[One year ago]
"Please… I'll listen! I'll submit—I'll do anything, just stop—!"
Anore's cries choked out between ragged gasps, but the onslaught didn't stop. The thorns bit into his flesh again and again.
Dagging across old wounds.
Blood dripped from his back, warm trails slithering down to the cold, filthy floor. His arms trembled where they barely held him up, his knees had long since given out.
Behind him, his master's voice was venomous, mocking even.
"Now you want to obey? Pathetic truly. You were born for this, you filthy brat. Don't think your mother's whore-blood didn't pass down to you. You should be thanking me for making use of you."
The whip cracked again. Anore's body jerked, but the pain, he couldn't even feel it anymore. It was like he was drowning in it.
His fists clenched. His nails dug so deep into his palms he felt the skin break.
He let out a sound, a guttural scream that wasn't entirely human. His vision blurred not from tears alone but from the sheer force of everything ripping apart inside him.
"I hate you…" he whispered, not even aware he said it.
"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"
But the man laughed, "Louder, doll. Let me hear it."
His hand scrambled blindly on the floor, his fingers found something sharp.
A shard of broken glass. It was small and insignificant, yes, but it was enough.
Anore didn't stop to think. He just wanted it to stop.
He spun around with a savage cry and drove the shard into his master's thigh.
The man screamed. The whip clattering to the floor.
But Anore didn't stop there, the glass pierced through the man's flesh again.
And again.
And again.
"Stop—stop hitting me—stop—stop—STOP—!"
He wasn't stabbing a man anymore. He was striking at every sneer, every touch, every filthy hand that had ever claimed him.
He was drowning in his own bloody tears, hands riddled with cuts, until the body beneath him stopped twitching and yet he kept going.
By the time his arm finally dropped, numb and shaking, the man was unrecognizable bleeding heap.
Anore sat back, his chest heaving.
It was quiet. So quiet. His own breath was the loudest sound in the room.
He looked down at his hands. It was red, at the moment all he could see was red.
"I stopped him…" he murmured, voice raw.
Sooner or later, the master's guards came into the room, shocked by the bloody scene.
The blood smeared his fingers as they dragged him out, his nails scraping the floor while his breath tasted of iron and dust.
He didn't resist because the man who had beaten him was dead, and for a second, he believed it was over, but the guards had seen the body, saw him drenched in blood, and they attacked him.
Their boots slammed into his ribs and back, and when he curled in, they kicked harder, calling him a filthy whore, telling him he had no right to touch their master, and when they grew tired of kicking, they yanked him up by the hair and dragged him into another room.
The master's son was there, far worse than the father because where the old man beat him with ropes, the son used words to gut him from the inside.
He didn't bother with beatings this time; he only smiled and said, "Let me give you a proper send-off, one last time, because that's all you're worth.." and Anore knew what it meant, he endured it like he always did until his body was thrown into a carriage, to be discarded like trash.
He was passed from hand to hand after that, four times in that year, sold as a pretty face that wouldn't perform, slapped when he didn't respond, starved when he didn't please, mocked for being a scared, but none of them could shatter him again.
By the time he reached the auction house, his face wore the only thing left to protect him, a cold, perfect mask, while his heart stayed locked behind it.
[Back to present]
The auction hall was packed. Velvet curtains hung heavy on the walls, muffling the murmurs of nobles seated in their gilded booths.
Gold flickered under the chandelier light, but Anore stood out more than any jewel, bound in chains and displayed like a trophy on the marble platform.
The auctioneer cleared his throat, plastering on a smile. "Lot 27! A rare piece, though not without... imperfections." He paced in front of Anore, gesturing with a ring-clad hand. "His body is—admittedly—a canvas of scars. But that face!" He turned dramatically, pointing to Anore's indifferent expression. "That face could put a princess to shame."
The hall hummed with soft whispers, speculative and biting.
"And now.." the auctioneer called, "we open the bid at 500 gold coins!"
A hand lifted lazily from the second booth. "Five hundred."
Another voice, sharper, cut through. "Six hundred."
Eiden remained silent, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his armrest. His eyes didn't leave Anore. To be honest he had no idea how his house master had talked him into attending this gathering.
"Seven hundred." A plump merchant from the far corner raised his fan, leering openly. "He'll fetch a good price in the brothels."
Anore's lips twitched into a hollow smile. The merchant didn't notice, but Eiden did.
"Eight hundred." A young noblewoman, lips curling with amusement, joined the fray. "I wonder if he screams pretty."
The hall chuckled darkly. Anore didn't move a muscle, his chains clinked when he shifted his weight, but his eyes stayed distant.
"Nine hundred." Eiden's voice finally spoke, calm yet resonant. The hall fell quiet for a moment.
The merchant scowled, glancing toward Eiden's box. "A duke bidding? I didn't know you had interest in discarded toys, Duke Eiden."
Eiden offered no reply. His gaze was pinned on Anore, whose head had tilted ever so slightly, as if finally noticing him.
The auctioneer clapped his hands eagerly. "Nine hundred, do I hear a thousand?"
"One thousand." The noblewoman grinned.
Eiden's voice followed smoothly. "Fifteen hundred."
A murmur swept through the hall. The merchant's lip curled. "Ridiculous. Sixteen hundred."
"Two thousand." Eiden's tone didn't waver, his eyes narrowing slightly.
The merchant's face flushed. He opened his mouth, but the noblewoman spoke first. "Two thousand? For something so... ruined?"
Eiden's lips quirked. "I'm not paying for the skin. He's an interesting specimen...."
The hall went silent. All eyes turned to Anore, who now regarded Eiden with a faint spark of curiosity. For the first time, his blank expression cracked, and his mouth twitched into a slow, mocking grin.
The merchant sneered but didn't lift his fan again. The noblewoman sat back, pouting.
"Two thousand gold coins going once…" the auctioneer's voice rang out.
"Going twice…"
Eiden leaned back, his smile sharp.
"Sold! To Duke Eiden, for two thousand gold coins!"
A polite wave of applause rippled through the hall, but Eiden wasn't listening. His attention was fully on Anore, who stood under the stage lights with the chains still around his wrists.
And Anore?
Anore smiled.
But it wasn't a grateful smile.
It was a dangerous one.