Three days... or maybe more, have passed since consciousness returned to me in this wheeled cage, though time has lost all meaning beyond the endless cycle of pain and brief, haunting moments of awareness that pierce through the lingering effects of the tranquilizer dart.
In those first disoriented periods of wakefulness, I learned my captors' names through their casual conversations—the taller one is Darius, the shorter stockier one with the beard is Renn. Information that came to me through overheard exchanges as they discussed routes, prices, and their "merchandise" with the callous professionalism of experienced slavers.
My awareness comes in painful fragments—the rough wood beneath my bruised body, the bite of iron shackles around my wrists and ankles, the taste of old leather and fear from the gag that filled my mouth during the journey. Every bump in the road sends fresh agony through my battered form, and I find myself haunted by the events that led to this nightmare.
Leira's sacrifice. Papa's last embrace. The sound of Kai's final scream echoing endlessly in my mind as the demon commander's blade found its mark.
His efforts to save me feel squandered now that I'm a prisoner of slavers, his heroic death reduced to nothing by my current predicament.
I test my bonds again with hope that something might have loosened, but the shackles are heavy and well-made, designed specifically to contain beast-people strength. The iron is cold against my skin while magical wards tingle with malevolent energy whenever I strain against them.
Through the bars of my cage, I catch glimpses of changing landscape as we travel north—the familiar forest of my homeland giving way to farmland, then to more populated areas with roads and settlements. Each mile takes me further from everything I've ever known and deeper into a world that sees me as merchandise rather than a person.
The loss of Kai's pendant feels like a physical wound. I remember through the haze of the tranquilizer how Renn's fingers had torn it from my neck, commenting that "this trinket might be worth a few coppers." It was the last tangible connection to love and hope being reduced to mere monetary value.
I try to focus on good memories—morning songs in the forest canopy, sparring matches with friends, quiet evenings reading by firelight. But these precious recollections slip away like water, replaced by the harsh sensations of iron and wood and the constant, gnawing fear of what comes next.
Darius and Renn take turns "watching" their prize, and their conversations reveal the calculated nature of their cruelty as they discuss my value with the detached professionalism of livestock traders, noting my age, my exotic coloring, and the potential premium my amber eyes will command in the market.
"Young female beast-woman, prime breeding age," Darius observes with clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl. "Those ears and that tail will fetch extra from the right buyers."
"Shame about the bruises," Renn adds, fingering Kai's pendant with casual possession, "but they'll heal before auction. Might even add to the appeal—shows she's got some fight left in her."
During brief stops for their breaks, I'm given meager food and water—only enough to keep me alive. But even this basic sustenance comes with degradation as they make me beg for it, then throw the scraps on the ground, forcing me to eat like an animal while they watch with obvious amusement.
The cage is covered with a heavy canvas tarp that blocks most light and makes it impossible to judge the passage of time, leaving me disoriented and trapped in a twilight world where day and night blur together.
Through small tears and gaps in the fabric, I catch occasional glimpses of the changing landscape as we travel north toward what I learn will be Myrtus City. The familiar forest of my homeland gives way to farmland, then to more populated areas with roads and settlements, each mile taking me further from everything I've ever known.
The covered cage serves a dual purpose: hiding their "merchandise" from casual observers who might object to the sight of a caged person, while also preventing me from calling for help or getting my bearings for any potential escape attempt.
When I'm given time to relieve myself, I'm still chained and held by my captors, forcing me to endure the humiliation of performing bodily functions under their watchful eyes, treated like nothing more than a wild beast whose comfort and dignity are irrelevant considerations.
During these moments, I catch glimpses of my sword hanging from Darius's belt—my father's blade reduced to a trophy of their successful hunt, another reminder of everything stolen from me along with my freedom.
Each forced word of submission chips away at my sense of self, teaching me that survival requires the abandonment of dignity. I hate myself for how quickly I begin to adapt to these conditions, accepting indignities that would have been unthinkable just days ago.
The speed of my psychological adjustment terrifies me almost as much as the abuse itself, because I can feel who I used to be slowly disappearing beneath layers of learned helplessness and desperate compliance.
The city announces itself with sound before sight—the growing bustle of the capital filling the air with footsteps, voices, horses, and carriages that create a symphony of urban life I once dreamed of experiencing as a free person exploring new places and meeting new people.
Through the canvas covering, I can only hear the life I'm being carried through but cannot see, the sounds becoming my only connection to the world beyond my cage. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm finally reaching Myrtus City, the place traveling merchants described as the center of the kingdom's economy, but I'm experiencing it as cargo rather than a curious visitor.
The sounds gradually shift as we move deeper into the city, the cheerful commerce and casual conversation giving way to something more sinister. When the wagon finally stops and I hear Darius pulling back the canvas covering, harsh sunlight floods my cage for the first time in days, making me squint as my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.
For one moment, seeing people moving about their daily lives, I try to scream for help—but only a strangled, barely audible sound escapes my parched throat through the gag. The pathetic noise is immediately swallowed by the city's bustling cacophony, and I realize with crushing finality that no one can hear me, no one is looking, and no one would help me even if they could.
The slave market occupies a darker quarter of the city, and the reality of my situation hits me fully as I see other cages around a courtyard that reeks of fear, waste, and despair. The contrast between my childhood dreams of adventure and the reality of my situation is devastating.
Everything I once was—daughter, sister, friend, lover of books and dreams—is about to be reduced to a price tag and a bill of sale, my worth determined not by my thoughts or feelings or potential, but by what someone is willing to pay for the right to own me completely.
At the slave market, Darius and Renn begin haggling over my price with the market master—a muscular man in his thirties with a square jaw and weathered face, his cruel eyes holding no warmth as they calculate profit with the practiced efficiency of someone who has built a business on human suffering.
When Darius addresses him as "Eagor," I learn the name of this man who will decide my fate. He examines me with professional detachment, his gaze moving over my body with the same assessment he might give livestock, noting my physical condition and estimating my potential value while I stand there chained and helpless.
They settle on a preliminary price, and I learn with growing dread that I'm to be auctioned off if no private buyer meets their asking price. The prospect of standing naked on an auction block while crowds of potential buyers evaluate my body fills me with horror.
The market master notes the intelligence in my eyes when he orders me dragged from the cage, my legs unable to support me after days of confinement.
"This one might bring premium prices," he tells the slavers with professional interest. "Intelligence makes them more valuable for certain buyers, though it also makes them harder to break—we'll need to work on that defiance before the auction."
His words make my blood run cold, because I understand that whatever horrors I've already endured are merely the beginning, that systematic torture awaits anyone who shows signs of independent thought or unbroken spirit.
The questioning begins immediately as Eagor removes my gag and demands my name, but I refuse to answer, my voice slurred from disuse and trauma. The simple act of defiance feels like a desperate attempt to retain some small piece of who I used to be.
Frustrated by my resistance, he barks an order to Darius and Renn, who seize me roughly and force me face-down onto the cold stone floor, their hands pinning my arms while I struggled helplessly against their grip. I heard the sound of fabric tearing as Eagor rips the back of my shirt open, exposing my bare skin to the damp underground air.
With me secured and helpless, the master begins casting an unknown spell, speaking dark words in an ancient-sounding tongue I don't recognize despite my knowledge from books: "Vinculum animae, servitus aeterna, voluntas fracta..."
I felt a chill of terror as I realized that this is not just intimidation but genuine magic being worked upon my very soul.
He drew a knife across his palm, then leant down and made a shallow cut at the base of my neck where my spine met my skull. The sharp pain made me gasp as my own blood began to flow. As he continued the dark incantation, I felt an unnatural cold spreading from where our blood mingled.
When he pressed his bloody palm against my bleeding neck, the agony that followed was beyond anything I've ever experienced—not just physical pain but a spiritual violation that rewrote something fundamental about my being.
The pain wasn't just in my body but in my soul, and I felt my will bending against my desire, my very identity being altered by forces I couldn't understand or resist as unnatural energy flowed into me. A burning sensation spread beneath his palm, something being carved or burned into my very flesh that I couldn't see but feel with every fiber of my being.
When the master asked my name again, I tried desperately to resist, but unbearable pressure in my head and neck—the mark itself punishing defiance with crushing mental agony—made it impossible to breathe until I complied. I gasped out "Leiko" while hating myself for the surrender, knowing I could have stayed silent but unable to endure the torture.
The market master revealed the nature of the spell with professional satisfaction: a dark magic seal binding me as a slave under his control, the brand more than a mark of ownership but a magical punishment system that would torment me for any disobedience.
I understood with crystalline horror that I was no longer merely a captive but something far worse—a person whose every defiant thought or action would be met with unbearable agony, my choices reduced to obedience or suffering.
Horrified and powerless, I was shoved into the underground chambers beneath the market—a dim, sprawling space housing dozens of slaves in various states of despair. The stone floors were covered in dirty straw and the air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, waste, and hopelessness.
The holding area was divided into separate cages, and while some housed multiple slaves clustered together for warmth and comfort, I was placed alone in my own cell, the isolation adding another layer of torment to my already desperate situation.
I observed the diverse group of prisoners with growing horror: lizardmen in the far corners, several dwarves huddled together, and a large number of humans and beast-people. But strangely, the beast-people were mostly wolfkin, and I wondered grimly about the fate of their communities, whether they suffered the same systematic destruction that befell my forest home.
The conditions were deplorable beyond imagination—no privacy, poor hygiene, and only a bucket shared by each cage for the most basic bodily needs. The complete absence of dignity served as a constant reminder that we were no longer considered people but animals awaiting sale.
What struck me most forcefully was the treatment of the human slaves, mostly women who were scantily clad or completely naked, the younger and more attractive ones placed under the brightest lanterns for maximum visibility to potential buyers, their bodies displayed like merchandise in a shop window.
Every slave bore the same dark mark beneath the back of their neck—resembling broken, abstract wings. When I reached back to touch my own neck, I confirmed that I now bore this symbol of ownership, this magical brand that marked me as property rather than a person with rights and dignity and hopes for the future.
A wolfkin woman approached my cage with a gloomy, resigned manner, her once-proud bearing now hollow-eyed and broken, serving as an unofficial guide to this new reality that I was struggling to comprehend and accept.
"First time?" she asked with a voice made hoarse by screaming and pleading, though her tone carried a strange gentleness beneath the despair. "You'll learn or you'll die. Those are the only options here."
When I asked how humans could even enslave our kind—surely beast-people were stronger—she responded with bitter laughter that held no warmth. The magical brands negated our natural advantages while humans had numbers, organization, and most importantly, magical knowledge that most beast-people lacked.
"They've been perfecting this system for generations," she said with the flat certainty of someone who had learned these truths through bitter experience. "We're chained here most days for buyers who might take interest, only unchained for feeding time or night rest."
Her own story emerged in painful fragments—three years enslaved, four different masters, each worse than the last, her spirit systematically ground down by experiences that had taught her that hope was a luxury slaves couldn't afford.
"The lucky ones die quick," she concluded with matter-of-fact despair that chilled me to the bone. "Forget who you were. That person is dead. The sooner you accept that, the better your chances of surviving what comes next."
I wanted to argue, to insist that I'd never give up my identity, but I saw the truth reflected in the broken faces around me, slaves who once had names and families and dreams but were now reduced to inventory awaiting sale.
Later, I tested my strength against the cage bars, trying to bend them as any beast-person should be able to do. But my muscles felt weak, diminished—as if the brand had sapped not just my will but my physical capabilities as well.
A human man nearby noticed my efforts and explained with weary patience: "The mark doesn't just punish disobedience. It weakens us—drains our strength, dulls our senses, reduces whatever natural advantages we might have had. Makes us easier to control."
I realized with growing horror that the brand was more insidious than simple punishment—it actively diminished everything that made us who we were, leaving us barely stronger than ordinary humans despite our beast-blood heritage.
Days passed in this underground hell, and I became acutely aware of my vulnerability with every movement. The ripped fabric at my back from the branding ceremony hung loose, exposing skin whenever I shifted position, and I constantly tried to hold the torn edges together with trembling hands, knowing how the guards' eyes lingered on any exposed flesh.
The sounds that echoed through the chambers at night—screams, sobs, and worse—created a symphony of suffering that made sleep impossible. Each cry from the women's cages was a preview of potential horrors that awaited me.
I witnessed the full extent of the market's systematic cruelty when guards dragged a young human woman past my cage, her body covered in bruises, her eyes vacant and unseeing. The casual way they discussed her "breaking in" process while she stumbled between them, barely able to walk, made bile rise in my throat.
The third night, a guard stopped at my cage during his rounds, his eyes gleaming with predatory interest as he took in my torn clothing and defensive posture.
"Look at you, trying to hide," he sneered, rattling the bars. "Exotic little thing like you... bet you'd fetch extra if we sampled the goods first."
His hand moved to the keys at his belt, and the metallic jingle sent a spike of pure terror through me. My body began to shake uncontrollably, and I felt a hot wetness spreading beneath me as my bladder released without my permission, the humiliation of losing control mixing with overwhelming fear.
The guard laughed at my accident, a cruel sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Already pissing yourself? Haven't even touched you yet."
He was fumbling with the lock when Eagor's voice cut through the darkness: "Leave that one be! She's prime merchandise, not for the likes of you."
The guard shot me a look that promised this reprieve was only temporary before slinking away into the shadows. I remained frozen in my own waste, too terrified to move, the torn fabric at my back now clinging to my skin with cold dampness.
Sleep became impossible as I lived in constant anticipation of footsteps, knowing that each night might be the one where my temporary protection ended.
Throughout my days in this underground hell, potential buyers regularly toured the chambers with Eagor, examining slaves like merchandise in a shop. I learned to recognize the types by their footsteps and voices: nobles with perfumed handkerchiefs pressed to their noses, merchants calculating profit margins aloud, brothel owners discussing "training techniques," and worse.
Most days I was passed over entirely—too dirty, too feral-looking, too obviously traumatized to be worth examining closely.
But on the fourth day, after guards had roughly cleaned some of the blood and filth from my cage, a well-dressed merchant stopped to peer at me through the bars.
"What about this one? Catkin are rare in the capital."
Eagor approached my cage with his practiced salesman's demeanor, but when the merchant asked the price, I witnessed something strange—Eagor hesitated, his cruel eyes flickering with something unreadable as he studied me, jaw working as if wrestling with some internal conflict.
"Eight gold coins," he finally said, the words carrying an odd finality.
The merchant actually stepped back in shock. "Eight? For a half-dead beast-girl? You jest, surely."
But Eagor didn't budge, and the merchant left muttering about highway robbery.
This pattern repeated over the following days—initial interest, Eagor's strange hesitation before naming his price, then immediate rejection. Each time, I saw that same peculiar pause before Eagor stated the price, as if he was conflicted about something I couldn't understand.
Why price me so high that no one would buy? What did he know that made him hesitate before potentially losing a sale?
The day before the scheduled auction brought a flurry of preparation as slaves were cleaned and their wounds hidden to present the best possible appearance to buyers. For the first time since my arrival, guards forced me to wash properly, roughly scrubbing away days of filth while I stood shivering and exposed, my torn clothing taken away and replaced with a thin shift that barely preserved modesty.
The activity increased as the day progressed, with guards discussing tomorrow's expected crowds and the various types of buyers who attended the monthly auctions. I overheard them wagering on which slaves would fetch the highest prices, and one mentioned that Eagor had been telling interested parties to come to the auction if they wanted "the catkin girl," since his private price had scared everyone away.
As I watched other slaves being prepared for display—their hair arranged, their bodies oiled to highlight muscle or curves depending on their intended market—I felt the last remnants of hope draining away.
Tomorrow I'd stand naked on that platform while crowds bid on my flesh, and Eagor would have to accept whatever price the market determined.
The prospect of the auction block terrified me, the reduction of my identity to nothing more than physical attributes and potential uses. By tomorrow night, I'd belong to whoever could afford me.
The brand on my neck throbbed as if sensing the approaching transfer, ready to bind me to whatever master claimed me when Eagor's impossible price finally broke against the reality of market forces.
Late in the afternoon, unusual activity stirred the market as a different kind of buyer arrived. I watched from my cage as a tall man appeared who seemed somehow different from the usual customers—rather than the leering, crude behavior of typical buyers, he appeared melancholic and controlled, his lean frame moving with a disciplined restraint that suggested military training.
The market master showed him through the underground chambers, but when his gaze fell on me and stopped, there was something strange in his look—not lust or casual appraisal, but an unspoken recognition that I couldn't identify, as if he saw something in me that went beyond my value as merchandise.
His face was difficult to read, showing neither the crude excitement of someone shopping for pleasure nor the calculating coldness of someone evaluating livestock, but rather a curious mixture of sadness and something that might be memory struggling to surface.
For a moment, our eyes met across the dim space, and I found myself studying his features with hope that this stranger might represent something different from the horrors I'd witnessed in this place.
Eagor noticed the buyer's interest and made a crude joke, but the mysterious man ignored the humor, asking seriously for my price with a tone that suggested he was conducting business rather than indulging in entertainment.
The market master set the exorbitant figure—eight gold coins—a price so high that I'm certain no one would ever pay it. I resigned myself to tomorrow's auction with the terrible knowledge that my naked body would be paraded in front of strangers whose bids would determine my worth and my fate.
Yet something in the stranger's expression as he considered the price gave me a flicker of hope, though I tried to suppress it because hope in this place had proven to be nothing more than another form of torture.
To everyone's surprise—Eagor's, the other slaves', and most of all mine—the man agreed to the exorbitant price without hesitation. The casual acceptance of eight gold coins was so stunning that even the market master paused in disbelief before his greed overcame his curiosity about this unusual buyer.
More shocking still, he offered a ninth gold coin for one of the plain maid outfits hanging on the wall—a simple house-servant dress in cheap, scratchy cloth, not worth even a silver coin, let alone gold.
Eagor's eyes widened at the offer. "A full gold... for that scrap of cotton?" He shook his head in disbelief but quickly pocketed the coin before the buyer could change his mind.
The gesture was so inexplicable that I wondered if this man was either incredibly wealthy or completely mad.
The transaction moved forward with efficient brutality as the transfer ritual began—another blood magic ceremony where blood was drawn from the man's hand with the master's knife. Both men pressed their cut palms together while Eagor spoke binding words in the ancient tongue: "Dominium transfertur, vinculum novum, servus traductus..."
I felt the brand on my neck shift and burn as the magical tether that bound my soul transferred from one master to another. The sensation was nauseating and violating, like having my very essence physically moved from one container to another, the magical bond reshaping itself to recognize new authority while the threat of punishment for disobedience transferred to a new master.
With the spell complete and the transaction finalized, the market master made his casual declaration—"She's yours"—and unlocked my cage door before throwing the maid outfit toward me. The fabric caught in my trembling hands as I realized that my ownership had just changed hands like any other piece of property.
When my new master asked my name, I felt the brand heat with warning as I considered lying or staying silent. The first spike of pain lanced through my neck as I hesitated, a preview of the agony to come, and I quickly gasped out "Leiko" before the punishment could escalate.
I studied his face for some clue about what awaited me, but his expression remained unreadable, showing neither cruelty nor kindness but simply the businesslike manner of someone who had just made a purchase and was ready to leave with his acquisition.
He gestured for me to follow him, speaking to me directly for the first time: "My name is Frazier."
As I clutched the maid outfit to my chest and stepped out of the cage that had been my prison, I had no idea whether this stranger represented salvation or simply a different kind of nightmare. But for the first time since my capture, someone had spoken to me as if I might be more than just property.
It was a small mercy, but in this place of horrors, even the smallest mercy felt like a miracle.