Another boy, his body flinched, corraled onto the Auction platform, the weight of the iron chains dragging at his wrists and ankles. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the flickering torchlight, and his eyes—wide and unblinking—darted across the crowd like a cornered animal's. The Iron Veil Slavers had stripped him of everything: his name, his past, his freedom. Now, they would strip him of his future, too.
The auctioneer, a stout, noisy man with a hooked nose and a voice like gravel, raised his hand to silence the prattling crowd. "Lot 47: a rare specimen, captured from the outskirts of a Woods on Zinoga's plagued southern region. Age: approximately ten years. Condition: unbroken." He paused, letting the words sink in, his lips curling into a sneer. "Bidding starts at fifty spirit stones."
The crowd stirred, a mix of robed cultivators, masked nobles, and shadowy figures from the underbelly of Nameth's black market. The boy's gaze flicked from face to face, searching for a hint of mercy, but found only cold calculation. He was a commodity now, a thing to be bought and sold, his worth measured in the glint of spirit stones and the whisper of forbidden deals.
A voice rang out from the back of the room, sharp and commanding. "Sixty spirit stones." The speaker was a woman draped in crimson silks, her face hidden behind a veil of shimmering threads. Her presence was a storm cloud, heavy with unspoken power, and the crowd parted instinctively as she stepped forward.
"Seventy," countered a man in black armor, his voice a low growl. He stood near the front, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that pulsed with a faint, eerie light. The boy's eyes locked onto the weapon, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps fear—crossing his face.
The auctioneer's grin widened. "Eighty," he prompted, his gaze shifting to a third bidder, a gaunt figure in a hooded cloak who raised a skeletal hand. "Eighty-five," came the raspy reply, the voice like wind through dry leaves.
The bidding escalated, the numbers climbing higher as the boy stood frozen, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could feel the weight of their gazes, each one a blade pressed against his skin, ready to carve him into whatever shape they desired. His fingers twitched, the chains clinking softly, a reminder of his helplessness.
"One hundred spirit stones," the woman in crimson declared, her voice cutting through the clamor like a knife. The room fell silent, the other bidders hesitating, their eyes narrowing as they weighed the cost against their desires. The man in black armor scowled, his hand tightening on his sword, but he did not raise the bid.
The auctioneer's eyes gleamed with greed. "One hundred spirit stones going once… twice…" He paused, savoring the tension. "Sold, to the lady in crimson."
The boy's heart sank as the woman stepped forward, her veiled face unreadable. She handed a pouch to the auctioneer, the clink of spirit stones muffled by the heavy fabric. "Take him to my carriage," she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. Two slavers grabbed the boy's arms, dragging him off the platform and through the crowd.
As they shoved him into the waiting carriage, the boy caught a glimpse of the woman's eyes through her veil—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of mercy. The door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness, the chains biting into his skin as the carriage lurched forward.
Hours later, the carriage rattled to a stop, and the door creaked open. The boy blinked against the sudden light, his eyes adjusting to the sight of a sprawling estate, its walls draped in ivy and shadow. The woman in crimson stood waiting, her veil now removed, revealing a face that was both beautiful and cruel, her lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Welcome to your new home," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "You will serve me well, I'm sure." She gestured to a servant, who stepped forward with a key, unlocking the boy's chains. He rubbed his wrists, the skin raw and bruised, but he didn't dare speak.
"Follow me," the woman commanded, turning on her heel and striding toward the estate's grand entrance. The boy hesitated, his gaze flicking to the surrounding forest, but the memory of the slavers' whips kept him rooted in place. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. With a resigned sigh, he trailed after her, his bare feet silent on the cobblestones.
Inside, the estate was a labyrinth of opulence and decay. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, but the air was thick with the scent of rot, as if the very walls were weeping. The woman led him through a series of corridors, each one darker and narrower than the last, until they reached a heavy iron door.
She pushed it open, revealing a small, windowless room. A single cot sat in the corner, its sheets threadbare and stained. "This will be your quarters," she said, her tone dismissive. "You will be summoned when needed. Do not attempt to leave." With that, she turned and left, the door slamming shut behind her.
The boy stood in the center of the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He was alone, trapped in a cage of stone and silence, his future as uncertain as the whispers that had haunted his dreams since the day he was captured. But somewhere deep within him, a spark of defiance still burned, a refusal to be broken, no matter the cost.
The next morning, the boy was awakened by the creak of the door. A servant entered, carrying a tray of food—stale bread and a bowl of thin gruel. "Eat quickly," the servant muttered, avoiding his gaze. "The mistress wants you in the courtyard by sunrise."
Wolfing down the meager meal, his stomach growling with hunger. He had no idea what awaited him, but he knew better than to disobey. As he stepped into the courtyard, the first rays of dawn pierced the gloom, casting long shadows across the stone tiles.
Waiting, the woman in crimons had her hands clasped behind her back. Beside her, a man in dark robes paced restlessly, his fingers twitching as if eager to cast a spell. "This is your new trainer," the woman said, her voice cold. "He will teach you the ways of the Iron Veil."
The boy's eyes widened. He had heard whispers of the Iron Veil—a sect of cultivators who wielded forbidden techniques, their power drawn from the suffering of others. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he forced himself to stand tall, his fists clenched at his sides.
The trainer stepped forward, his gaze piercing. "You have potential," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But potential is nothing without discipline. You will learn to harness your pain, to turn it into power. Fail, and you will be discarded."
The boy swallowed hard, nodding once. He had no choice but to survive, to endure whatever trials they threw at him. For now, he was a prisoner, but one day, he vowed, he would be free.
And so, the boy's training began. Each day was a blur of agony and exhaustion, his body pushed to its limits as he learned to channel his Qi through the forbidden paths of the Iron Veil. The trainer was relentless, his lessons brutal, but the boy refused to break. He clung to the spark within him, the whisper of defiance that kept him standing when others would have fallen.
Weeks turned into months, and the boy grew stronger, his body hardening, his will sharpening like a blade. He learned to wield his pain as a weapon, to draw power from the very chains that bound him. And all the while, he watched, waiting for the moment when he could turn that power against his captors.
Now, he was a lowely prisoner, broken to all that looked upon him, a slave to the Iron Veil. And as the twin suns set on another grueling day, he lay on his cot nursing wounds while staring at the ceiling, his mind drifting to the whispers that had once filled his dreams. They were faint now, almost forgotten, but they still called to him, promising something more—a destiny beyond the chains, beyond the pain.
Wind caught the massive weight of water, a storm brew in every direction. The storm came from nowhere and carried with it a strange but powerful light. Startled, the staff got to work clearing exterior decorations hung for celebrations that evening. "Mistress, would you have me shutter the windows, this doesn't appear to be natural. I think this is an Omen, there are no tribulations or lightning, just a roaring storm.
"You're Wrong." Nodn's eyes followed closely to the patterns lining the sky.