On the great square stood "showcases"—cages with podiums.
Slaves were lined up for inspection.
And all the races were there.
Even elves.
My blood runs cold.
This isn't a black market.
This is… a salon of desires.
Beautiful. Clean. Prestigious. And vile.
—"Why so many beastfolk?"
—"Because they're the weakest."
They live in camps, borderless tribes.
No kings. No treaties.
No one will ask, "And where did they vanish?"
—"And you're proud of that?"
—"What should I be ashamed of?"
Someone has to supply the demand.
Demand.
Not for slaves.
For power.
For humiliation.
For the chance to buy what's forbidden in a normal world.
The elf woman standing on the dais smiled.
She bowed to everyone who looked.
And every noble—from different races—judged not her eyes, not her character,
but the curve of her waist, the cut of her hips, the shape of her breasts.
This is what a world looks like where everything is allowed.
Where everyone wears masks, and the worst wear crowns.
Mort halted the wagon in a side alley.
It was quieter here.
Fewer smiles. More deals.
—"Listen, girl.
I know you're not from the lowest. Maybe served a queen. Maybe some old lord's mistress.
But here it doesn't matter.
Here you are only what I say you are."
She didn't answer.
But her eyes—changed.
"He thinks I'm a servant.
Fine.
The main thing is not to forget who I was.
And who I can become again.
If I play it right."
—"And how do you like our city?" Mort smiled.
—"Luxury, eh?"
—"Luxury comes in kinds," Lianisa answered softly. —
"But when it's paid for with someone else's pain—
it stinks even under perfume."
—"Ah, a philosopher.
We'll see if you stay one in a week."
The caravan stopped. Mort swung off his horse and walked around the giant's cage.
The giant was almost motionless, but his eyes… burned.
—"So you're not dead yet. Good," Mort grunted. —"This will be interesting."
Footsteps. A shadow. Silk in the wind.
From beyond the gates, he came out.
Dark skin, almost with a blue sheen.
Black hair gathered in a tail.
Eyes—brown, heavy, unhurried, yet sharp.
Shchur.
Half-elf. Half-demon.
A predator dressed as a poet.
—"Mort, Mort… you again.
I was already starting to miss your repulsive voice."
—"Ha," Mort stretched into a cocky grin. —
"Well, if you're here, something caught your eye.
The giant? Like him?"
Shchur's gaze slid across the cage.
A barely visible lift of his brow. He crouched like a dandy at the opera.
—"Rather charming. A bit broken, but…
I'll give fifty silver."
Mort burst out laughing. Rough. Contemptuous.
—"You serious, you slippery freak?
A hundred at least. At least."
Shchur fell silent.
His look shifted, just a touch.
Inside, he was counting.
He had exactly one hundred silver. And nothing more.
One hundred… It's a risk.
If the giant dies, I'm left with nothing.
And there's Mort, that fat hawker, feeling like a winner.
—"Sixty," said Shchur. —"And you'll even thank me when he croaks on the arena's third day. Because you won't squeeze fifty out of him even as a corpse."
Mort said nothing. His look went gloomy.
He began to doubt.
What if this giant really won't make it?
Then Shchur will be right. And I'll be in the red.
And in that very moment—a voice.
Quiet. Clear.
—"I saw him fight."
Lianisa.
For the first time—not a victim.
She looked straight at Mort. Her eyes—hard.
Her voice—calm, but sparking.
—"In the arena he'll bring you not ten— but a hundred gold. If you keep him for yourself."
Silence.
And a turn of the head.
Shchur's eyes slid to Lianisa.
And lingered.
—"Now that is interesting…"
—"She's not for sale," Mort tossed without taking his eyes off Shchur.
"Just a servant. Once at court. Ran away."
—"A servant, you say?.." Shchur stepped closer to the cage.
—"Lovely… knows how to speak. And most importantly— on time."
—"So, you buying or leaving?" Mort held himself firmer now. — "Because it seems your nose isn't working today."
Shchur backed away slowly and snapped his fingers.
From behind his shoulder a slave emerged—held out a purse.
—"Sixty. And one gold— for 'the pleasure of hearing a new voice in this city.'"
He left. Without looking back.
But the air after him stayed poisonous.
Mort turned to Lianisa, slow.
His eyes had changed.
—"You just…
saved me a chunk of my purse."
—"I saved myself a step. Because if he's the merchandise, then I'm—so far—next to the seller."
Mort laughed. But no longer crudely.
With a clear hint of recognition.
—"I like you, girl."
The gates shut behind the caravan.
The courtyard met them with silence. But there was no peace in it—only tension,
as if everything around was waiting for a scene that could no longer be stopped.
Mort swung down from his horse, tossing orders like smoke.
—"The giant to the cellar. Give him draughts so he doesn't croak before the arena."
A look—at Lianisa.
As if laying hands on her body before ever touching it.
—"And you, girl… come along. We'll take a bath. I'm tired. And you… look like you could warm me."
The cage opened.
Lianisa stepped out—not like a slave, but like an actress walking onstage knowing every eye is on her.
Inside the house—warmth, carpets, silk, marble.
Slave women—like ornaments, despite the living blood in their veins.
The bath—spacious as an inner garden.
Steam hung in the air, glinting in golden bowls of oil.
Mort stripped without pomp.
Water clasped his shoulders, and he looked at Lianisa in silence.
She stood, silent.
The old shirt hugged her chest so tight the buttons at the bust were at their limit—one already starting to crack.
Beneath the shirt—a brassiere that clearly couldn't bear the shape of her body.
The skirt was worn, but it didn't distract—because everything above already stole the breath.
"I must not be afraid. I must not yield. I must… take control."
Lianisa slowly unbuttoned the shirt,
tossed it onto a bench.
She remained in a tight brassiere that, with each of her movements, seemed more defenseless.
Mort watched.
His face was calm—but his eyes…
His eyes slid over every inch of her body,
as if he were memorizing the path to his own hell.
"Gods, what is she doing to me… I can command. I can take. And yet I stand here—like a boy peeking behind the curtains…"
And then she bent down.
She began to take off her skirt—slowly, so as not to lose her balance.
And in that instant—the brassiere gave way.
Her breasts burst free of the fabric in a sharp motion, bounced lightly—and held.
Mort caught his breath.
His eyes widened.
He didn't even blink.
"It… it was instant. But I saw.
I saw everything."
And she knew.
Lianisa, as if sensing the explosion in his head,
turned away quickly.
More sharply than needed.
She stepped to a slave, took a towel.
Wrapped herself—only her breasts and waist were hidden. Her legs—bare.
"He didn't see it all. Only what I allowed. And it was enough."
She slipped into the water.
Sat opposite him. Met his eyes.
—"So—did you like it?" she asked barely above a whisper.
Mort was silent.
He smiled. Slowly.
—"If that was the first act, I want to see the second."
—"If you behave, you might even live to the finale," she answered.
Water touched her skin as if it feared to spoil the moment.
Steam climbed above the two bodies.
But all the focus—was in their eyes.
And neither of them looked away.
"This is not a slave. This is a woman who makes you a slave to your own desire. And does it without a word."