new role demanded.
But her mind was adrift.
So this is it… she thought, lowering her gaze to the polished stones beneath her feet. I've become a slave.
The words should have struck her like a blade. They should have filled her chest with shame, anger, despair—anything. Yet as her fingers brushed the collar circling her throat, she found no such weight. The band was smooth, its golden sheen catching light like a noble's necklace rather than a mark of bondage. It was snug but not suffocating, cool against her skin.
She traced its curve absently, lips pressing into a thin line.
Why doesn't it feel bad?
Her steps slowed for a moment, eyes flicking toward the man in front of her. Ethan's broad back moved with calm certainty, the faint swagger in his stride betraying a confidence she had come to recognize. There was no cruelty in his gaze earlier, no lust for domination, no gloating satisfaction. Only that sly grin—a mask, she realized now, meant more for the trader than for her.
Her hand fell from the collar, brushing against her own chest as though weighing the truth within.
"Yeah…" she whispered under her breath, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at her lips. "It's… not that bad."
She straightened her shoulders, falling back into her role, head lowered once more as they walked. To everyone else, she was the picture of fear and submission. But deep inside, Lirael felt something else entirely—something fragile yet steady blooming in the silence between their steps.
Trust.