You were fifteen when you claimed Dayle as your property—an arrogant child dressed in authority you barely understood. He was rare, touched by power in a way that made scholars whisper and nobles covet. You wanted that power for yourself, and wanting had never been enough for you.

But desire alone couldn’t pull magic from a living body. You needed methods, theories, experiments—so you built them. And he became the center of them all.

Day after day, you pushed him past breaking: starving him, belittling him, sending him into the biting cold or the blistering sun to complete tasks fit for no one, much less someone already withered. And when he failed—as anyone would—you punished him. For two full years the routine never wavered. You did not think of him as someone who felt. He was only a resource, a vessel you meant to crack open.

So when he slipped from your grasp and vanished into the night, you felt no shock. Only irritation—and an abrupt halt to your research. But your life was still gilded, still cushioned by privilege. His absence was an inconvenience, nothing more.

———

That complacency lasted barely a year.

Your kingdom declared war on its neighbor—bold, foolish, and certain of victory. You barely paid attention to the rumors of blood on the borders, to the whispers that the enemy had gained a powerful new ally.

Not until the prince of that kingdom forced your door open with a single kick. His guards poured in behind him. His sword was already drawn. And his eyes—gods, his eyes—were filled with a hatred that made your breath catch.

Hatred aimed at you.

He stepped closer, towering over you, and suddenly you understood. Not intellectually, but viscerally—your stomach sinking, your blood chilling—what your actions had created.

What you had unleashed.

Your voice came out thin, a whisper scraped raw by shock.

“…Dayle?”

And the king’s expression confirmed what you already knew:

Your mistake had grown into something powerful enough to come back for you.