Midnight Report
The room was dim. Its walls, made of black stone that seemed to absorb light, were only illuminated by a red crystal chandelier that cast a soft, ember-like glow. The scent of incense filled the air—a distinctive aroma Fulguran always used when contemplating or receiving important reports.
Fulguran sat casually on his throne-like chair, his eyes glowing faintly like embers that never quite died out. In front of him, an old wooden table bore the scars of history. He turned his head as he heard approaching footsteps.
"Master," Veyron bowed respectfully, his black cloak slightly dusty from a long journey.
"Take your seat, Veyron," Fulguran said without turning his gaze. "I'm eager to hear your report on the Elementan race in the Niaris region."
Veyron sat down and straightened his posture. "So, Master... about those Elementals—I failed to bring them back alive."
Fulguran merely raised an eyebrow. "Hmm... so, was he too strong even for you? I have no need for his corpse, Veyron."
"Not one person, Master." Veyron replied quickly. "There are four Elementals. It seems... they are Valerian's children. The ones who escaped the massacre."
Fulguran froze for a moment. Then he laughed. Loudly.
"Hahahahahahahaha! I knew it! Those little dogs are still alive! Ah... Valerian, you truly were a stubborn father."
Veyron narrowed his eyes. "Master, they are strong. Trained. I'm sure they have already—"
"Have gathered," Fulguran interrupted, still smiling. "Of course, they have. I can imagine their vengeful gazes. Just like us... back then."
Veyron stared at his master in silence.
"Master, aren't you being too proud of them?"
"Not proud. I know anger. Boiling resentment. It's not a weakness, Veyron. It's... fuel."
"But... they will come after us."
"Yes, and when that time comes, I will stand here... waiting." Fulguran rose slowly. "Because after all... I am the one who slaughtered their entire race."
Silence.
Then suddenly—
CRASH!!
The door burst open.
Nocturnus stumbled in, wearing a robe far too large for his frame, followed by Rex Ossium, a living skeleton in a grand coat who walked with a limp because one of his legs... lagged behind.
"MASTERRRR!!" Nocturnus charged in. "I just made tea—and Rex drank it all even though he doesn't have a stomach!"
Rex chuckled, his voice raspy with a slight clinking of bones. "If I can't digest it, it won't run out, right?"
"THAT'S NOT HOW STOMACHS WORK, YOU DRIED-UP SKELETON!"
Fulguran raised a hand. "Both of you, be quiet."
"Yes, Master..." Rex said, then whispered to Nocturnus, "But the tea was as bitter as your past..."
Nocturnus took offense and raised his hands. "HAH WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!"
Fulguran sighed. "What are you two doing here?"
"We just wanted to report..." Nocturnus unfolded a paper stained with food. "...that our scout rats in the mountainous region spotted unusual tracks. Tracks of... some adventurers or some kids?"
Fulguran smirked. "Do we know them?"
"They seem like... hmm... kids who aren't old enough to challenge the world."
"But old enough to challenge me."
Nocturnus looked at Fulguran. "Should we send my undead legions, Master?"
Veyron interjected, "Or should we send a dinner invitation? Rex could be the bone broth!"
Nocturnus laughed. "If he's soup, who's going to fall down the stairs every morning?!"
Rex looked offended. "Tch, just because I'm a skeleton, you're making fun of me."
Fulguran couldn't help but smile faintly. "No. Let them be. I want to know... how far they can go. They must have been training for this day."
Veyron stood up slowly. "And if they come?"
Fulguran looked out the window, at the moon half-hidden by clouds.
"Then fate will speak, Veyron. We all have debts to pay. I'm just waiting... to see who comes to collect first."
Behind the City of Refuge
The afternoon air in the city was dusty, but it felt warm and alive. Merchants shouted prices, children ran through narrow alleys, and the aroma of street food filled the air. The city wasn't as large as the Imperial capital, but it was bustling enough to overwhelm anyone unfamiliar with it.
Four hooded youths walked down the main street. They had just arrived after a long journey, and their faces clearly showed one thing: weariness.
"We need a place to rest," Feran said, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "We're too conspicuous wandering around like this."
"Agreed," Altair replied, nodding. "Let's find an inn."
"I want a place where I can bathe, sleep, and... have good food," Lazric said, patting his stomach. "If possible, one that provides soft pillows too."
"We're in a city, not heaven," Quartzis quipped, "but if there are pillows, I call dibs."
Feran pointed to a two-story building on the corner. "Let's try there. The 'Golden Horn' Inn. Looks decent enough."
Several Days Later...
Three days had passed since their arrival. They had rented two small rooms, enough for just sleeping and storing their belongings. On the third day, they sat casually at the inn's dining table, eating a meager breakfast.
"What kind of meat is this? It's like rubber dipped in cooking oil," Lazric grumbled while trying to chew.
"At least it's not roasted scorpion," Quartzis retorted, "but yeah... this is torture too."
Altair chuckled softly. "We should be grateful. We're still alive and eating."
Feran sipped his tea. "We've only been resting for three days, when are we going to continue our journey?"
Just then, someone approached their table. A portly man in overly flashy clothes with a sly smile on his face.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" the man greeted, "I couldn't help but notice... your style. You must be from a wealthy family, aren't you?"
Altair exchanged a glance with Feran—a hint of caution in their eyes.
"We're just traveling merchants," Feran replied flatly.
"Oh, of course, of course!" the man chuckled, **"All rich people always say that. But listen to this—I know an interesting place. In the southern bar of the city, there will be a special auction tonight. Rare... and living items." He winked. "Who knows, you might be interested."
"Living items?" Quartzis murmured, frowning. "What does he mean?—Oh... oh."
Feran's gaze sharpened. "Slaves."
The man smiled wider. "Clever you are. But you didn't hear it from me. Remember, the bar in the south. Just ask about the downstairs room." Then he left, as if he had never been there.
"That's suspicious," Lazric hissed.
"We have to see," Altair said quickly.
"No," Feran replied firmly. "If this is related to a dark organization, we can't take the risk. Remember our initial goal, come on, we're just resting."
"But what if they need help?" Quartzis said.
"Or to save them?" Lazric added quickly.
Feran massaged his temples. "You guys are really troublesome."
That Night, in the Southern Bar
The bar was noisy, smoky, and full of suspicious-looking people. But when they entered, all eyes only glanced briefly before returning to their drinks.
They saw the man from that morning—the informant—waving from a corner of the bar.
"Over here, over here!" he whispered. He opened a small wooden door behind the bar and gestured for them to enter. A narrow spiral staircase led them underground. There, the boisterous noise disappeared... replaced by whispers and the clinking of chains.
When the last door opened, the underground room was full of iron cages.
Humans, elves, dark elves, orcs, centaurs, dwarves. They sat, stood, huddled. Some were still children. All with vacant eyes.
Altair fell silent.
Quartzis clenched his fists. Lazric looked torn between anger and horror. Feran, meanwhile, stared in silence.
"They... are treated like objects," Altair whispered. "Sold like animals."
"Worse than animals," Quartzis muttered.
"Are we just going to stand here?" Lazric asked, his voice a furious whisper.
Feran looked at them. "We can't be reckless. This place could be connected to dangerous groups."
Altair walked to one of the cages. A young elf boy looked up at him... and smiled faintly. His teeth were missing. His eyes were full of hurt, but he smiled.
Altair gripped the iron bars until a soft creak was heard. His eyes began to darken.
"I don't care who runs this place. They will learn that there are lines that should not be crossed."
Feran held his shoulder. "Don't. Not yet."
Quartzis sighed heavily. "Why does something like this have to happen?"
Lazric looked around, then suddenly whispered, "Hey... that centaur in the corner has been glancing at us the whole time. Maybe he thinks we're customers... or... oh my god, he winked at me!"
Quartzis grinned. "Congratulations, Lazric. Your first wink... from a half-human horse."
"I DON'T WANT TO BE HIS LEG BONES, HEY!"
Altair didn't laugh this time. He was still staring at the slaves.
"Tomorrow, we find out who runs this place. And if possible... we'll destroy the system from within."
Feran didn't answer. But this time, he didn't forbid it.