In the kingdom of Aerindor, magic was life. Power was not given lightly—it was earned, fought for, and inherited through bloodlines that defined the balance of war and peace.

Among the great houses, the Dukes were the King’s closest vassals, each family bearing a distinct legacy of power that shaped their place in the kingdom.

The 1st Duke family was known as the kingdom’s spearhead—masters of brutal combat and swordplay. Their magic was raw and overwhelming, capable of cleaving through armies like wind through leaves. Their warriors commanded beasts of terrifying strength and were feared far beyond Aerindor’s borders. With their proximity to the King’s court, their influence over politics was unrivaled.

The 2nd Duke family, by contrast, were sorcerers and strategists, wielding intricate spells and arcane knowledge that gave the kingdom unmatched tactical advantage. Their magic was elegant but deadly, manipulating the battlefield from afar with precision and control. They were advisers to kings and architects of victory.

The 4th Duke family controlled Aerindor’s wealth and commerce. While distant from the battlefield’s bloodshed, they pulled the strings of trade and finance, their power flowing through coffers and markets. Their influence was subtle but crucial—wealth was a weapon as sharp as any blade.

And then, there was the 3rd Duke family—Fera’s family—a lineage forged in fire and destruction. Their magic was the embodiment of devastation: swords that could slice through stone, beasts that tore down entire battalions, power that overwhelmed all who faced it. Theirs was a legacy of war—honored and feared.

Into this fierce world was born Fera, the only child of Duke Thario. But unlike her ancestors, Fera’s magic was not the force of direct destruction. Instead, she bore a singular, strange gift—the ability to amplify the magic of others. She could take a spark and turn it into a raging inferno, magnify a roar into a thunderclap, but she could not strike a single blow herself.

For a family that valued raw, overwhelming power, Fera’s magic was a puzzle—a support skill, a tool meant to assist, not dominate. The kingdom was stunned that the heir of the 3rd Duke line was not a warrior, but a support mage. Whispers spread through noble halls: “How can she lead a family of destroyers with such a weak gift?”

But Duke Thario did not care for gossip or court intrigue. Fera was his only child—the sole heir after years of waiting and hoping. From her first breath, she was the center of his world, and he indulged her every desire without question.

She was spoiled beyond reason. In the grand halls of their fortress, servants moved to fulfill her slightest whim. When she was a child, a shout from Fera could send whole kitchens into frantic motion. If she desired a rare magical beast, no corner of the kingdom was too distant to fetch it for her collection.

By the time she was ten, Fera was already a storm of temper and pride. She knew her father’s indulgence was absolute. If she screamed at a servant for a misstep, the punishment was swift and cruel. Nobles who mocked her “support magic” soon learned that crossing her was dangerous. Her temper was as sharp as any sword her family bore.

At sixteen, her role in the kingdom’s wars began—not as a frontline fighter, but as the deadly conductor of devastation. Fera rode atop a crystal chariot, her eyes cold and calculating. Before her marched rows of enslaved mages—commoners and nobles alike—captured through her cunning or her father’s gold.

Bound in collars enchanted to suppress their will, these slaves were weapons—living spells. Fera’s gift magnified their magic to terrifying levels. With a single command, a simple fireball became a wildfire that consumed entire battalions. A whispered curse turned into a storm that shattered walls.

She never fought directly, but through her amplification, her enemies fell in heaps, and her family’s banners flew victorious.

The court was divided. Some called her a prodigy, a new kind of power. Others whispered she was an abomination—too weak, too spoiled, a disgrace to the legacy of the 3rd Duke family.

Yet the King tolerated it, for where Fera led, victory followed. Her name was feared on the battlefield. “The Idol of Death,” they called her, though she wielded no sword herself.

But behind her cold exterior, Fera was a spoiled girl craving the love and attention only her father gave. Her stubborn pride and rudeness were shields forged from years of loneliness and indulgence.

Her power was different—supportive, amplifying, indirect. And in a kingdom where strength was measured by how fiercely one could destroy, her existence was both a shock and a mystery.

Still, Duke Thario remained her unwavering protector and admirer, spoiling her with a love that shaped her into both a fearsome force and a fragile girl beneath it all.

Fera lounged lazily on the cushioned bench of her private training grounds, the sharp scent of crushed petals and scorched earth in the air. Around her, a few enslaved mages – powerful, battle-worn men who had once sworn loyalty to other noble houses – stood obediently, awaiting her next command. She hadn't needed them today. No, today's entertainment had come from a far more thrilling challenge.

A bet.

Her lips curled.

It had been a casual suggestion, tossed at her with a mocking grin by one of the King's messengers. A jest, really. No one had expected her to take it seriously.

"Control the sons of the 1st Duke? Hah. Even your father wouldn’t dare."

And yet she had done it.

With her peculiar magic – the ability to amplify the magic of others to terrifying heights – and the binding contracts she had mastered in secret, Fera had cornered the proud sons of the 1st Duke during a military tournament. They had stood tall, noble, fierce—perfect in their arrogance. She challenged them to a duel, three against three. Her opponents? Three commoners already under her control.

The 1st Duke’s sons accepted. Why wouldn’t they? Facing what they thought were lowly servants, they expected an easy win.

They lost. Badly.

And the terms of the duel? Simple. Defeat meant submission.

With the entire court watching, she branded them—bound their magic, bent their will, and paraded them through the training grounds like trophies.

The rumors spread like wildfire. Fera, daughter of the 3rd Duke, had enslaved the 1st Duke’s heirs.

High in the palace, the King’s chambers buzzed with fury.

“She did what?” the King bellowed, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling.

His trusted advisor repeated the words carefully, afraid to provoke further rage. “Fera has publicly enslaved the three sons of the 1st Duke, Your Majesty. She used her amplification magic and controlled fighters already under her command. A legal duel, but… unethical. Dangerous.”

The King stood, pacing. “The balance between the Dukes is delicate. One ripple and it shatters everything. If the 1st Duke retaliates—”

He stopped mid-step.

“No. The 3rd Duke must answer for this.”

Fera’s father didn’t care.

When summoned to court, the 3rd Duke arrived leisurely, half-draped in furs and indifference. His laughter echoed across the hall when the King accused Fera of disrupting the noble balance.

“She’s young,” he said, waving his hand. “Let her play. It’s only magic. The boys were foolish enough to accept the challenge.”

The King stared at him coldly.

“You have spoiled her beyond measure. She now acts like she is above the law.”

“She is my only child,” the 3rd Duke replied. “And the most brilliant weapon this empire has.”

The King didn’t reply. But that same night, a private order was written, sealed, and sent to the 2nd Duke family.

To Nick.

Nick read the order in silence, his silver eyes darkening. The royal seal was unmistakable, and the wording was clear.

"You are to eliminate the 3rd Duke and his wife. The girl, Fera, is to be captured. Alive."

Nick had long kept himself apart from court politics, but he wasn’t naïve. This wasn’t just about punishing a family. It was a message. A reset of power.

He tucked the scroll away, stepped outside, and called his men.

Fera had no warning.

The 3rd Duke’s estate was heavily fortified, full of magical wards and loyal warriors. But no one expected a strike from the 2nd Duke family—the only neutral line.

It wasn’t war. It was an execution.

Fire rained from the skies, illusions shattered, and Nick moved like a ghost through the manor. He found the 3rd Duke in the grand hall, a stunned look on his face as his wife bled beside him.

Nick didn’t speak. His sword did.

By dawn, the once-mighty Duke and Duchess lay dead in the wreckage of their legacy. The estate burned.

Fera stood at the heart of the flames, the mark of her power flickering at her palms. She was screaming—not in grief, but in fury.

“You!” she spat, recognizing Nick. “You did this?”

“I did,” he said calmly.

She launched a spell. Her slaves moved to defend her, but Nick was already ahead of her power. He raised a single hand, muttered an incantation of ancient slave magic, and struck her heart directly.

Fera collapsed.

The bindings of her magic began to dissolve.

The soldiers of the 1st Duke arrived soon after, retrieving their sons—now free from her control. Their eyes never met hers. They said no words of gratitude to Nick, nor did they strike her. She was beneath their concern now.

Fera lay on the ground, half-conscious, as the last of her illusion of control crumbled.

A noble girl. A feared commander. A slave.

The transformation from noble daughter to slave was harsher than Fera had ever imagined. The mansion that once overflowed with luxury and comfort now felt like a prison, cold and empty. She was treated as if she were nothing more than air—ignored, unseen, and unvalued.

Her once elegant gowns were replaced with rough-spun, plain clothes that rubbed harshly against her skin. Her long, meticulously styled hair was left unkempt, tangled in a way that made her cheeks burn with shame. Servants who used to bow when she entered a room now averted their eyes, hurrying past her as if she carried some contagion. They spoke in hushed whispers and kept their distance, treating her as though she had become a ghost in the house.

The most painful punishment was the silence. Nobody commanded her to do any chores or tasks; it was as if she no longer existed. No one wanted to acknowledge the daughter of the 3rd Duke who had enslaved the 1st Duke’s sons and earned the King's wrath. The very air around her thickened with neglect.

Meals were meager and bland—stale bread and thin broth that could barely quell her hunger. Every bite was a reminder of what she had lost, and of the long road she had ahead as a slave. Despite the humiliation, Fera’s eyes burned with defiance. She refused to let despair claim her.

Days passed in quiet torment. She wandered the mansion’s vast corridors, her footsteps echoing like the hollow beats of her heart. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of fury and frustration, especially at the invisible chains that bound her magic to Nick. No matter how much she tried to resist, she could not escape the invisible leash that tied her soul to his will.

Then, one night, everything changed.

The mansion erupted in chaos as shadows burst through the gates—thieves, bold and violent, storming the estate under the cover of darkness. Shouts echoed through the halls, servants scrambled in panic, and the sharp ring of clashing steel filled the air.

Fera’s heart pounded with terror, but also with a flicker of hope. Amid the confusion, she saw a chance—an opportunity to break free from the invisible prison she was trapped in. She slipped through side passages and unguarded doors, her breath coming fast and her mind racing.

But the magic that enslaved her refused to loosen. No matter how far she ran, she could feel the pull of Nick’s power like an unbreakable chain wrapped around her soul.

Her hope turned to rage. If she could not flee, she would do the next best thing—she would end Nick and then escape.

She crept back into the mansion under the cover of the fighting. Her hand clutched a sword stolen during the thieves’ attack, the cold metal heavy and unfamiliar in her grasp. Every step forward was a battle against the fear twisting inside her.

Finally, she reached the room where Nick was locked in combat. There, in the flickering torchlight, she saw him—his sword flashing as he fought fiercely against a dark figure.

Fera’s heart seized. She raised the sword, determined to strike, to sever the chains that bound her forever.

But fate twisted cruelly.

In the chaos, her blade struck—not Nick—but the attacker. The man’s eyes widened in shock as he stumbled backward, clutching his chest where blood bloomed crimson against his dark tunic. He collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

Silence crashed over the room. Fera stood frozen, the weight of what she had done crushing her breath. Her mouth opened, but no words came.

Nick’s fighting stance faltered as he turned slowly toward her. His eyes widened, fixed on her with a complex mixture of surprise and something else—something softer, almost like relief.

“You saved my life,” he said quietly, a genuine smile breaking over his usually stoic face.

Fera’s body trembled, caught between shock and confusion. She had meant to kill him. Instead, she had saved him. The irony was bitter.

For days afterward, she was left in a limbo of uncertainty. The other slaves treated her differently now—some with cautious respect, others with barely hidden suspicion. She waited, heart hammering, wondering what Nick’s reaction would be.

Then, one morning, Nick summoned her.

She entered the room, head bowed, unsure of what to expect.

From across the chamber, Nick met her gaze with steady eyes. “From now on,” he said, “you will be my personal defender.”

The words stunned her.

A mixture of disbelief and something dangerously close to hope surged through her veins. Though she was still a slave, bound by magic and circumstance, this new role was an acknowledgment of her strength and potential. It was a paradox she struggled to understand—being needed, yet still chained.

As the days passed, Fera trained under Nick’s watchful eye. He was demanding but fair, pushing her limits and helping her hone her skills. The icy wall between them slowly thawed, replaced by a fragile trust that neither of them dared to name.

For the first time since her fall from grace, Fera felt a flicker of purpose. The blade in her hand was no longer just a tool of desperation—it was a key to reclaiming some measure of control over her shattered life.