The sound of footsteps and the faint chatter from the bar upstairs had completely disappeared. Now, only the clinking of chains and low whispers accompanied their steps in the underground corridor. The dim yellow light of the lantern reflected off the bars of the cages, casting shadows of those who were once free… and now confined.
Altair walked slowly. His eyes swept across every corner of the room, taking in a scene that even hell might refuse to acknowledge. The slaves merely stared blankly, some trembling, others refusing to look in their direction.
Then... a soft sound was heard—tap, tap, tap—like a small, regular knocking. Altair almost ignored it… but Feran stopped.
He bent down, sharpening his hearing. In one of the cages, an old elf sat cross-legged, the shackles on his hands swinging gently, hitting the iron bars in a specific pattern. Tap, silence, tap-tap, silence… tap-tap-tap.
Feran narrowed his eyes. "That's… Morse code," he murmured softly.
Altair turned his head. "You understand it?"
"A little," Feran replied. "He's saying… 'You are not enemies. Need to talk. Trust me.'"
They exchanged glances for a moment. No words were needed. At that very moment, Altair strode purposefully towards the elf.
However, a disgusting squeaking sound cut short his steps.
"Hey hey hey… honored sirs," said the informant who had been trailing them. His body was small, his hair disheveled, but his eyes were sharp and restless like a sewer rat. "My name? Oh, that can wait. Let's talk about choices first, shall we?"
Altair pointed to the old elf in the cage. "That one. We want to buy him."
"That one?" The man chuckled dryly. "Sirs… good heavens, you have no taste. That's just a useless old elf. Look around—strong orcs, beautiful women, there's even a young centaur who could pull a cart or a bed if you like, hahaha…"
From behind, a soft voice was heard.
"Whoa… that elf chick next to the old guy… pretty sexy too," Quartzis whispered.
Lazric turned his head quickly. "WHERE, oh my god, you're right!"
Quartzis grinned. "Perfect for you, Lazric."
SMACK.
Lazric immediately slapped the back of Quartzis's head. "We're still teenagers! We're only fifteen! Where's your brain, huh?!"
"Well, my eyes still work…" Quartzis rubbed the back of his head, still chuckling.
Feran sighed deeply, as if he had already given up on the two boys. Altair ignored them. His gaze remained forward, filled with a quietly simmering anger.
Feran stepped forward. His voice was calm but sharp. "We are not buying slaves for entertainment. We need someone who can manage our trade. And that elf… looks wise enough."
"Hmm… wise, you say?" The man stroked his chin, then smirked. "Alright, if you insist. That old elf… 99 gold coins."
Altair opened the pouch on his belt and threw a handful of coins into the man's hands. The coins clinked as they fell into his grasp.
"Keep the change," Altair said flatly. "I like the way you serve us. We'll be back… later."
The man beamed. "O-of course, of course! Our service… is always open, sir!"
Without another word, Altair unlocked the elf's cage and helped him out. The old man looked at Altair in silence, then lowered his head slowly… meaningfully.
They left the underground room like shadows—silent, but burning inwardly.
Back at the Inn
The small inn on the edge of the city's west district was quiet. On the second floor, a room with six beds served as Altair and his group's temporary headquarters. A magic lamp in the corner of the room glowed dimly, casting a warm light that contrasted with the cold air outside.
The old elf sat in a chair near the window. Her slender hands smoothed her long silver hair. Her face still looked tired, but her eyes… those eyes were full of a living light that would not be extinguished.
Altair leaned against the wall, while Feran sat on the edge of a bed. Quartzis and Lazric… well, they were busy fighting over a pillow in the corner of the room.
"I will not waste your time," Ilanor said finally. Her voice was calm, authoritative, and every word seemed carefully chosen. "My true name is Ilanor Vel'Tassar. I come from the eastern region of the Hyardelle Forest, the land of the light elves."
Feran nodded slowly. "Hyardelle… the land of wise elves. Not many can leave there."
Ilanor continued, "Indeed. I was the chief advisor to our High Elder, and I was sent with three other elf guards to the southern region—to the Kingdom of Caelvarion."
Altair frowned. "Caelvarion? You were sent here as an envoy?"
Ilanor looked straight ahead. "As a negotiating ambassador. We wished to establish trade and defense relations with Caelvarion, as the threat from the north and the two great empires on this continent are still at war. But on our journey… we were attacked. A planned ambush. My guards fell. I was brought to this city… sold and silenced."
Everyone fell silent.
Lazric finally spoke, "Wait… isn't this city also part of Caelvarion?"
Ilanor nodded slowly. "That is the worst irony. This city is officially within the territory of the Kingdom of Caelvarion. But because of its distance from the kingdom's center, supervision is weak… and darkness has begun to grow behind the walls of this market."
Quartzis raised an eyebrow. "So all of this… is illegal?"
"Illegal," Ilanor stated firmly. "Slavery has long been forbidden throughout Caelvarion. The King—Elandar Caelvarion—is a ruler who detests slavery. But many minor nobles on the outskirts use dirty methods for wealth."
Altair stared at her sharply. "Do you know who is behind this?"
Ilanor smiled wryly. "I have my suspicions. But I need time… and access. If you truly want to destroy this network, then we need help from the inside. And I know who to contact."
Feran crossed his arms. "We heard there are royal spies in this city. Can we start there?"
"There is… and he was one of my secret contacts before I was captured. But if I appear before him openly, I could endanger everything."
Altair stood up. "Then we will look for him."
Ilanor looked at Altair, meaningfully. "You are no ordinary human. Your eyes and your demeanor… remind me of a young king in our legends. But I will save my questions… for later."
Lazric gaped. "Huh? What does that mean?"
Quartzis grinned. "Maybe Altair is also part elf? No wonder his face is calm, but his hands are barbaric."
SMACK!
Lazric slapped his head lightly, again. "Your jokes are never sane."
Altair couldn't help but smile faintly.
Ilanor then looked at each of them. "Thank you… for this freedom. But remember, dismantling this slave trade network… means you will be touching the roots of corruption and betrayal. Are you ready for that?"
Altair looked out the window, at the city that seemed peaceful but held deep wounds.
"We have touched more than that," he replied softly. "And we have never backed down."
The atmosphere in the room fell silent again. Only the sound of the wind seeping through the cracks in the window, swaying the thin curtains that looked like the shadows of the unsaved slaves.
A few moments later, Ilanor placed a rolled-up parchment on the table—a map of her contacts, the location of warehouses, and one name they had to meet tonight.
"He is a gatekeeper. Rude, grumpy, and disgusting… but loyal to the cause. His name is Daevan. Say this phrase when you meet him: Shadows cannot bind the light. It will open the way for you."
Altair took the map, clutching it tightly.
"Then… we begin to hunt in the dark."
The following night, the sky was covered in gray clouds. The wind from the sea carried the scent of salt and old iron along the harbor. The ships stood silent like ghosts, and the dockworkers were almost all quiet as two men in dark jackets walked between the stacks of wooden crates.
Altair and Feran looked left and right, searching for the sign Ilanor had mentioned.
"Warehouse number twelve," Feran whispered. "She said the person we're looking for guards the door. Said he's filthy and always angry."
They found him. A tall man, with tattered clothes and messy hair, was sitting on a crate, chewing something. His mouth was dirty, his eyes almost closed with drowsiness… but a quick glance in their direction showed something different.
Altair approached. "Shadows cannot bind the light."
The man looked at him. "But light can scorch shadows," he replied flatly.
Then he stood up.
"Come in. And don't speak unless I tell you to."
They followed him into the empty warehouse. As soon as the door was locked, the atmosphere changed immediately. The man took off his worn hat, and his posture straightened like a soldier. His gaze was sharp and focused.
"My name is Daevan. You're from Ilanor, right?"
Altair nodded.
"That means you're not ordinary people. Good. I've been waiting for help from the center for weeks."
Feran interjected, "Do you already know who is behind all this?"
Daevan snorted. "One name keeps coming up—Cidra Varnen. A big merchant, owns warehouses, a fleet of ships, and his own dark network. I know he's orchestrating everything, but he's slippery. And… he has a traitor inside."
Altair frowned. "A traitor?"
"Yes. Someone from our side who's leaking all the secret operations. We've had two failed raids already. My people were killed."
Feran clenched his fist. "Then what's our plan?"
Meanwhile, at the Inn
Quartzis slowly opened the curtains, peeking out at the street. Behind him, Ilanor and Lazric were rearranging a map of the black market trade.
"Hey, Laz… look at that," he said softly. "That… girl? Uh, wow. Pretty too. Sharp gaze. Full of life experience…"
Lazric narrowed his eyes. "Quartzis… we're still fifteen…"
"I'm just saying she's cool, not asking her to marry me!" Quartzis exclaimed.
SMACK!
Lazric slapped his head. "Focus! We're in the middle of a slave trade investigation, not at a matchmaking festival!"
Ilanor smiled faintly. "You two… like mismatched puzzle pieces, but you still stick together."
Back at the Warehouse
Daevan spread out a large map on the table. "There's a big auction in the south district in three nights. The location is still secret, but I have one informant who can help."
Altair nodded. "You need our help to infiltrate?"
"Not just that," Daevan replied. "If we fail… Cidra can move all the slaves onto ships and sell them to other regions. Once that happens, they're lost forever."
Feran glanced at Altair. His brother's eyes were darkening slowly—a sign of suppressed anger.
"We won't let that happen."
Daevan smiled faintly. "Good. If you're serious…"