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Chapter 2 - Caravan

It didn't take long for the slave caravan to reach the once-safe city of Lunahria.

By the time they found a place to settle, most of the slaves had already been sold to merchants, and the guards had slipped off duty. Now, the only ones left from the original caravan were the slave owner and the quiet girl, Cassia.

For reasons even he didn't fully understand, the slave owner had taken it upon himself to raise the girl.

The merchant who had arranged to purchase her had not yet arrived—and by now, he might've been dead. A madman, they said. A valiant warrior with a tiny cohort of just three, himself included—all of different races. Still, he was undeniably wealthy. That alone made the slave owner willing to keep his word.

He exhaled heavily.

With surprising care, he combed through Cassia's hair, trying to style it as elegantly as possible. His hands were rough, but gentle, almost fatherly. Perhaps even more gentle than the hands that once raised him.

Cassia didn't speak.

She was a strange breed. Her hair shimmered silver—an unnatural color for someone her age. Small, curved black horns grew behind her ears, arcing smoothly like a sculptor's line. But it was her eyes that unsettled people most—green, empty, and far too still.

The slave owner sat by the open window, listening to the quiet hum of Lunahria's evening market. The air smelled of burnt incense and roasted grains, and beyond the walls, the noise of the world carried on like nothing had changed.

Then he heard it—a knock at the door, sharp and heavy.

A moment later, a messenger handed him a sealed note, the wax still warm.

He read it once.

Then twice.

His jaw clenched as he folded it with practiced care, rose from the low bench, and walked over to the girl who sat by the fire, brushing dust off the hem of her robe.

"Cassia," he said gently.

She looked up, her pale green eyes meeting his. No emotion. Just that constant, unreadable stillness.

He crouched beside her and tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind her horn.

"They've arrived," he said. "The merchant. His kind."

A long pause.

"You need to be careful," he added, voice quieter now. "They're not cruel, but they're... determined. And I can't protect you after tonight. Just listen. Observe. Speak only when needed. You're strong, but strength doesn't always mean fighting."

He stood again and hesitated—just for a moment—before walking to the door without looking back.

****

The meeting took place in the courtyard of an old moon-temple, repurposed as a private auction ground. White stone walls ringed the space, half-crumbling under Lunahria's dry wind. A single brazier burned in the center, casting orange light over the group waiting in silence.

The first to step forward was the merchant himself.

Achilles—tall, dark-haired, sun-scarred. A soldier's bearing lingered in his posture, but his eyes were softer than expected. He wore a light chestplate and travel cloak, and though his armor had seen better days, it had clearly been tended with care.

Behind him stood two others.

Jules, the elf healer—tall and willowy, with long silver-blonde hair tied back neatly. His clothing was simple, his expression thoughtful, like someone who had seen too much to speak carelessly. There was kindness in his gaze, though it was quiet and restrained.

Artorius, the orc mage—broad-shouldered, wrapped in charred robes stitched with runic threads. One tusk was broken and capped in dull gold. His voice was low, deliberate, and every movement he made seemed considered. He carried a staff, but didn't lean on it—he carried it like a reminder.

Achilles approached Cassia first.

He didn't speak right away. Just observed her carefully—not with judgment, but with the look of someone who had been searching for something and finally found it.

"She's perfect," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

The slave owner crossed his arms. "You speak like a man who's seen this before."

"I've seen echoes of it," Achilles replied. "But never this clear. She's not just a demon. She's the last one born before the sealing. The chains across the world are breaking—and she's proof."

Cassia said nothing. She simply watched him with her same blank expression.

Jules stepped closer, pausing a respectful distance from her. He extended two fingers lightly toward her temple, never touching.

After a moment, he lowered his hand. "Her aura is calm," he said. "No signs of disruption. Whatever she is, she isn't volatile."

"And the price?" the slave owner asked.

Achilles opened his coat and handed him a pouch, its weight thudding softly in the man's hand.

"It's fair," he said. "You kept her safe. That matters more than you know."

The slave owner gave a small nod. There was something in his face—maybe gratitude, maybe guilt—but he said nothing more. He turned and left, leaving Cassia with strangers who didn't feel entirely like strangers.

****

Later that night, the three sat around the brazier while Cassia rested quietly nearby.

"That's five now," Jules murmured, tapping his finger against a map. "The fifth fell just days ago."

"We've confirmed it?" Artorius asked.

Achilles nodded. "The blade left no doubt. That leaves only two."

Jules traced a slow circle around the southern border of the map. "And you think she can help us find the rest?"

Achilles glanced toward Cassia. Her eyes were closed, but he suspected she was still listening.

"I don't think," he said. "I know. She doesn't realize it yet, but she's connected to all of this. Maybe more than even the divinities were."

Artorius leaned back, looking up at the night sky.

"Then let's not fail her," he said.

Achilles smiled faintly. "We won't."

The fire cracked.

Above them, the stars shimmered faintly.

And somewhere far from Lunahria, the sixth seal began to break.

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