For the first time since his arrival, the boy was free from the cells.
The filthy stone prison had been replaced with a modest room—a simple space with four walls and a ceiling, and most importantly, a wooden door that didn't have four locks to keep him inside.
The room was sparsely furnished but practical. A wooden-framed bed, raised off the floor, was neatly placed, with a finally threadbare blanket folded at its end.
Beside it stood a desk and chair of sturdy pine, rough but solid. On the desk, a small stack of thick books awaited—each a potential gateway to a new world.
A lone candle, mounted on the wall, flickered weakly in the drafts that snaked in from the window.
Sleep had become a rare luxury in the past few days, as the books before him consumed his attention.
Each night, he would steal precious hours from his rest, unwilling to waste a single moment.
Five days of silence.
Five days of reading.
His comprehension was rapid; the concepts and terminology felt familiar, as if he were rereading books about the Middle Ages from his previous life—something he had known before.
This was especially true in areas like economics and trade, public law, and the justice system—all of which felt painfully simplistic compared to the layered institutions of his own world.
Also, the structure of kingdoms, the system of lineage, noble families... revealed a hereditary caste system, where status was carved by birth and nearly impossible to escape..
One's ancestry dictated their entire existence, a seemingly eternal lottery determining their place in the social fabric from the very moment of birth.
In other words, aristocracy here wasn't merely the rule of a few; it was an existential structure, founded upon ancient bloodlines and sacred traditions. Power and privilege were inherited as surely as physical traits, and one's lineage served as their eternal passport, opening the gates of glory or forever barring them.
Even among nobles, a strict internal ranking existed, separating them into three distinct classes.
The Great Nobles, who were few and far between, were the oldest and most powerful families, often having blood ties to the royal family or a long military history;
Then the Middle Nobles, who owned lands and wealth but had no real influence in high politics;
And finally the New Nobles, those who had recently obtained their titles through money or loyalty, and were often looked down upon by the previous two classes.
Even within the palaces, no one was equal.
Yet, the boy paid little mind to this intricate social hierarchy, barely glancing at their history. Instead, his attention laser-focused on the specific etiquette of the nobles—the cut of their clothes, the cadence of their speech, the precise posture they adopted when seated, even the very rhythm of their breath.
He meticulously sought out the passages detailing these nuances, deliberately overlooking the broader context.
Time, he knew, was a precious commodity he could ill afford to squander.
Then, he directed his full attention towards the books on magic, only to discover a reality utterly different from his expectations.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered as he traced a finger over a diagram of mana gates. The memories of physics textbooks from his world flickered in his mind, their logical systems so different from what he was confronting now.
In this small room, a sense of grounded familiarity offered a stark contrast to the bewildering world described in the books. The book left precariously on the desk's edge remained stubbornly in place, a testament to the unwavering pull of gravity, a law he understood.
The candle's steady burn, converting wax to light and warmth, echoed the principles of energy and heat he knew so well. Even the subtle dance of color in its flame hinted at predictable chemical reactions. Here, within these four walls, the physical world was a logical, comprehensible domain.
It was with this ingrained understanding of order that he had approached the texts on magic, hoping it too would yield to reason, like the complex puzzles he had unraveled in his former life through methodical observation and logical deduction.
Yet, the deeper he ventured into the descriptions of spells and enchantments, the more elusive magic became, slipping through the grasp of his logical mind like smoke, shrouded in an impenetrable fog of enigma.
New concepts that defied logic, something that challenged everything he knew about the laws of science and physics that had governed his previous world.
Magic bent these laws—it didn't shatter reality; rather, it wove through it, a novel concept...
The frustrating truth was that he was an outsider, devoid of any inherent connection to this power, a powerless observer struggling to reconcile the seemingly irrational with the ordered reality he knew.
At his core, he was a logical thinker—but even he had to admit that logic alone couldn't fully explain magic.
According to the books, everything contained mana—a fundamental energy, pervasive yet invisible, woven into the very fabric of matter itself; even the air he breathed was saturated with it. Humans were among the beings capable of sensing mana, drawing upon it, and reshaping it through an act of will.
Then came the concept of mana manipulation. This involved altering its internal structure, coaxing it into new forms—shaping it into wind, solidifying it into stone, or binding it into protective shields, at least for the more basic incantations. To accomplish this, a sorcerer had to open specific "gates" within their body—natural channels that allowed raw mana to enter, be refined, and then be released into the world. Without proper alignment of these gates, mana would remain wild and unusable, slipping through one's grasp like water through a broken vessel.
The books were filled with diagrams, formulas, and incantations meant to guide the flow of mana, but none offered a complete picture.
To the boy, it felt like madness. It was as if he were trying to learn a language whose rules constantly shifted, its letters changing the moment he looked away.
Nevertheless, he persisted, scribbling notes in the margins, attempting to create a system, a bridge between what he knew and what he needed to learn. It was a race against time… and so he chose what was essential to read.
It was late, well past midnight.
His limbs felt heavy, his head beginning to nod… yet his eyes, dark and unwavering, scanned the page. Fatigue pressed down on him, but he willed his body onward.
He persisted. His vision blurred, the ink seeming to fade from the page.
He had reached his limit.
Rubbing his eyes, he forced his focus back to the text before him. "A Primer on the Foundational Principles of Alchemical Thaumaturgy." That might prove useful...
But the words swam before him, refusing to stay fixed on the page. He had been reading for the better part of the day, pausing only for the meager meals brought to him.
His young body, still frail from his days of captivity, could no longer be overridden by any amount of mental discipline; the insistent demands for rest were too great.
One more page, he told himself...
But his head fell onto the open book before him, sleep claiming him before he could even finish the paragraph. His fingers slowly slid off the book as his breathing deepened into quiet rhythm...
Around him, stacks of books stood like silent sentinels.
The candle flickered, casting shifting shadows across his sleeping form.
The night passed in silence, save for the occasional creak of the wood and the soft hiss of the candle's dying breath…
For the first time in days, the tension eased from his features, the mask of cautious neutrality sliding away to reveal the child he still was. In sleep, at least, he couldn't maintain the composed adult countenance that belied his young frame.
The candle burned lower, its light fading with the deepening night towards dawn, until it finally extinguished.
°°°
"Wake up! Wake up now!"
The boy jolted awake, momentarily disoriented. Borin stood over him, his hand still on the boy's shoulder where he'd shaken him from sleep.
Though dawn was breaking, a heavy darkness still clung to the corners of the room, as if the light hesitated to fully appear.
"Elara wants you ready to travel at a moment's notice," Borin said curtly. "Pack those books if you want to bring them. Only one box."
The boy rose immediately from where he'd fallen asleep at the table. His neck ached from the awkward angle, and his eyes felt gritty with exhaustion, but he betrayed none of it.
Silently, he began to arrange the books carefully in the small box Borin had indicated.
"There's water in the basin," Borin added. "Clean yourself up. You'll be representing Elara now; try to look presentable."
The boy nodded silently and stood.
He washed his hands, face, neck, and forearms, careful to work around the iron collar that still encircled his neck. His hands weren't bound, but the neck collar remained, the metal having chafed his skin raw in places. He had long since learned to ignore the constant discomfort.
By the time he had dried himself and checked the box one last time, Borin reappeared in the doorway.
"Finished packing?" Borin asked, his gaze sweeping over the neatly arranged box.
"Yes."
"Good. Bring it. We leave now."
As he lifted the box, his balance wavered for a moment under the unexpected weight. The accumulated exhaustion in his body felt heavier than the books themselves, and his thin arms trembled with the effort, but he made no complaint as he followed Borin.
Elara was waiting in the main room of the slave quarters, the same place where she had presented the boy to lady Meredith. She wore practical travel attire, befitting the journey ahead—sturdy boots, a riding skirt, and a light cloak to shield her from the early morning chill and the dry evening heat. Her belt, heavy with a pouch and a dagger, affirmed her readiness for action without the need for words.
"Ah, there you are," Elara commented, glancing up from the ledger she had been reviewing. "Put that aside now. Borin will see to it."
Without a word, the boy set the box down by the door, relieved of the weight.
"Did you find the books useful?" Elara asked, her tone light but her gaze never leaving him.
"Yes, Mistress."
"Most find them impenetrable," Elara remarked, studying him with renewed interest. "Yet you understand parts of them. Interesting."
Her gaze sharpened as she looked at him, her tone laced with expectation. "I have raised my hopes, and I expect results now. If you fail to perform as promised, I will be... disappointed. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
The boy's reply was brief and detached as usual, "I understand, Mistress."
"Good," Elara said, her voice carrying a touch of approval. "That's enough for now. Just make sure it turns into action." She stood up, smoothed her travel clothes, and gave a quick, dismissive wave toward the door. "Alright, let's go. We can't afford to be late."
With a faint, reluctant groan, the door to the outside world creaked open. It seemed to hesitate, as if the place itself resisted letting anyone leave. The boy stepped out, his movements heavy, a cool breeze brushing his face—soft, yet carrying a silent, stinging sharpness.
The sensation was overwhelming. After all the time spent confined within the narrow, dark confines of that place, the vast sky above felt oppressive in its immensity, and tears welled in his eyes without him even noticing.
It was dawn, the sky suspended between the darkness of night and the light of day. The sun had not yet risen, but the distant horizon was beginning to glow faintly with a pale, grey light. No birds sang, no human voices could be heard… just a profound silence.
The place where the boy had been imprisoned stood on the edge of a desolate land, surrounded by crumbling buildings that resembled silent ghosts, remnants of a long-gone era. The windows, empty of glass, were like hollow eyes staring into nothingness.
There were no signs of life—no smoke rising from chimneys, no light spilling from windows—just silence and stillness, as if these structures had been abandoned ages ago.
A wooden wagon awaited him, its arched roof resembling an old shipping crate, its single window offering a glimpse of the outside world. This solitary window was framed by thick wooden slats crisscrossing in a pattern of narrow squares, barely allowing thin grey threads of light to penetrate.
Two horses, harnessed to the wagon, stood amidst the light mist, their breath rising in white puffs, like smoke.
Borin nudged the boy towards the wagon. The door closed quietly behind him, the faint light filtering through the window casting shadows around him.
Then, Borin joined Elara at the front.
The wagon moved forward in silence, its wheels grinding against the dirt road in a gentle rhythm. The boy sat alone inside, gazing out of the narrow window, watching the sky as he waited for the first signs of sunlight to break through.
Elara guided their way towards the center of the town Feron, where she was scheduled to meet the caravan that would embark on the long journey towards the city of Tarvain.
°°°
After a long stretch of steady travel, Elara finally reached the center of Feron city. The sun began to seep through the grey clouds, revealing a bustling scene teeming with life—but a life of a peculiar kind.
On every corner, slaves were being herded forward in chains, their heads bowed and their bodies weary. Most were men and young boys, but women and children were also present, each bearing clear marks of exhaustion, beatings, or hunger.
The city she had entered was unlike any other; it was notorious for its slave trade, a fact that was starkly evident in its streets, squares, and marketplaces.
As for the townspeople, they mostly observed the scene from a distance—from behind closed doors or high windows—their eyes holding familiar gazes, devoid of surprise, as if such sights were a commonplace part of their day.
Many guards in armor bearing the kingdom's sigil stood by the horses, talking and occasionally laughing, but their sharp eyes never strayed far from their duty. Some carried long spears, others had swords at their hips, and all exuded an aura of discipline and authority.
Elara approached one of the guards and handed him a scroll sealed with red wax. The man was tall, with a neatly trimmed beard and stern eyes that missed nothing. "My permits," she stated confidently.
He took the scroll calmly, opened it with focus, and carefully examined the seal.
"Elara, from the Northern Guild?"
She nodded.
"You are cleared. You may join the caravan. You will be placed in the center."
Beside her stood Borin, who asked, "Do you want to give him the books now?"
Elara glanced towards the closed wagon where the boy had been placed. "Yes, now the wagon will have some sunlight."
Inside the wagon, the boy sat huddled after waking from a doze, peering out of the small window with its wooden lattice of narrow squares, through which light barely filtered. Everything around him felt alien—the city's noise, the sounds of people, the clatter of horses' hooves… it was as if he were traveling through time.
As he stared out, he caught sight of a little girl, no older than four, wearing a simple dress, standing near a market corner, waving to him with innocent curiosity. Something in her smile made him linger his gaze, but the moment was quickly broken; her mother yanked her away roughly. The woman cast a sharp glance at the wagon's window, her expression one of undisguised distaste, even though she couldn't have clearly seen his face.
This didn't surprise him. It was a stark reflection of what he had read, a sharp reminder that in this world, even the lowliest of the free considered themselves above those like him.
The wagon door opened, and Borin handed him the box of books.
"Read while you travel," he said, closing the door without further explanation...
Dozens of wagons were lined up. Slaves were being loaded into them, men and women, young and old, all bearing the marks of iron shackles around their wrists or necks. Some had collars with magical inscriptions that glowed faintly. Others wore muzzles.
The boy watched them silently, a dawning realization that he was no longer alone in his kind.
The wait stretched on. The area became crowded with slavers preparing their "goods," checking their chains, and some haggling over wagon space.
Meanwhile, the guards prepared with precise coordination, reviewing travel manifests and exchanging signals and agreements about guard positions along the route.
Five riders in black armor, adorned with silver inscriptions, stood distinctly apart from the rest of the guards. Borin, his eyes fixed on them, turned to Elara, a question forming on his lips. His eyes narrowed with unconcealed suspicion as he murmured, "Who are they?"
Elara followed his gaze, a flicker crossing her face that held both respect and apprehension.
"Those are the Five Hill Wolves," Elara said in a low voice, her eyes watching the five men from a distance without betraying any emotion. "An independent company that doesn't answer to any standing garrison, but their reputation precedes them wherever they go."
Her steps were measured as she continued, her tone steady. "Each one of them has seen more battles than any regular soldier can count. They only serve on assignments that demand guaranteed results, and they don't move without a hefty price."
She glanced quickly at Borin, cutting off any question before he could voice it. "Don't try to speak to them. And don't approach them unnecessarily. They have no patience for curiosity. Their job is to deliver the cargo, nothing more."
She paused for a moment, then added in a quieter tone, almost to herself, "Strange... names like theirs rarely appear in events like this..."
Elara finished her thought with a sharp look forward, as if putting an end to any further discussion.
Soon, the sound of horns echoed, announcing the beginning of their departure.
The wagons left the city one by one, moving slowly at first. The air was thick with the stench of poverty, where dilapidated houses crowded the narrow alleys.
The inhabitants watched the guards, some with gazes of anger, others with a flicker of hope that they might one day be like them. While gazes of admiration lingered on the five black riders...
Once they passed beyond the city walls, the landscape began to change. The scattered, decaying houses vanished into the distance, leaving behind a barren land covered only with patches of hardy vegetation and swirling dust. The sun was already high above, and the air shimmered with heat. The monotonous emptiness of the scenery made the silence feel even more suffocating.
The boy looked out of the small window, staring at the horizon, at the vast landscapes he had never seen before. For a moment, he felt something akin to freedom—or perhaps just the illusion of it.
Then, he turned his eyes back to the inside where the books awaited him. He opened one and began to read silently, trying to forget the heat seeping into the wagon.
Throughout the journey, no one dared approach the caravan. The mere presence of the five riders was enough to instill fear. No attempts at attack were made, nor did any bandits appear.
The caravan occasionally stopped for rest, then resumed its course according to a precise plan.
°°°
Finally, after a full day of travel...
The outlines of the city of Tarvain began to appear on the horizon. The city was much larger than Feron, its golden domes gleaming in the sunlight, like a city from an entirely different world. It was surrounded by massive stone walls punctuated by towering watchtowers, atop which colorful banners fluttered in the wind.
While long lines of wagons filled the gates of Tarvain, Elara directed her wagon toward a private entrance reserved for the auction. The area was quieter, though the queues remained lengthy. This auction, after all, was for slaves of significant value.
Some time passed before Elara's wagon finally reached the entrance.
She approached the guards and produced her dedicated auction pass. The guard quickly examined it before allowing her through. She crossed the gate and found herself in a vast square.
The rough dirt tracks of the outer roads disappeared, replaced by wide paved streets lined with towering stone buildings adorned with intricate carvings and arched windows.
Gothic facades rose with prominent columns and small towers covered in dark tiles, while some buildings displayed a Romanesque character with wide arches and precisely polished stones.
Ornate wooden balconies intertwined above narrow alleys, decorated with colorful fabrics fluttering between the houses.
The air, thick with the scent of exotic spices and fine leather, buzzed with the vibrant energy of a thriving commercial hub. This was no mere town; Tervian pulsed with a wealth and refinement that reflected its reputation as the kingdom's largest trading city, where architectural artistry blended with opulence, and every building showcased the pride of its owners and their long history.
Borin's eyes cautiously scanned the area, but he quickly caught the gazes of some wealthy merchants standing near their wagon, scrutinizing them with frowning faces and disdainful looks.
The sight of their worn wagon amidst the luxurious ones was enough to draw attention, but not the welcoming kind. Signs of worry etched his features, and he steered the wagon towards a less crowded corner, trying to avoid further scrutiny.
He whispered in a low voice, "The turnout is huge this time... and people are looking at us like we've brought a plague."
Elara nodded and said quietly, "Who cares about them? We're already late—we must hurry."
The caravan was guided through a complex network of streets towards a massive and imposing a grand gate topped with intricate carvings, representing trade symbols, giving it a distinctive and unforgettable design.
Once they passed through the gate, a vast inner courtyard opened up before them, roughly the size of a small village square. The floor, paved with polished stone, gleamed under the sunlight, reflecting the structured elegance of the place.
It was alive with movement and noise, filled with sharp voices and barking commands, as guards and overseers shouted across the stone courtyard.
The heralds of the auction—stern men bearing the auction's emblem—moved through the crowd, guiding merchants to their assigned stalls.
While merchants gathered in groups, chatting, their distinctive clothing creating a vibrant tapestry of colors against the monotony of the stone. Some wore jeweled turbans and flowing robes of embroidered silk, the rich fabrics and gold-threaded hems proclaiming their wealth and far-off origins.
Others were clad in fitted velvet doublets, secured with ornate silver clasps and stitched with noble sigils, while a few flaunted cloaks lined with exotic furs—less for warmth than as a bold display of extravagance under the sweltering sun.
They moved with an air of pride, presenting their slaves in the finest condition. Each merchant had brought his finest stock, aware that only the most exceptional would be chosen for the auction where the stakes were highest and the profits greatest.
Some appeared nervous, their eyes scanning the crowd with caution, fingers fidgeting with the edges of their garments—newcomers, perhaps...
Across the courtyard stood a grand stone building with tall, arched windows, the official Registration Hall where all slaves had to be examined and documented before being considered for the auction.
"Elara ignored all of it—she paid no attention to the merchants. Her eyes were searching for someone...
She guided her wagon toward a smaller side entrance, half-concealed behind a weathered pillar etched with ancient runes.
Though several guards stood watch near the doorway, one figure stood apart from the rest—a familiar face that drew a faint, rare smile from Elara. From the shadows emerged a woman with copper-colored hair that glinted in the sunlight, her features lighting up with a warm smile of recognition the moment she spotted Elara through the bustling crowd.