The stench of the slave market clawed at Phield's sinuses, a sour assault that made his eyes water. The miserly traders were worse than leeches—they wouldn't spare a single copper for a bucket of water to wash their merchandise. Five or six slaves were crammed into cages barely large enough for two, forced to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves in the same filthy space.
No privacy. No dignity. Not even the right to end their own misery.
Cages set out in the open air held young women stripped of every scrap of cloth, their bodies displayed shamelessly for passers-by. It was a crude but effective marketing ploy. Every day, gap-toothed vagrants and leering creeps lingered to gawk, though few ever bought.
"My lord, care to purchase some slaves? Essential for any estate—hard workers, every one of them!"
"Rare elven stock—just a thousand gold!"
"Grand opening sale, my lord! Come take a look!"
Phield cut a respectable figure in his tailored black robe, a fine steel longsword at his hip, his features sharp and refined. To the slavers' eyes, he screamed money. They swarmed like flies. Nobles were their favorite customers: deep pockets, unlike the riffraff who only came to ogle, and notoriously hard on their slaves—meaning repeat business in a matter of days.
To most aristocrats, a slave's life was worth less than a good hunting hound.
Phield's gaze swept over the iron cages. The captives' eyes were dull voids, devoid of spark. Matted hair, filth-caked faces—it was often impossible to tell man from woman at a glance. Livid whip scars crisscrossed their skin. When one briefly met Phield's eyes, they immediately dropped their gaze and shrank back, trembling.
"How much?" he asked, scanning for the green dot while pretending casual interest.
"Prices vary wildly by race, my lord."
A gaunt-cheeked trader with a sly glint in his eye rubbed his palms together. "Goblins, halflings, and pigmen go for ten silver each. Demi-humans twenty. Orcs sixty. And if you're after something… recreational," he leered, "the sky's the limit."
Grinning, he gestured toward a large indoor cage. Pride of place went to the elf priced at a thousand gold.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, draped in gossamer veils that revealed far more than they concealed, her snow-pale skin luminous even in the gloom. Yet her eyes were vacant, lifeless—like a doll with its strings cut.
"This one's been thoroughly broken in by goblins," the slaver chuckled. "Birthed at least twenty-six of their whelps. Still prime goods, though. I'm sending her to auction soon—won't fetch a mere thousand there. Care to make an offer before she goes?"
"Not interested."
The dot wasn't on her, and Phield didn't have that kind of coin to spend on a plaything anyway. He shook his head. "What about human slaves?"
"Humans are clever and obedient. Males forty silver, females twenty-five—good for labor. But if it's pleasure you want, I still say go elf. Even if you tire of her body, her flesh makes fine eating or excellent ritual components."
A chill crawled up Phield's spine. This world's nobility weren't the refined, courteous lords of stories—they were brutal feudal monsters.
Elven blood and meat were said to restore vitality and vigor. Proud, near-human elves had swiftly become delicacies on aristocratic tables.
While the slaver prattled on, Phield finally located the dot. His eyes slid to a cage tucked in the corner. The marker hovered above it like a quest indicator in a game.
A demi-human. A White Wolf demi-human.
Crimson eyes, wolf ears, and a bushy tail to match.
She lay curled in the damp, frigid cage wearing nothing but rough burlap, utterly still—except for the occasional furtive glance toward the keys dangling at the slaver's belt.
"Rare specimen from the grasslands," the trader boasted. "Our capture team lost good men breaching their stronghold. Savage bastards—fought like demons to the last." His smug grin masked casual cruelty. "If you fancy sampling a White Wolf's charms, my lord, bring servants to hold her down. One lapse in attention and she'll bite clean through your—"
"Beast-eared girl?"
Phield's pulse raced. A red-eyed beast-eared girl? He had zero resistance to that. None whatsoever.
Like petting a wary cat, Phield cautiously extended his hand, reaching to stroke the top of her head.
A low, rumbling growl rose from her throat.
"Grrrr…"
"You'd do well to be careful, my lord," the
steward Kaor muttered, brows knitted in concern.
The beast-eared girl's crimson eyes glinted with menace. Captain Connor's hand was already on his sword hilt. "Lord Phield, I'd advise against touching them. I'd rather not have trouble before we even reach the Nightfall Domain."
"No need to be so on edge. She's rather cute, actually." Even as he said it, Phield was sensible enough to listen. He withdrew his hand at once. In those scarlet eyes he saw defiance mingled with despair—adorable and pitiable all at once. Straightening his robe, he asked, "How much?"
"Just three gold coins!" The slaver, sensing desire, named an outrageous sum without hesitation.
One gold coin equaled a hundred silver; one silver, a hundred copper.
Phield's eyes narrowed. "You told me demi-humans go for twenty silver. Now you ask three gold. Are you trying to mock a noble?"
"Ah, but she's special, isn't she? Look how beautiful she is. Captured only recently—guaranteed untouched, never ogled by the filthy eyes of commoners. She was destined for the auction block. With features like hers, it's a shame she's only a demi-human—an unclean creature. Otherwise I wouldn't part with her for less than three hundred gold."
"Fifty silver," Phield countered coolly, arms folded across his chest. His tone turned coaxing, almost conspiratorial. "I'm on my way to take possession of my new territory. The slaves and playthings I buy won't stop at just one girl. One transaction today… or countless in the future. I'm sure you can weigh which is wiser."
The merchant sucked in a sharp breath, greed flickering behind his eyes.
He wrestled with himself for a moment.
Cultivating ties with a landed noble—one with real authority—could prove immensely profitable. At last he gritted his teeth. "That depends on how many you're buying, my lord."
The steward Kaor shot Phield a puzzled glance. The old Phield would never have haggled; he'd only have pitied the merchant's hard lot.
After careful selection, Phield purchased a hundred human slaves and a hundred demi-humans—120 men among them in total.
Adding the beast-eared girl he'd set his heart on, the final tally came to fifty-three gold coins.
"Here are the soul contracts, my lord," the slaver said, handing over rolls of parchment.
"All verified by a Divine Chosen."
"Contracts?" Phield accepted the sheets, scanning the long lists of names.
"Yes. Oaths sworn in the slaves' own blood. Anyone who defies your will is consumed by divine flame and reduced to ash." The merchant's smile was oily as he passed over the ropes tied to the captives. "So you may do whatever you wish with them. Enjoy yourself, my dear customer."
"I intend to," Phield replied with a dismissive wave, eager to be done with the man's prattle.
In the cursed lands ahead, the only way to survive was to stay sharp and ruthless.
"Unhappy" playthings would end up corrupted—or simply dead.
…
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