Adventurers' Guild of Drachenfest, morning.
Sunlight pierced the stained glass, painting colored patches across the stone floor. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and parchment. Someone laughed at a table, someone argued over a dungeon map. There was a lightness in the room — a quiet before a storm, though no one yet felt it.
Until a dull, heavy blow rang out.
The guild doors burst open with such force that plaster showered from the wall. A young recruit fired his crossbow into the ceiling, two gnomes upended a bench. A goblet smashed against the floor.
Everything froze.
On the threshold stood Lurk.
A huge beastkin, shoulders slumped, sweating and dust-streaked. His fur clung to him with sweat; fresh scrapes scored his neck. He breathed hard, hands braced on his knees.
His breath hitched into a cough. His chest shuddered. Then — slowly — he lifted his head.
His eyes were not the wild blaze of a monster, but weariness that screamed of catastrophe.
—"Lenor... here?.." he rasped.
Someone whispered, —"It's Lurk... what happened to him?.."
Lenor, who had been standing by the bookshelf, set a scroll down without looking around. He only turned his head slowly, as if sensing the arrival of the one he had been waiting for.
—"Come in," his voice was calm, almost gentle. —"I have been waiting."
The guild held its breath. Lurk and Lenor moved up the stairs in silence.
Only when the office door on the second floor shut behind them did the silence in the hall become a pressure against the chest. Everyone present felt it — something dreadful had begun.
The door closed. Inside the office, only the muted light of morning and shadows that danced across the walls. The air was heavy, like the minute before a storm.
Lenor stood by the table. Lurk entered without a word and stopped opposite him. He did not greet. He did not look around.
—"Report," Lenor said shortly, not lifting his gaze from the map.
—"I slipped into the castle. The path was… difficult." Lurk's voice was raw. —"I led two women out. One of them — Lianisa."
—"Alive?" Lenor asked dryly.
—"Exhausted. But alive."
"I led them deep into the beastkin colonies. Where the cliffs and storms keep even the sun away. They're hidden. In a safe place. For now."
A pause. Lenor looked up.
—"Do you understand what this means?"
Lurk nodded. Slowly. Gravely.
—"I knew what I was risking. I knew he would not forgive."
—"Valdegard is not merely cruel. He is humiliated. His 'toy' — has escaped. He will wipe off the face of the earth everyone who stood near her."
—"Let him come. I'll take him with me into hell."
Lenor's gaze rested on Lurk's eyes for a moment. The silence grew denser.
—"I do not judge you," Lenor said quietly. —"But now we have only days. Maybe — hours."
He turned to the wall map and pointed at a spot by the mountain range.
—"Here. Go past the gnome town. Where the new fortress stands. Our people will be waiting for you."
"And one more thing. Remember the boy you pulled out of the chaos?"
—"Kano?"
—"He is now a chieftain. The orcs follow him. And part of the horde is with us."
Silence. Lurk showed no surprise, only a slow lift of his brow.
He stepped toward the door.
—"What should I tell them?"
—"Say: 'There is no time. Take the orcs. And go. Now.'"
"Maybe we still have a chance."
—"And if we don't?"
—"Then they will die... not on the battlefield. In captivity. Slowly."
—"I'm leaving," Lurk said shortly.
And he went.
Lenor remained alone.
The map trembled beneath his fingers, which had dug into it.
—"May this world hold on," he whispered. —"For we will not be able to."
The caravan crept forward, as if the world itself resisted this road.
Horses breathed wearily, wooden wheels grated through sand. The air was heavy, like a stranger's breath on the nape.
In the cage — her.
The sun dazzled her eyes, but Lianisa looked straight ahead.
She didn't blink. She didn't lower her head.
Her shirt clung to her body — damp, thin, transparent.
Her breasts rose and fell heavily with each breath.
"I am alive."
"I can still think."
Mort rode alongside and didn't bother to hide his gaze.
His eyes crawled over her like fire — searing, stripping, savoring.
—"See those walls up ahead?
That's Gar'Grinas.
A city where beauty is currency, and weakness is a trophy."
—"…"
—"I have a home there, power, a name.
And a choice.
Either you come with me — as a maid, personal.
Or I sell you. And everything you are — goes into someone else's hands."
"A maid. Personal. Or merchandise.
A choice? That's no choice. It's a trap."
Mort fell silent. His stare dipped below her neck again.
And then…
the wagon jolted in a rut.
Her body bounced.
The shirt drew tight, her breasts quivered.
His breath caught.
He froze.
He watched.
His weakness.
His instinct.
"Here's where I can win."
She slowly lowered her hands, gently pressed her breasts from the sides —
the fabric stretched; her nipples sketched through the wet shirt.
She looked straight at him.
—"And you truly…
would sell me…
to that terrible place?"
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Like a broken window in a quiet room.
Her right hand — slid slowly along her cheek.
Down to her neck.
It trembled.
And… came to rest upon her chest.
Her fingers smoothed the fabric that strained tight over her body, as if of their own accord.
"Lianisa…
You are not a whore…
You are a queen…
What are you doing?.."
A pause.
Long.
Endless.
The sun hummed. The wagon rattled. Silence — cut.
"But I have to learn to be anyone.
To survive.
And it doesn't matter — a harlot, an executioner, a warrior.
I must survive."
Mort exhaled as though he'd just walked through a storm.
—"You're beautiful when you're afraid.
But you're even more beautiful when you start to understand how things work here."
—"And how?"
—"Here you're — either a cat…
Or a cut of meat.
And I'm starting to think you're a cat."
Lianisa said nothing.
But her eyes…
for the first time — shone.
Not with tears.
With a cold, clean, unforgiving resolve.
"I will not break.
I will learn.
And if I must — I'll play the part…
So I can write the ending myself."
The gate didn't creak. It slid open like a lover easing down a dress.
And the world beyond — not rotten, but gleaming.
Not beggarly, but sumptuous.
Not savage, but exquisitely predatory.
The caravan rolled in slowly.
The first blow — the scents.
Sweet smoke. Floral oils.
Bodies, lavishly anointed with perfume, reclined in windows.
And each one — like a work of art.
"This isn't a trap for slaves.
It's a paradise for those who know how to use it."
Mort smiled. Proud. Certain.
He wasn't a servant in this city —
he was its guide.
—"Don't gape like that, girl.
Gar'Grinas isn't about blood and groans.
It's about choice.
What you want — and how much you're willing to pay."
—"Do slaves choose too?"
—"They do not.
But those who pay…
They're the prime players."
Down the streets walked:
elves in costly cloaks with human slaves on leashes;
demons in gleaming masks with orc girls adorned like sacred offerings;
dwarves in furs haggling over a gnome woman with rare white hair;
humans leading herds of silent captives of every shade of skin and cut of eye.