She was born and raised in the kingdom of Eras, one of the two great elven realms of the world of Gaea. Her home was in one of the many villages nestled along the eastern shores of the gigantic island, where the murmur of the sea mingled with the songs of the forest and life unfolded under the watchful gaze of the nature spirits.

  Ciliren Loracan. That was the name by which everyone knew her in those times of freedom. A name spoken with pride, laden with expectation and hope, long before her village was invaded by pirates and her fate was sealed.

  Hers was a future that seemed clearly defined. Her special affinity marked her as someone destined to become a priestess of one of the most important elven churches: the order dedicated to Tearia, goddess of nature and life. From a young age, Ciliren had been the pride of her community, regarded with a mixture of admiration and reverence. It wasn't just her talent that set her apart, but also her serene nature, her spiritual sensitivity, and the ease with which she connected with sacred rituals.

  The leader of the local church himself had overseen her initial training, determined to hasten the awakening of her affinity. The plan was clear and promising: once her gift fully manifested, Ciliren would be sent to the regional capital to be instructed by the finest priests of Eras.

  But fate rarely respects the plans of mortals. The invasion was swift and ruthless. Pirates without banner or mercy ravaged the village, reducing homes to ashes and dreams to memories. Ciliren, like most of her people, was captured and dragged far from everything she knew, taken thousands of miles from her home to become an exotic slave, destined to satisfy the desires of whoever was willing to pay for her.

  The change was brutal. She, who had learned to see the world through symbols, prayers, and spiritual meanings, was forced to confront a harsh and humiliating reality. She was forced to learn the shameful art of carnal pleasures. She learned to obey, to smile when she didn't want to, to behave like an obedient servant for an unknown master who would one day claim her.

  For a long time, she believed she couldn't bear it, even contemplating suicide. However, she managed to endure and adapt. She survived thanks to other women who shared her fate. Hardened women, with visible and invisible scars. Mystical warriors who had been defeated by war, betrayal, or politics. They saw in Ciliren something that didn't belong there: a fragile purity, almost painful to behold. And so they did everything they could to protect her, to teach her to adapt without losing herself completely.

  Ciliren was deeply grateful to them all. And she suffered with each goodbye. Every time one of them was sold, she felt the emptiness grow inside her, knowing that it meant never seeing her again. And so, one by one, they disappeared from her life… until only one remained.

  Aldra Fridwolf was the werewolf who accompanied her during the final leg of her journey, just before they were finally sold.

  Aldra was an accomplished mystic warrior, hailing from one of the many kingdoms that made up the Confederacy of Demihuman Kingdoms. She had fought alongside her tribe in one of the countless wars for supremacy that plagued those lands… and had lost.

  As is often the case with most demihuman races, the victors didn't bother to execute the defeated. They sold them. As a more civilized and definitive way to eliminate the competition.

  Aldra used to say, with a wry smile, that she would have preferred to die in that war than live as a slave. And yet, she was someone who deeply loved life. Her laughter was contagious, her presence comforting. She always found a way to lift others' spirits, repeating time and again that the future could still hold something better.

  For Ciliren, Aldra became much more than just a fellow sufferer. She was one of the few emotional pillars that allowed her to maintain her sanity during her new life as a slave, especially in the final months of training and on the long journey that took them to the city of Croriris. On that endless journey, when the notion of time dissolved amidst dust, cages, and curt orders, Aldra was the constant presence that reminded her that she was still a person, and not just merchandise with an assigned price.

  Croriris marked the end of the road. The place where destinies ceased to be an abstract possibility and became a final sentence. There, Ciliren found the one who would be her buyer.

  Until then, she had convinced herself she was ready. She had repeated time and again the words Aldra used to tell her, she had learned to harden her heart, to accept that her former life no longer existed. But none of that was enough when the real moment arrived, when that man with the intense, difficult-to-decipher gaze agreed to pay an obscene sum of crystals for her.

  Fear struck her without warning. It wasn't the fear of her future master that broke her composure, but the certainty of separation. The idea of ??being torn from the only person she still considered close, the only one she already felt was family. Aldra wasn't the only one: the other werewolves, members of her same tribe, had also forged a strong bond of camaraderie with Ciliren, born of shared pain and mutual protection. The thought of never seeing them again was more than she could bear.

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  So, as she tearfully said goodbye to Aldra—knowing deep in her heart that this embrace was final—something unexpected happened.

  The man who had already paid for her spoke again. To the disbelief of merchants and slaves alike, he ended up buying the other four available women, including Aldra. No one understood the shock of his action, and Ciliren could barely process what was happening. The possibility of never being separated from them seemed too good to be true.

  What happened next, when the same man also acquired several child slaves—among them some relatives of Aldra and the other women of her tribe—made it clear that he possessed not only a considerable fortune but also a rare form of compassion in that place. At least, that's how it seemed at first glance.

  However, everything changed the moment the carriage journey to their final destination began. The man, whose name they learned was Evander, changed completely. He was no longer the distant figure with an almost melancholic expression they had seen in the slave market. In his place appeared someone overly serious, even cold from certain angles. His orders were clear and firm, and the mystic warriors who accompanied him obeyed them without hesitation, even though he himself emanated no kind of dangerous aura.

  The necklaces they all wore nullified their control over the energy in their bodies, making the use of mystic techniques impossible. However, their perception remained intact. Thanks to this, Ciliren could easily distinguish the warriors serving Evander, all of them quite strong. Among them, one stood out overwhelmingly: a man named Basil.

  Aldra quickly identified him as a mystic Master, and this revelation added a new layer of unease to the already tense atmosphere among the women.

  During the journey, the five women quietly speculated about the identity of their new master. Evander possessed power, resources, and authority, but he was clearly not a warrior. The most widely accepted theory was that he was the son of some extremely wealthy and influential nobleman, someone who enjoyed absolute freedom thanks to his family's fortune.

  Aldra was the first to point out the obvious: this could be both a blessing and a curse.

  If Evander turned out to be a good person, perhaps their lives would be bearable, even dignified within the confines of their situation. But if, on the contrary, he was one of those frustrated noblemen who took out their misery on those who could not defend themselves… then the future that awaited them would be bleak.

  The possibility was real. That is why they all reached the same agreement: to behave in the best possible way, to obey, not to provoke, not to stand out. They would do everything necessary not to antagonize their new master, clinging to the hope that, at least this time, fate had not dealt them its worst hand.

  The journey, unlike the extreme experiences that had marked Ciliren's recent life, was surprisingly brief. Little more than half a day was enough for the carriages to leave the main roads and venture onto secondary tracks, finally stopping at a farm on the outskirts of a small village.

  The place was humble, even bleak. Beyond the enormous wood and stone house that must once have been the home of a prosperous family, the rest of the property was utterly desolate. There were no active crops, no well-maintained fences, no signs of recent work. The land looked as if it had been abandoned for years, as if life had been deliberately ripped from it.

  A couple of farmers from the village were guarding the site, apparently hired for this purpose. And as soon as the carriages stopped and the mystic warriors began to disembark, those farmers withdrew at Evander's command.

  It was then that another surprise occurred. None of the mystic warriors entered the farmhouse. No sooner had they unloaded their cargo inside the property than they immediately withdrew, taking the carriages, the animals, and any trace of an armed escort with them, leaving all the slaves behind in the care of a single person: Evander.

  The situation seemed… absurd.

  Except for a few legendary, extremely rare, and prohibitively expensive mystical artifacts, slave collars do not have the ability to control the will of the wearer. They merely block the flow and manipulation of internal energy. Their only function is to inflict pain as a method of punishment. This pain must be activated and is not always capable of incapacitating the wearer.

  This placed Ciliren and the other four women in a position as unsettling as it was contradictory: they had to obey a man whom, under normal circumstances, they could have easily subdued.

  In Aldra's case, this was even more evident. Her physical strength and natural agility, combined with her training as a mystic warrior, were enough to defeat even an apprentice or adept, even with the slave collar, provided the circumstances were favorable. Therefore, she should have been perfectly capable of subduing an ordinary man, even before he could activate the collar's punishment mechanism.

  Even so, Evander didn't show a hint of concern.

  And it was Aldra who first convinced everyone else that there was something strange about him. Something didn't add up. Evander behaved like someone who knew exactly what he was doing. There was no tension in his posture, no constant vigilance, no sign of fear at being left alone with five women who, even without mystical energy, were still dangerous.

  That could only mean one of two things. Either there were more people hidden inside the farmhouse, ready to intervene at any moment… Or Evander wasn't at all what he seemed.

  After everyone had settled in, he personally took charge of the food. No intermediaries, no orders. He brought out a huge, well-worn iron pot, placed it over a makeshift fire, and began to cook a thick soup, rich with meat, vegetables, and a surprisingly comforting aroma.

  No one suspected a thing, and everyone ate in silence. The flavor was excellent. And barely a few minutes had passed since they finished when exhaustion began to fall upon them like a heavy blanket. First came a feeling of languor, then eyelids that were difficult to keep open, and finally bodies surrendering one after another, collapsing in the very spot where they had just eaten.

  Ciliren hadn't eaten much. Thanks to that, the effect took longer to reach her. Enough for her to witness everyone else falling asleep, one by one.

  Her panic was immediate. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she tried to move, to warn someone, to do something. But the urge to sleep was irresistible, a weight impossible to fight even with all her willpower. Until darkness claimed her.

  And it was when she opened her eyes again that she truly understood the kind of circumstances she, against her will, had become involved in.