Chapter 56 – The Binding Mark
The building they entered was modest in appearance, the sort of place that could almost pass for a respectable office if one didn't look too closely. The walls had been scrubbed recently, the floors polished, and the air faintly perfumed with dried herbs to mask the stench that once clung to the place.
An attendant emerged, a wiry man in a drab tunic, bowing with a shallow politeness that had more calculation than respect.
"Forgive me, sir," he said, wringing his hands. "Our stock has already been sold. If you wish to place an order for new… merchandise, we do have arrangements to procure."
Ethan gave him a cold, unreadable look. "I'm not here to shop." His voice cut clean through the stale air. "I need someone who can turn a free person into a slave."
The attendant blinked, his gaze flickering toward Lirael. She stood just behind Ethan, head bowed, her shoulders drawn in as if bracing for chains already. The act was convincing.
The man hesitated, frowning. "That… is not a simple request. The one who oversees such matters is the master himself. But please understand, such work comes at a considerable price." His eyes roamed over Ethan's travel-worn cloak and boots, clearly doubting whether this man could afford it.
Ethan leaned forward slightly, his tone iron. "We have enough. Call him."
The attendant swallowed, then nodded quickly. "As you wish, sir. Please wait."
As the man scurried away, Ethan and Lirael exchanged a brief glance. Her lips pressed together, but she nodded once—resolute. Their plan was at its final step.
Ethan lowered himself onto a worn leather couch, while Lirael remained standing, head still bowed, playing her part.
Moments later, footsteps echoed from the hallway. The master appeared—a man of round build, draped in silks a touch too gaudy for his frame. He carried himself with smug ease, his rings glinting as he clasped his hands together.
"Well, well," he said smoothly, his eyes sweeping over Ethan, then lingering on Lirael. "It is not often someone requests my presence directly. Tell me—what brings you here?"
Ethan rose to meet his gaze, voice steady. "I'm here to make this girl my slave."
The trader's brows lifted. He studied Lirael again, her downcast eyes and still posture painting the picture of a broken debtor. "May I ask why? Forgive my caution, but there are conditions we must honor. To enslave a freeborn without due reason…it complicates matters."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "She owes me. Thought she could run away, and when I caught her, she tried to kill me for my trouble. I'm done with her games so she'll be my possession now—legally bound, and no one batting an eye if I mistreat her or do anything unsavory..."
The slave trader stroked his chin, eyes narrowing as he searched Lirael's silence for contradiction. None came. She played the role flawlessly—eyes on the ground, lips pressed in mute shame.
"Its a fairly common story," the man muttered at last. "One that ends here often enough. Her cost would be—"
"No." Ethan's voice cut him off. "I'm not selling her, and I'm not here to bargain. I'll pay your service fee. Nothing more. I only require proof—written and sealed—that she belongs to me."
For the first time, the trader's expression shifted, curiosity threading through his smug demeanor. "Hmm… its a unusual request, but not unheard of." His lips curled into a faint smile. "Very well. If coin is no issue, then she will become a slave."
The trader clapped his hands, and an assistant appeared carrying a bundle of parchment and a box of tools. With a flourish, he spread the items on a low table: a thick contract written in looping ink, two small steel needles, and finally—an iron slave collar.
It was a crude thing: heavy, dull, with rough edges and chunky rivets. When the trader placed it down, the weight of the metal made the table creak.
Ethan glanced at Lirael, then at the collar, and grimaced.
'Tch. A shame. This one would ruin her appearance entirely.'
Ethan's eyes hardened, his jaw flexing at the sight. The thought of that iron shackle digging into Lirael's pale neck burned through him. He didn't speak—but the flare of distaste was written plain on his face.
The trader's shrewd eyes caught it at once. The businessman in him stirred.
"Ah… I see, sir. You're not fond of the standard collar. Understandable. It is… functional, but hardly pleasing to the eye. For those who wish their possession to remain presentable," his lips curled in a thin smile, "we offer custom pieces. They are more refined. But of course…" He spread his jeweled fingers wide. "…they come at a higher cost."
Ethan didn't even blink. "The price?"
The man's brows arched slightly—surprised at the bluntness and the lack of hesitation. "The ones I have... range between one to seven gold coins, depending on craftsmanship and material."
Relief flickered in Ethan's chest, though he didn't show it outwardly. Seven… good. Well within reach. He had been prepared to bleed most of his coin.
"Show me," he ordered. "Anything but this—" his eyes cut briefly to the iron lump "—will do."
The trader gave a pleased clap, and a while later three attendants entered, each balancing a wide tray draped with velvet. When they lowered the trays, the room filled with the faint clinks of polished metal and gemstone.
Rows of collars gleamed under the lantern light:
A silver band inlaid with tiny sapphires, delicate yet rigid.
A black steel collar, thinner than the iron one, engraved with runes that pulsed faintly blue.
A rose-gold circlet, shaped into flowing vines and petals, almost feminine in its artistry.
A simple but elegant strip of polished bronze, with a single lock at the back.
Some were slim, made to resemble ornaments. Others, oddly enough, were still thick and chunky, as though beauty had never been their goal.
But Ethan's gaze locked on one piece at once.
A golden collar—slender, elegant, shaped closer to a choker than a shackle. It shone with a soft luster, its surface chased with fine, curling patterns that caught the light, and those small and beautiful ocean blue gems embedded. Unlike the others, it seemed almost like jewelry, something a noblewoman might choose herself. With the right dress, it could pass as a necklace rather than a brand of ownership.
His eyes lingered too long, and the trader noticed immediately, lips twitching into a salesman's smile.
"An excellent choice," the man purred, lifting the piece with careful hands. "Forged from an alloy of gold and mithril, its light yet durable. Resistant to tarnish, and laced with subtle enchantments to strengthen the binding. Refined enough that no one would mistake her for common property… unless you wished it so." He tilted the collar in the light, letting it gleam. "Five gold coins, sir."
Ethan stepped closer, studying the choker, though his decision was already made. Five gold… its expensive, but again, its worth every coin.
"I'll take it." His tone left no room for haggling.
The trader's eyes gleamed with satisfaction whereas the first attendant nearly lost his composure, when Ethan agreed to the golden collar without a moment's hesitation. Five gold… on a slave collar? His eyes flicked over Ethan's plain clothes and travel-worn boots. Nothing about him spoke of noble blood or overflowing coin purses. Even in the capital, nobles argue and haggle like fishermen over such things. And he throws five gold as if it were nothing? Just who is he?
Even merchants in the capital argue for weeks before parting with such sums, he thought, masking his surprise with a stiff bow. What sort of man spends so freely in a backwater place like this?