"Where are we going?"
The words, thin and childish, sank into the thick, velvety silence of the carriage. They struck the motionless silhouette across from him and dissipated into dust, leaving no trace. No answer. No movement. Not even the slightest change in the rhythm of breathing that Andrii could barely hear in the oppressive darkness. That silence was louder than any shout. It was final.
He leaned back against the soft seat, and the carriage's sway once again echoed as a dull ache in his battered body. He stared at the steward's figure, trying to make out anything beyond the faint, sky-blue glow of his aura. The same glow as the priest's. The same as the human children's in the filthy cart. The same as the guards who had hauled him around like a sack of potatoes.
So, blue is the color of humans.
The picture was beginning to form. The children with cat-like ears in that same cart had glowed orange. Cat-folk. A faint, almost involuntary smile touched his lips. Despite everything, the part of his consciousness raised on stories of other worlds felt a prickle of childish delight. Real cat-folk. A new, undeniable variable in the equation of his new life.
He looked down at his own tiny palms. A soft, white light seeped from them. Elf.
And this body had its own rules. He remembered that moment in the courtyard. When the priest had thrown the first ice pellet, his command had been vague: "Defend yourself." Andrii had wanted to stand still, to take the hit, to run a test. But his body hadn't listened. It had obeyed the command and executed a perfect, if clumsy, dodge.
But then... then the priest's command had become direct and precise. "Shield!" And his body had stopped dodging. It had begun to block. With its arms. Not with magic. Even though the other children had instantly conjured magical barriers in response to the same command.
Why? The thought pulsed in his mind. Why did my new biology respond to a direct magical command with a crude physical motion? Where is the error... in me, or in the collar?
He touched the cold metal on his neck. This one was different from the last. What commands were coded into it?
Through an unseen crack in the window shutter, a thin, needle-like ray of moonlight pierced the gloom. It crossed the darkness and fell upon the steward's shoulder, carving a sliver of gray cloth out of the murk. That was the last thing he saw. The ray... it began to widen, to fill everything... his thoughts dissolving in its cold glow... the collar... shield... why... arms...
Sleep came not as a reprieve, but as an inevitability, finally snipping the thread of his consciousness.
The dream wasn't a dream. It was a recording, playing on a loop.
The hallway. The water bottle in his hand. The familiar silhouettes framed in the doorway, his mother turning to him with a smile—
And the silent, blinding white light that erased it all.
Fucking hell.
He didn't wake up. He was ejected, thrown from one reality into the next. He shot up in bed, a pathetic, choked sob escaping his chest before he could clamp a hand over his mouth. But this time, there was no one to see. No rescuers, no psychologists, no curious eyes. Just the suffocating silence of a vast, unfamiliar room.
The tears came, hot and silent. He didn't fight them. Instead, surrendering to a strange, childish instinct, he scrambled deeper under the heavy silk duvet, curling into a ball. He let the despair wash over him in the safe, constructed darkness. It was a pressure valve, the only way to keep the engine of his mind from shattering completely.
Time passed. The storm of grief subsided, leaving only a cold, hollow ache. He finally emerged from his cocoon.
The room was still dark, but it was the gray, pre-dawn gloom now, not the black of night. He slipped out of the enormous bed, his bare feet sinking into a thick, soft carpet. He padded to the tall, arched window and pulled the heavy velvet curtain aside.
Outside, the sky to the east was already blushing with the first hints of rose and orange. The first rays of sun were just beginning to kiss the rooftops of the sprawling city below. Beneath the window, a perfectly manicured garden lay shrouded in morning mist.
He scanned the perimeter. No bars.
This wasn't a cell. It was a statement of wealth.
At that moment, the lock on the door behind him clicked softly. The door swung inward.
Andrii spun around. Standing in the doorway was the same man from the carriage. But his drab gray traveling cloak was gone, replaced by the immaculate, deep blue livery of a high-ranking butler, complete with silver buttons that gleamed faintly in the dim light. The shift was jarring. He wasn't cargo anymore. He was an in-house asset.
The man's face remained an impassive mask, his blue aura a calm, steady flame. His eyes swept the room, noted the open curtains, then landed on Andrii.
"His Grace awaits you in the small study," the butler announced, his voice a level, emotionless baritone. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. "Follow me."
The butler led him from the room, and they began their descent. The whisper of their footsteps was lost in the plush carpets that lined the long, wide corridors. Following the silent, liveried figure, he scanned the walls. They were lined with portraits, dozens of stern, proud faces staring down at him from gilded frames. An entire dynasty, frozen in time, observing the strange new addition to their fortress.
Finally, the butler stopped before a set of massive oak doors. He knocked once—a sharp, precise rap—and opened a door without waiting for a reply.
"The boy, Your Grace."
The study was a temple to knowledge and authority. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with leather-bound volumes. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. The air smelled of old paper, beeswax, and the faint, sharp tang of ozone.
Behind the desk sat a man. He appeared to be in his late forties, with sharp, intelligent features and a meticulously trimmed beard. His aura was a deep, rich blue, but it wasn't calm. It shimmered subtly, its currents uneven and warm, like heat haze rising from asphalt.
The man looked up from a document, his stern face softening unexpectedly.
"Ah, our new guest has arrived. Thank you, Elias," he said to the butler, who gave a silent bow and exited. The man's gaze returned to the boy. "Come closer, child. Don't be afraid. What is your name?"
"Lot number six," his quiet, steady child's voice echoed in the grand silence.
The man behind the desk froze for a second, then let out a soft, private laugh—the short, contained chuckle of a man long past being surprised by human cruelty, but who could still appreciate a shard of dark humor.
"So you... do not have a name?"
He nodded. The name "Andrii" belonged to a boy who had died. He had no right to it.
"We will fix that," the man said softly. "Everyone who lives under my roof has a name." He studied the elf's face — calm, yet alert. A still pond hiding deep currents. "From now on, you will be known as Caelan."
He paused, waiting for a reaction. The boy simply stared back at him, then his small lips parted.
"Caelan?" The name came out as a quiet question, a piece of data being examined for the first time.
The nobleman misinterpreted the analytical pause as childish dislike. He raised an eyebrow. "You don't like it? It's an old name," he added. "Some say it means slender one, others — warrior. I think both are true."
"I like it," he replied, his voice flat. And after a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to become deliberate, he added, "I am Caelan."
This surprised the master of the house again. It wasn't simple agreement. It was a strange, philosophical statement of fact. Acceptance, but without a shred of submission.
"Very well, Caelan," he said, a flicker of something akin to respect in his eyes. He rose and walked around the desk. "My name is Duke Valerius. And this is your home now. We will take care of you. But, like everyone in this house, you will have your duties." He stopped directly in front of him. "The collar you wear is a contract. It ensures your safety and your loyalty. Understood?"
Caelan inclined his head once more. The Duke's voice was gentle, almost fatherly, yet every word carried the weight of unquestioned command – control wrapped in velvet. He let the comforting promises of "home" and "safety" slide past and fixed on the true hinge of power: the collar. Everything else – the titles, the kindness – was only gilding around that single iron fact. Until he understood the collar, nothing else mattered.
The Duke, satisfied, gestured to the armchair by the fireplace.
"Sit, Caelan. We have matters to discuss."
Caelan sat down in the armchair. The leather was soft, and the room was warm and quiet. The Duke returned to his own chair behind the desk, his commanding presence softening ever so slightly. He looked at Caelan not as a retainer, but as… a solution.
"Caelan," he began, his voice quiet. "I brought you here not for labor. I need you to do something far more difficult. I need you to be a friend to my daughter."
He ran a hand over his face, a flicker of weariness crossing his features. "Lianna… she is lonely. The other children… even my own older sons… they avoid her. They are afraid of her."
The words struck a strange chord in Caelan. He knew what that felt like. To be isolated. To be the one everyone whispered about and kept their distance from. To be feared for reasons you couldn't control. For the first time, he felt a flicker of something other than analytical detachment toward his new situation. A sliver of empathy. But that empathy immediately collided with the cold, hard reality of his own condition.
"If you want me to be her friend," he asked, his voice steady, "then why the collar?"
The question caught the Duke off guard. He looked at the small boy, truly looked at him, and saw a mind that didn't just accept orders. He leaned forward, his expression serious.
"It's a precaution. For now," he said. Then, a new idea seemed to form in his mind. "But you're right. Let's make a deal."
He simplified his words, speaking to the child he saw before him, yet addressing the mind he sensed within. "You make my daughter smile. You become her friend, and play with her. If you can do that, this collar comes off. I promise."
Caelan considered the offer. It was a simple task with a monumental reward. Freedom. Or at least, the beginning of it. He looked up, his expression unreadable.
"You paid forty silver pieces for me," he stated, the words simple and cold. He paused. "Alright. But if I do this… will you help me with things I need later?"
The counter-offer hung in the air, audacious and utterly unexpected.
For a moment, there was complete silence. The Duke stared at him, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. A four-year-old purchased asset was not just accepting a deal, but negotiating for future considerations.
Then, it happened. A strange, rusty sound escaped the Duke's lips. It started as a choked chuckle, then grew into a full, genuine laugh. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but of pure, unadulterated delight. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in amusement.
"Yes," he finally managed to say through his laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Oh, yes, Caelan. If you solve this problem for me, you will have my full support. Absolutely."
The deal was struck.