The first thing Caelum learned about Eryndor was that it smelled like iron.
Not the clean kind, polished on swords and armor.
The wet kind.
The kind that lived in blood.
He kept his eyes lowered as they forced him through the stone archway of the auction square. Chains circled his wrists, rough and too tight, metal scraping skin that had already been rubbed raw during transport. Around him, other boys and men shuffled forward in silence, their ankles linked, their shoulders slumped from days without proper sleep.
Above them rose the capital — tall black towers cutting into a pale morning sky.
The Obsidian Court.
Even from this distance, it looked less like a palace and more like something carved from shadow.
Caelum swallowed.
He had never seen a structure that large. Or that cold.
A guard shoved him forward when he slowed.
"Move."
He moved.
The platform stood at the center of the square, raised and surrounded by nobles dressed in heavy silks and dark velvet. Gold flashed at wrists and throats. Rings glittered. Faces bored, calculating.
They were not here to see people.
They were here to measure property.
Caelum tried not to look at them.
Looking made it worse.
Looking made him remember he had once been free.
He focused instead on the sound of wind catching loose banners overhead.
Black and crimson.
The colors of the crown.
Someone ahead of him stumbled. A whip cracked in response. The sharp sound tore through the square, and the boy's cry was swallowed quickly, swallowed the way everything was swallowed here.
Silence returned.
Silence was survival.
Caelum had learned that much on the journey north.
He was placed in line with six others. Their chains were hooked to an iron ring embedded in the platform floor. A merchant with oiled hair and a voice too loud for the early hour stepped forward, hands spread in performance.
"Fresh arrivals from the southern provinces," the man announced. "Strong. Unspoiled. Suitable for domestic service, field labor, or… private assignments."
Laughter scattered lightly through the crowd.
Caelum kept his head down.
The merchant began pulling them forward one by one. Turning their faces. Forcing mouths open to inspect teeth. Pressing fingers into shoulders to demonstrate muscle.
When it was his turn, the merchant grabbed his jaw too hard.
"Look at this one," he said, tilting Caelum's face upward toward the buyers. "Pretty enough for palace halls."
Caelum's stomach tightened.
He did not want the palace.
He did not want to be noticed.
The merchant released him with a small shove.
"Number seven," he called. "Healthy. Quiet."
Quiet.
That was good.
Quiet kept you alive.
The bidding began for the first slave.
Coins. Titles. Casual interest.
A man in deep blue velvet purchased the second.
A woman with a jeweled headdress bought the third.
By the time they reached Caelum, his throat had gone dry.
He tried not to think about where he might end up.
Tried not to think about the fields.
Or worse.
He focused instead on breathing.
In.
Out.
The merchant gestured grandly.
"Number seven!"
No immediate bids.
Relief flickered.
Perhaps he would be overlooked.
Perhaps—
"Turn him."
The merchant rotated him roughly, displaying him from all sides.
A murmur rose this time.
Soft.
Interested.
Caelum's pulse began to pound in his ears.
And then, without thinking — without planning it — he hummed.
It was small.
Barely sound at all.
Just a thread of melody he remembered from his village.
A lullaby his mother had once sung while stirring soup over a weak fire.
He did not sing for the nobles.
He did not sing to be chosen.
He sang because the noise inside his head was too loud.
Because fear needed something to anchor to.
The melody slipped from him before he could stop it.
Soft.
Fragile.
Wrong place.
Wrong time.
The square quieted.
The merchant froze mid-sentence.
Someone shifted.
A chair scraped stone.
Caelum's hum died instantly as he realized what he had done.
Silence followed.
But it was no longer the safe kind.
It was the watching kind.
The merchant laughed nervously. "Forgive him, my lords. A provincial habit."
No one responded.
And then—
A voice.
Low.
Controlled.
Used to obedience.
"I will take that one."
The words did not echo.
They did not need to.
They cut clean through the square.
Every noble turned toward the elevated balcony overlooking the auction floor.
Caelum did not lift his head.
He didn't need to.
He felt the shift.
The air itself had changed.
The merchant bowed deeply toward the balcony.
"Your Majesty."
Majesty.
The word dropped like stone into water.
Ripples spread instantly.
The king was here.
In the auction square.
Watching.
Caelum's lungs forgot how to work.
He had never seen a king.
He had heard stories, of course. Every province had them. Tales of the Iron Crown. Of a ruler who had taken the throne at twenty-two and ruled with uncompromising discipline since.
King Azrael Vaelric.
Thirty-two now.
Ten years on the throne.
Unmarred by scandal.
Untouched by rebellion.
Feared.
Caelum's chains were unhooked from the ring.
The merchant hurried to comply. "An excellent choice, Your Majesty."
The nobles did not argue.
No one outbid a king.
Guards moved toward the platform.
Not the ordinary city guards.
Royal guards.
Their armor polished darker than steel. Their posture precise.
Caelum felt hands grip his arms.
He did not resist.
Resistance was death.
As they led him away from the line, he dared one mistake.
He looked up.
Just once.
The balcony stood in shadow, but he could make out a figure there.
Tall.
Still.
Black and crimson robes edged in gold thread.
No crown — not here — but authority did not require metal.
He could not see the king's full face from this distance.
Only the sharp angle of his jaw.
And eyes.
Watching.
Not amused.
Not smiling.
Studying.
Caelum's stomach twisted.
Why?
He had done nothing remarkable.
He was not the strongest.
Not the tallest.
Not the most defiant.
He had hummed.
That was all.
The guards led him across the square and through an arched corridor leading toward the inner palace grounds.
The noise of the market faded behind stone walls.
Footsteps echoed.
Chains clinked softly with each step.
The Obsidian Court loomed ahead — larger up close than he had imagined. Black marble columns lined the entrance. Crimson banners stirred high above.
Cold.
Everything felt cold.
He was handed off to palace attendants at the inner gate.
Mistress Halvera stood waiting.
Even before she spoke, he knew she was in charge.
Her posture straight. Her expression carved from something harder than stone.
"This one?" she asked the guard.
"By direct order."
She assessed him once. Efficient. Dispassionate.
"Remove the chains."
The metal fell away from his wrists.
It felt wrong to be without them.
Too light.
"You will not sing unless commanded," she said without preamble.
His throat tightened.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You will not speak unless spoken to."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You will not look at the king unless he instructs you to do so."
A pause.
"Yes, ma'am."
She stepped closer.
"If you displease him, no one will save you."
The words were not cruel.
They were factual.
Caelum understood that.
He followed her through winding corridors.
Torchlight flickered along polished floors. Servants moved silently along the edges of hallways. No one ran. No one laughed.
The palace breathed differently than the city.
Quieter.
Controlled.
They stopped outside a side chamber.
"You will remain here until summoned."
The door opened.
Small room.
Bare.
A thin mattress on the floor.
A single window too high to reach.
The door shut behind him.
Locked.
Caelum sank slowly onto the mattress.
His hands still tingled from where chains had been.
He flexed his fingers.
He was inside the Obsidian Court.
Owned by the crown.
Chosen by the king.
He pressed his forehead against his knees.
Why?
Hours passed.
Or perhaps only minutes.
Time did not move properly here.
At some point, footsteps stopped outside his door.
Different from before.
Measured.
He held his breath.
The lock turned.
The door opened.
Mistress Halvera stepped aside.
And behind her—
The king.
No balcony now.
No distance.
King Azrael Vaelric filled the doorway like a shadow cast by flame.
Black robes layered over fitted dark garments. Gold accents catching the torchlight. No smile.
Only observation.
Caelum slid from the mattress to kneel instinctively.
Head down.
Heart hammering.
Silence stretched.
He could feel the king's gaze on him.
Heavy.
Assessing.
"Lift your head."
The voice was the same as in the square.
Low.
Controlled.
Caelum hesitated.
Fear locked his neck.
"Lift. Your. Head."
He obeyed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He raised his eyes.
And met the king's gaze fully for the first time.
Gold.
Not warm gold.
Not sunlight.
Something sharper.
Evaluating.
Azrael stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.
They were alone now.
The king crouched slightly, bringing himself level with Caelum's kneeling height.
"You sang."
It was not a question.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Why?"
The truth trembled on his tongue.
Because I was afraid.
Because it is the only thing I have left.
Because silence hurts more.
He chose the simplest.
"I did not think."
A long pause.
Azrael studied him in that suffocating quiet.
"Sing again."
The command fell gently.
But it was absolute.
Caelum's breath caught.
His voice felt fragile in his throat.
He closed his eyes briefly.
And began.
Soft.
Careful.
The same melody.
The lullaby.
The room seemed smaller with the sound in it.
Warmer.
When he finished, silence returned.
Azrael did not speak immediately.
He did not move.
And then he said, very quietly—
"You will sing only when I command it."
Caelum swallowed.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Azrael rose.
Turned toward the door.
Paused.
"From this moment forward," he said without looking back, "you belong exclusively to the crown."
The door opened.
Closed.
The lock slid into place again.
Caelum remained kneeling on the stone floor.
The weight of those words settled around him heavier than chains ever had.
Exclusively.
Not a servant.
Not a common slave.
Something else.
He did not know whether that was better.
Or worse.
Outside, somewhere deep in the palace, bells began to toll the evening hour.
And in the darkness of the small chamber, Caelum finally understood—
He had not been purchased.
He had been claimed.