Chapter 1: The Boy Who Chose Chains

The first time I met him, Eli Warren was just a quiet kid.

Even at fifteen, he had this vibe—silent, but not shy. The kind of kid who never fidgeted, just stood there in a crowded room, taking everything in. Sometimes I wondered what he was thinking, standing so still, like he’d already seen the ugly side of things.

He was only fifteen, but he moved with this calm that made him seem way older.

There was a steadiness in his eyes, the kind that makes grown-ups pause, maybe even get a little uneasy. His hands were always steady, even when the rest of the world was shaking. And the way he carried himself—shoulders back, chin up—like he’d already survived a couple of storms.

That day in the main hall, he dropped to one knee in front of me, hands together, like some kind of knight. Those dark eyes flashed, hungry and sharp, almost wolf-like.

It was old-school, sure, but not weird for us—not in a place where respect meant everything, especially in a city that still clung to ceremony. Still, seeing someone so young look up at me with that fierce, determined gaze? It threw me for a second. I almost forgot to breathe.

A kid that bright—it killed me to think he’d end up just another follower in the crowd. Just another face in the pack, lost in someone else’s shadow. What a waste.

He could’ve been anything, but our world didn’t care about potential. It wanted loyalty, obedience—a weapon, not a leader. Watching him, it felt like seeing someone put on a collar they’d never be able to take off. Like he was signing away his freedom before he even knew what it meant.

For a split second, I actually felt sorry for him. I wanted to let him go, tell him to run before it was too late.

It was just a flicker, but it caught me off guard. What if I just told him to bolt? Would he do it? Or would the world drag him back, no matter what I said?

I crouched down, stared him in the eye, and said, "Following me is like having one foot in the grave. So I’m giving you a choice: you can leave."

The words came out sharper than I meant, but I wanted him to know what he was getting into. No sugarcoating. The world I lived in didn’t have happy endings.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, voice level and steady: "I swear to follow you to the end."

No tremor, no fear. He looked me dead in the eye, and I swear, it was like he’d decided long before I even asked. The certainty in his voice was almost unsettling.

His face didn’t twitch, not a muscle. I raised an eyebrow, just to see if I could get a reaction.

I couldn’t help myself—I had to test him. But he didn’t flinch. He just waited, silent, like he’d already signed up for whatever came next. That kind of resolve? You don’t see that every day. Not in a kid barely old enough to drive.

He was a runner, not a lapdog. If he left, he’d be gone—wild and free.

I could see it—him sprinting off into the woods, never looking back. There was something untamable in him, something that wouldn’t be caged for long.

I gave him a choice, but he chose me.

And that choice hit heavier than I expected. I wondered if I’d regret it. If he would too.

Bad sign.

There was a chill that night, something in the air that told me the road ahead was only going to get rougher. But I let it happen anyway. Maybe that was my first mistake.