The bell clangs, sharp and merciless.

Naryn's eyes snap open, and for a moment, he lies still on the thin mat that serves as his bed. He sighs, long and weary, the weight of another day already pressing on his chest. Another long day awaiting me, he thinks, pushing the thought away even as it lingers. The bell rings again, insistent, and he knows who it summons.

Anden, he tells himself, dragging his limbs into motion. My master, the noble son of the Rosvella family. A great house, if the stories are true. Not that it changes anything for me.

The stone floor is cold beneath his bare feet, and he shivers as he pulls his servant's tunic over his head. The fabric, crisp and dark, bears the Rosvella crest embroidered in silver thread a mark that sets him apart from the common staff but chains him even tighter to the family. He adjusts the belt at his waist, the leather cracked but functional, and slips on a pair of worn shoes.

When he steps out into the narrow servants' corridor, the quiet hum of the estate begins to stir distant voices, footsteps echoing on polished floors. Naryn doesn't linger. Anden doesn't wait.

By the time he reaches the boy's chambers, the door slams open before he can knock.

"You're late."

Anden, standing in the center of the room, already dressed in his fine silks, glares down at Naryn. His smirk spreads slowly across his face, sharp as a blade. "What kept you ? Too busy dreaming of freedom ?" He laughs, harsh and loud, as if it's the funniest thing he's ever said.

Naryn lowers his gaze. "I apologize, Master Anden," he says, his voice steady, betraying none of his frustration. "It won't happen again."

"Of course it won't," Anden sneers. He kicks a boot across the floor, the leather scuffing against the rug. "Clean that. It's filthy. And if it's not shining by the time I leave, you'll regret it."

Naryn moves without hesitation, kneeling to pick up the boot. Polish, wipe, repeat, he recites in his mind, the motions so familiar they feel automatic. The smudged leather gleams under his careful work, but he knows Anden doesn't care about the result only the power he holds in making Naryn do it.

"You missed a spot," Anden says after a moment, stepping closer. His shadow falls over Naryn, who doesn't pause, doesn't flinch. He knows what's coming.

Anden's foot nudges Naryn's side, not hard, but enough to sting. "Lazy," Anden mutters. "That's what you are. If I were Father, I'd have replaced you years ago."

"I'll do better," Naryn says quietly. He keeps his tone neutral, not defiant, not submissive. Don't give him anything to latch onto, he reminds himself. The silence is better than reacting to the provocation.

Anden chuckles. "You're boring today. You'll have to do better at entertaining me." He gestures toward the desk, where a stack of heavy tomes waits. "I have lessons. Grab those. And if you drop even one..."

Anden lets the threat hang in the air, his grin widening.

Naryn stands, his eyes briefly flicking to the books. The top one catches his attention a green leather binding with gold lettering: Fundamentals of Mana Control. Something sharp twists in his chest, longing and frustration coiling together. Magic, he thinks, the word pulsing in his mind.

His fingers tighten around the books as he lifts them. The weight of their knowledge feels like a taunt, as unattainable as the stars. Anden doesn't notice the way Naryn's jaw clenches; he's already striding out the door.

"Keep up, slave," Anden calls over his shoulder, his tone light and mocking.

Naryn follows him silently, his steps measured, the books balanced carefully in his arms.

The morning light filters in through the tall windows as Naryn follows Anden down the long, halls of the Rosvella mansion. The books are heavy in his arms. Anden moves ahead of him with the unhurried arrogance of someone who expects the world to bend to his will. The thudding of Naryn's footsteps echoes behind him, steady but subdued, as he keeps his gaze lowered.

They pass servants hurriedly going about their tasks, but none of them meet Naryn's eye. Averted gazes, lowered heads he's used to it by now. The status between him and them is clear. They're workers, he's a slave, and there a line to never crossed.

At the end of the hall, Anden pauses in front of a grand door, ornate with carvings of old battles and noble figures. He doesn't look back, but he knows Naryn is there, waiting for the next command.

"Put those on the desk," Anden says, flicking his hand toward the large oak surface where piles of paper and scrolls are spread out in disarray.

Naryn moves swiftly, setting the books down with care, though his fingers linger over the leather covers. Fundamentals of Mana Control. The words burn through him, each letter a bitter reminder of how close, and yet how far, magic seems to him.

"Do you think you could learn anything from those ?" Anden's voice snaps Naryn out of his thoughts.

Naryn stands straight, his back rigid. "No, Master Anden," he says, his voice even, but the words taste like ash. "It's just... books."

Anden's laughter rings out, sharp and unkind. "Just books. You're such a fool. Do you really think magic is something you could learn ? You're nothing more than a slave." He steps closer to Naryn, his presence suddenly suffocating. "You're not like me. You're my things. You have a collar. That's all you'll ever be. Remember that."

Naryn forces himself to meet Anden's gaze, the fire in his chest flickering. But he does not reply. Not yet.

Anden's eyes narrow. "Now, clean up these scrolls. They're in disarray." He gestures carelessly to the scattered papers on the desk. "And don't you dare make a mistake. I'll make sure you regret it."

Naryn nods, bending over the desk to begin the task. His fingers move carefully over the scrolls, but his mind is elsewhere. Magic, he thinks again. It's all he's ever wanted. To touch it. To wield it. But the collar on his neck has kept him in check, a constant reminder that his dreams can never be more than dreams.

As he organizes the papers, the spine of one book catches his eye. It's an older text, one he's seen on the shelf before, a tome bound in cracked red leather. Naryn hesitates, his hand hovering over it, the temptation so strong he can almost feel the book calling to him. Maybe, he dares to think. Maybe there's something in here that could help me. Just a scrap of knowledge. Just something to make it real.

But before he can act on the thought, Anden's voice cuts through the air like a blade. "What are you staring at, slave ?"

Naryn pulls his hand back quickly, swallowing the frustration that rises in his throat. "Nothing, Master," he says, his voice soft.

Anden watches him for a long moment before nodding in satisfaction. "Good. Now finish your work. If it's not done by the time I return, you'll regret it."

And with that, Anden turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Naryn alone in the room.

The silence presses down on Naryn like a weight, suffocating and thick. His fingers hover over the scrolls, but his mind is still on the book, the one he almost dared to open.

One day, he thinks again, his heart pounding. One day, I'll find a way. Even if it takes everything I have, I'll learn. Magic won't just be a dream.

For now, though, he returns to his task. His thoughts are locked on that vision of magic, however distant, however impossible it may seem. And in the stillness of the room, a quiet defiance settles in his chest.

Hours blur by, filled with trivial tasks., each one a reminder of Naryn's place in the world. He polishes silver, organizes books, and prepares meals, all while the sounds of the noble household swirl around him. Laughter and the clinking of glasses echo from the grand dining hall, but Naryn remains hidden in the shadows, far from it all. Anden's harsh demands never let up, a constant stream of orders that Naryn follows without a word.

By the time the evening bell rings, signaling the end of his duties for the day, Naryn feels the exhaustion sink deep into his bones.His limbs are aching from the unceasing labor, and the collar around his neck feels heavier than ever pressing against his skin, reminding him of the boundaries he can never cross.

But tonight, something is different.

As he heads back to his small quarters, the flickering torchlight casts long shadows on the walls, and the air feels thick with anticipation. Naryn reaches for the door to his room when a voice stops him.

"Naryn."

It's Anden's voice, smooth and commanding, just loud enough to send a shiver down Naryn's spine.

Naryn turns, instinctively lowering his gaze. "Yes, Master Anden ?"

Anden stands at the end of the corridor, his hands casually tucked behind his back. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that makes Naryn's stomach tighten. "Come here."

Naryn hesitates, his heart racing. He doesn't like the look in Anden's eyes. But he doesn't have a choice. He moves forward, step by reluctant step, until he's standing a few feet away from his master.

Anden's eyes flick over him, appraising. "I've noticed you've been... distracted lately," he says, his tone casual, but Naryn can feel the weight behind his words. "Dreaming, perhaps ?"

Naryn keeps his head bowed. "No, Master," he answers, his voice low and steady. "Just tired from the day's work."

Anden chuckles, a sound devoid of warmth. "Tired, hmm? I think you're hiding something from me. You've been acting... strange." He takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "Have you been snooping around ? Looking at my things ?"

Naryn's breath hitches, his heart pounding in his chest. "No, Master. I would never." He fights to keep his voice steady, but the truth feels like a lie on his tongue. He hasn't been snooping, not exactly. But the temptation to learn more, to touch the magic that Anden so carelessly wields, has never been stronger.

Anden's lips curl into a smile, though there's no kindness in it. "You better not be. I'd hate to punish you for something so... foolish." He steps back, his gaze lingering on Naryn for a moment longer. "But perhaps you need a reminder of your place."

Naryn's throat tightens, but he says nothing. This is nothing new. Anden likes to remind him, often, that he's beneath him nothing more than a thing to be used and discarded. It's easier to remain silent, to let the sting of Anden's words wash over him without reacting.

"Go to your room," Anden commands. "And don't leave it until I say so. I don't want to see you again tonight."

Naryn bows. "As you wish, Master."

With that, Anden turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until they fade into silence.

Naryn stands there for a moment, feeling the weight of the conversation settle heavily on him. The collar tightens around his neck, but it isn't just the collar that keeps him chained. It's the knowledge that, for now, he has no other choice but to obey. No matter how desperately he wants to defy it all, the power of the Rosvella name, of Anden's cruelty, holds him in place.

As he enters his small room, he shuts the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a moment. He's alone now. The room is quiet, save for the sound of his own breathing.

For a fleeting moment, Naryn allows himself to dream. One day, he thinks again, the words pulsing in his mind, stronger this time. One day, I will be free. One day, I will learn magic, and no one will control me anymore.

For now, it's just a dream. But dreams have a way of changing things. And Naryn is more determined than ever to make his dream a reality.

The days blur into one another, each indistinguishable from the last. Naryn moves through the motions of servitude with the quiet efficiency he's perfected over the years. He cleans, he obeys. Anden's whims remain unpredictable, a constant source of tension in Naryn's otherwise monotonous existence. But Naryn has learned to endure. Every task, every insult, every dismissal it all pushes him toward something greater, something he can almost taste.

It's a slow burn, this desire for magic. It grows inside him, twisting and turning with each passing day, and Naryn feels it deep in his bones. There's a hunger there, one that cannot be ignored, a thirst that no amount of menial labor can quench.

One evening, after a long day of cleaning the lavish dining hall, Naryn is assigned to attend to Anden's study. The door to the study is already ajar when Naryn approaches, and he hesitates just outside. Anden is inside, his voice drifting out, talking to someone perhaps a tutor, or a guest. Naryn doesn't care. He's used to the noise.

But tonight, something feels different. There's a heavy silence hanging in the air, something Naryn can't quite place. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever waits inside, and enters.

Anden is alone. The young noble is sitting at his desk, flipping through a thick tome with the air of someone who has done so countless times. The flicker of candlelight catches on the rich fabric of his clothes, casting long shadows across the room.

He looks up as Naryn steps inside, his face momentarily neutral before the smirk returns, sharp and predatory. "There you are," Anden says, as if Naryn's presence is nothing more than an inconvenience. "I need you to organize these," he gestures toward a stack of papers on the desk, "and make sure they're in order by morning."

Naryn nods, stepping forward to do as he's instructed. His hands, already familiar with the process of tidying Anden's disorganized mess, move mechanically, sorting the papers into neat piles. But his attention is drawn to the tome Anden has been reading, the cover worn with use.

Fundamentals of Mana Control, the words gleam in the candlelight, a title Naryn has seen before but never had the courage to ask about. His fingers hover over the pages of the book for a moment before he pulls away. He doesn't dare look at him, not with Anden watching him so closely.

But the book calls to him, a whisper in the back of his mind. The desire to know, to understand, to learn what lies within those pages it pulls at him like a force he can't fight.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, Naryn," Anden's voice breaks the silence, a dangerous edge creeping into his words. "Are you thinking of something, or are you just too simple to come up with a decent response ?"

Naryn keeps his eyes on the papers, refusing to meet Anden's gaze. "I am focused on the task, Master Anden," he says, his voice steady. He's learned to hide his thoughts behind a mask.

Anden's chuckle is low and dark. "Focused, huh ? Is that what you call it ? You're a slave, Naryn. You don't deseve to think. You don't deserve to dream."

Naryn flinches, but only slightly. The words strike close to his heart, but he forces himself to remain still. 

The silence stretches, and for a moment, Naryn wonders if Anden will speak again. But then the noble leans back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "I suppose it's only natural for someone like you to want something more," he muses, almost to himself. "But don't get any ideas. Magic isn't for people like you. It's for the elite, for the ones with pure blood. Not for slave like you."

Anden's words hang in the air, heavy and final. Naryn swallows the lump in his throat, forcing his hands to continue sorting the papers. He knows better than to challenge him, to speak the thoughts that burn in his chest. But deep inside, a quiet rebellion stirs, louder now than ever before.

"Finish up and get out of my sight," Anden snaps, his tone returning to its usual cruelty.

Naryn doesn't hesitate. He finishes his task in silence, careful not to break anything, mindful of every movement. The sooner he's out of this room, the better.

But as he leaves, something shifts within him. Anden's words, harsh and mocking, have only fueled the fire burning inside Naryn. Magic may not be for him now, but one day-one day, it will be. And when that day comes, he'll be ready.

As Naryn walks down the long corridor, the familiar weight of the collar around his neck presses against his skin. He hates it. Hates the way it restricts him, the way it reminds him of his place in the world. But as he slips into his small room, he touches the collar with a sense of determination. It may bind him now, but it won't forever.

One day, he thinks again. One day, I'll break free.