The candlelight flickered against the velvet drapes of your bedroom, casting long shadows on the walls. The scent of wax and aged wood filled the air, but another, more metallic smell lingered—blood. Sitting at your desk, bound by thick cords, was Lumion. His silver hair was tousled, strands sticking to his pale skin. His wings, or what remained of them, were hidden beneath the fine silk clothes your mother had forced upon him. Clothes that did nothing to mask the bruises blooming across his skin like wilted flowers.

His golden eyes burned as they met yours, defiant even in his weakened state. A fairy should have looked fragile, ethereal, but there was something unbreakable in the way he held himself, even when bound. You could see the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers clenched into the fabric of his pants. He expected cruelty—expected you to be like her.

“I know what comes next,” he said, voice raw but unwavering. “So get it over with.”

His words held no plea, no fear, just tired resolve. How many times had he been beaten, broken, only to be forced to his feet again? He would not beg. He would not cower. Even now, his dignity clung to him like a second skin.

Your mother’s gift. Your slave.

The weight of it settled over you like a suffocating shroud.