In the Nocturne Era of the Fourth Epoch, year 319, in the time before the Savior...
Within the veil of their dream.
It was a dim and vast room, lit faintly by a waning fire.
A woman with long, cascading white hair, dressed in funereal attire, was playing the old grand piano.
This was her final performance, for a young singular listener.
"My hands have performed this a thousand times, and it would not take a thousand years more for you to forget it," the woman murmured to a child sitting beside her.
The child had heard the same melody countless times; forgetting it was an impossibility, even if one were to strip her of all memory.
"The relevance of our past doesn't make us captives. Soon we'll part, and through 'him' we shall embrace in reunion."
"That day will come when this world no longer needs our pitiful existence," the woman spoke in a solemn tone.
Yet, the child could not understand what her words truly meant, she merely listened in silence.
"When the time comes, the choice to forgive will be yours. Be patient with your sister; she has always carried a maturity beyond your own."
"Whatever end awaits you, I can only hope you face it with your ego and pride."
The child's eyes began to make way for tears for reasons unexplained, an abstract mixture of both the woman's words and the way she played the piano contributing to her ever-growing sorrow.
As the pianist played her finality, pouring every emotion into the somber melody.
"No matter what they do to you," the woman whispered, "an object with a quiet voice shall turn in endless circles, keeping secrets that none but you may uncover."
"That is your answer."
The melody soared through the dim room, its notes resonating like the fading chime of distant bells.
The child could only watch, even as her vision faded into a mist-like dream.
One sentiment alone took root in her heart: lament.
"Open your delicate eyes, child of Melancholy..." With it, the end of an elegy, the woman's farewell, was complete.
The last reverberation of the piano's mournful note dissolved into the unknown, and for a fleeting moment, the warmth of the fire was replaced by an unbearable cold, as though the sins of a thousand years pressed against the child's chest.
And then.
With a sudden breath.
The dream dissolved, and the child returned to waking to find herself as a grown girl within a prison of abandonment.
She was wearing a black-and-white maidservant dress; it was soft to the touch, though her face felt the sensation of dried tears.
"I was dreaming," she murmured, as her silver eyes widened to investigate her surroundings.
The girl squinted as she scanned the dim confinement, and she wasn't alone.
Beside her were numerous maidens, dressed similarly to dolls in elegant clothing.
It was deliberate, meant to entice an entire crowd.
Remembering fragmented memories felt similar to the sensation of multiple broken glass pieces assaulting her cerebrum.
"Ouch! My head!"
"I feel so weak," she remarked with shallow breaths; her limbs were limp.
"What is this smell? " Whatever perfume was put on her had a strong melon scent, which only contributed to her throbbing headache.
She attempted to stand, using the wall behind her for support, but even such a simple task was challenging.
She tried striking up a conversation with the nearest maiden.
Yet, something was not quite right.
"Do you mind if I check on you?"
She asked a girl who possessed a picture-perfect face with bangs for hair, but this young woman was extremely disoriented.
She inspected the girl's eyes; they were heavy, her pupils unusually small and glassy.
"Si... Sil—" the frail and unresponsive young woman tried to utter a word, but she was too weary to speak.
She let go of asking any further questions, allowing the weakened young woman to rest.
The girl knew something was wrong within her body. Perhaps a substance had been used to make her so frail, yet her body didn't seem entirely weak. She began to resist it naturally, regaining a bit of strength.
"This isn't good at all."
A disturbing realization was sprouting, one she hoped to be false, but reality was often unfair and unforgiving.
"Where am I?" Her vision was a blur. She focused in the dark, noticing she was behind iron bars.
It wasn't the most comforting realization, and even in such a weakened state, some girls began to panic, understanding the steel's implications.
"What's with all that noise?" Beyond her were voices of cheering and something far more sinister.
When she focused her attention, she could hear the word: Sold!
It was an auction.
If one were to add everything up, It only leads to one grim conclusion.
With a heavy breath, she uttered,
"I'm a slave."
Within a heartbeat, she instinctively sought a potential escape, yet none was plausible.
A red curtain had long concealed them, but it was now abruptly drawn aside, exposing their distress.
Beyond the iron bars, she witnessed a velvet hall, which hummed with the voices of various aristocrats, accompanied by the clicking of their crystal-clear glasses filled with luxurious red wine.
In the middle, a spotlight shows a decorated platform with red carpets, the perfect place to be viewed by the predatory eyes of nobility.
"Wake me up."
A white feather that seemingly fell from the heavens, awaiting to be tainted by the filthy.
She wished to end up beneath the guillotine; even without a death sentence, it was clear that her dignity was the only thing being executed.
"Next!" A rough voice, the tone of a smoker; it couldn't be more obvious with his lungs on the verge of collapsing.
He was a bald man with leathery skin and eyes devoid of regard for human life.
With his rustic keys, he opened the cage and scanned the numerous girls within this confinement.
His unfriendly gaze landed on her, the most exotic-looking one.
"Move," he said, and the girl was snatched by the arm.
He wasn't gentle in the way he handled her, but she complied.
Ouch!
I have no memory of ever learning obedience, yet it felt natural, as if I was trained to do so.
But the bald man paused in his steps, perhaps surprised that this particular girl was responsive, even if slightly disoriented compared to the recent slaves who were stumbling along their steps.
"Yes, mister?" the girl asked, intimidated, as the man stared blankly at her.
All of a sudden, she was yanked, and the bald man broke eye contact.
His yank came with pain, and the girl whimpered.
"Hey, that hurts!" she complained, but the man simply ignored her pleas.
She was guided toward the center of the platform, and ultimately, she stood in front of an enthusiastic crowd.
The noise and pressure were suffocating, rattling her eardrums and squeezing her chest so that each breath felt shallow.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a truly special one!"
"This particular slave has been trained in every manner of servitude by Miss Rosalina herself! Allow me to present Silvie!" The voice of the auctioneer boomed; he was clad in brocade, and his tone was an earache.
Silvie was lost as she stood there; despair alone wasn't enough to convey what she was feeling within her constricting heart...
"Slender and ivory skin, irises comparable to precious gems, her hair, tainted with the purity of an unblemished white flower, to the collectors in the audience, her origins! A mystery!"
Reduced to a mere object of art, she had no intention of letting her sorrow leak into her expression.
Shame on all of you…
The hall was ecstatic—it was a Rosalina-trained servant, sought after by many.
But Silvie couldn't focus her attention on that name, for she could sense the hunger in their eyes.
One man already leaned forward, his gaze mirrored a pervert's impulsive possession, and some even winked, which only fueled the disgust in her heart.
Multiple bids were made, each bidder eager to sacrifice their wealth for this prize using the currency Solis ⨀.
A coin, inspired by the religion of Lucidism, a belief that the higher being is absolute and the order of hierarchy sacred, where those below must submit to those above.
Its design reflected this order: from the sun, to the moon, to the forest, and into the soil, each denomination of Solis ⨀ represented a part in the hierarchy of life.
Yet only the highest was permitted in this cruel auction.
That highest denomination, the Gold Solis, also called the Gold Crown, was the sole offering in the bidding, and not a single noble hesitated to lay down a fortune.
"Fifty crowns!"
"One hundred!"
"Two hundred! Four hundred!"
One thing plagued her mind: the mystery of how she ended up in such a place, and the question of whether she had parents or not.
I look so different from the rest. Where did I even come from?
The same migraine lingered, as she tried to recall. If I had a mother and a father, then they failed, what kind of parent would let their daughter end up a slave...
Yet, who gave me the name, Silvie?
But the bid flew fast, each one louder, more desperate than the last.
"Five hundred!"
"Six hundred for her!"
Silvie remained somber amid the growing interest in her; her hopes of being shackled to a kind master were a miracle she had already let go.
Her mind went blank, a creeping resignation was impending, yet she still yearned for a master who possessed at least a melodic voice.
The bids were deafening. Silvie could've sworn her ears were ringing and bleeding.
"Seven hundred!"
"Eight hundred!"
A man's voice shook the entire room:
"One thousand crowns..."
The hall was silent, not because of the absurd amount of money that was bid, it was because of who it was coming from. All eyes in the hall turned on him; he was in front of Silvie's view, A VIP.
He wore a sophisticated suit, his hair and eyes coal-dark, and the contours of his face sharply defined.
He lounged with slaves at his feet, a woman pouring wine at his side, a cigar smoldering between his fingers.
Noticeably, there were multiple chocolate bars placed on his table.
Royal blood, yet the intent in his eyes was anything but noble.
He was no savior.
The people yelled his name, Karlen Magnus, the eldest sibling of the Magnus family.
He was known for having slaves of various races, a collector with an insatiable hunger for novelty.
It appears that he has just undergone a trade, already spending quite a sum with a 'merchant,' all for an interesting crimson vial, which he holds in the palm of his hand, treating it like an artifact.
Silvie looked him straight in the eyes with great sorrow, but in doing so, Karlen Magnus seemed to want her even more.
The slave broke eye contact, focusing on finding a sharp object.
She was neither handcuffed nor chained, and on this platform, the nearest person was the auctioneer with his silver microphone.
Maybe she could smash her face with it, disfigure herself, make them turn away.
"Going once," the auctioneer called.
And she truly considered it.
"Going twice." Silvie was about to reach for the microphone, ready to harm herself without hesitation.
The risk of the bald man stopping her was high, but she didn't seem to care—until…
A voice, mature and grand, rises from the shadows:
"Two thousand crowns~"
The hall fell silent, a Lady stood above all, draped in velvet, her hair the same color as dusk, her eyes glowed with benevolence, complemented by her dark glasses.
In that instant, Silvie knew only this:
If I'm to be owned, let it be by her.
Chapter End.