Sold by the Bell

The hallway to the main office smelled like boiled cabbage and mold. The wallpaper peeled in places, revealing old script beneath it—scribbles from children who had since vanished into homes or holes. The paint on the doors was cracked, the floorboards groaned under their feet, and the only light came from a flickering bulb above the stairwell that buzzed like an angry fly.

Elian kept looking over his shoulder.

“Stop,” Aster muttered.

“He’s staring again,” Elian whispered.

Aster didn’t have to look. Shevlin, one of the older Omegas, sat hunched on the staircase, shirt unbuttoned and eyes glazed. He never spoke anymore. The matron said he’d been returned three times.

Returned. Like defective merchandise.

When they reached the office door, Elian hesitated.

“Maybe it’s not us,” he said. “Maybe someone else—”

“It’s us.”

Elian looked at him. His lip trembled. Then he looked away and nodded.

The door opened before they knocked.

Matron Yera stood there in her night-blue uniform, severe and immaculate. She looked at them the way one might examine two dying houseplants: with indifference tinged with quiet relief. Her hair was pulled tight, her smile tighter.

“In,” she said.

The office was warmer than the rest of the building. Smelled of dried tea leaves and old wood. Two chairs. A desk. A small painting of a woman holding an infant—not her child, but her prize.

Behind the desk sat a man in a green coat. His face was forgettable, but his ring wasn’t—a thick band with a black crest, polished so sharply that the lamplight turned it silver. He barely looked at the twins.

“These are them?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Yera.

“They don’t look sickly. That’s rare from this place.”

“We don’t waste food here,” she said. “Not on them.”

He finally looked at the boys. His eyes were pale, like washed-out ice. “Names.”

“Elian and Aster,” Yera replied. “The quiet one is Aster.”

Aster didn’t react. Elian stared at the floor.

“Both Omegas?”

“Of course.”

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a set of documents, all stamped in red. Yera read them quickly. Aster watched her eyes move—line, line, signature, and then the tightening of her lips.

She nodded.

“They’re yours.”

Elian jerked. “Wait—what—”

“They belong to House Rellhart now,” Yera said, sharp. “You will go where they send you. You will be obedient. You will not speak unless spoken to.”

“I don’t—what is—?” Elian looked at Aster. “We’re not—she didn’t say—what is House Rellhart?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aster said quietly.

The man stood. “Carriage is waiting.”

Yera moved around the desk. “One moment.”

She pulled out a long wooden box from under her desk and opened it. Two metal bands—thin, smooth, and cold-looking. No ornament, just small indentations along the inner side.

Collars.

“Necessary for property transport,” the man said.

Elian flinched. “No—wait—no, we’re not—”

Aster stepped forward. “Give me his. I’ll put it on him.”

Yera raised an eyebrow but handed both to Aster.

He turned to Elian and knelt in front of him. “It’s just a ride,” he said softly. “Don’t fight. Not here.”

Elian’s breath hitched. “I don’t want—”

“I know,” Aster said. “Me neither.”

He slid the collar around Elian’s neck, fastened it, and then put on his own. The click was too loud. It sounded like a cell door slamming shut.

The man led them out of the room without another word. Yera didn’t say goodbye.

When the front door opened, the cold hit like a slap.

The carriage outside was black. Not painted black—built black, with obsidian glass windows and iron-rimmed wheels. No crest. Just blank menace.