The second day of the caravan was somehow even louder than the first. Ripple's streets throbbed with life, laughter, and trade. Merchants shouted themselves hoarse, children darted between legs with sticky sweets in hand, and jugglers tossed flaming batons dangerously close to bystanders who pretended not to flinch.
Joey was in his element, dragging me from stall to stall like an overeager puppy."Alden, check it out! Boots that supposedly never wear out! And over here... enchanted quills that write in three languages at once! Do you have any idea how much work I could've faked with one of these?"
"You never did your homework," I reminded him.
"Exactly. This would've been a game-changer."
Grandpa just snorted, muttering something about "idiots breeding more idiots" as he shuffled behind us.
But no matter how bright the stalls shone, no matter how savory the food smelled, there was a gravity in the air tugging us forward. The same gravity that had unsettled me yesterday when we glimpsed those wagons at the far edge of the caravan.
The slave pens.
By the time we reached them, a thick crowd had already gathered. The laughter of the main square didn't reach here. It was replaced by harsh whispers and the sharp bark of merchants' voices. Cages lined the dirt road, packed with men, women, and children of all races and sizes. Their clothes were tattered, their bodies bruised. Some glared defiantly. Others stared at nothing at all.
Joey's fists clenched at his sides. "This is disgusting."
Grandpa's cane tapped the ground sharply. "Lower your voice, boy."
I swallowed hard. I'd known slavery existed in this world, but knowing was different from seeing a little girl curled up while strangers judged her like cattle.
And then we saw him.
Near the back, half-hidden behind a wagon wheel, a boy no older than nine sat hunched over. His hair was a tangled mess, his face streaked with dirt, but it was his ears that caught my attention... one rounded and human, the other long and pointed. An elf's.
A half-blood.
The merchant standing nearby sneered and gave him a rough shove with his boot. "Stay outta sight, brat. No one's buying cursed stock like you."
The boy didn't fight back. He just curled tighter into himself, as though trying to disappear.
Joey's face darkened. "He's just a kid—"
Grandpa's hand clamped onto my shoulder before I could move. His voice was low, steady. "Don't. Not now."
"But—"
His eyes pinned me in place, sharp and knowing. "That's how this world is, Alden. Cruel. Unfair. And it won't change because two hot-headed fools can't stomach it. You think you're helping that boy by charging in? All you'll do is make him a bigger target."
Joey's jaw tightened. "So what? We just stand here?"
"For now," Grandpa said firmly. Then, softer, "Keep your hearts steady. There'll be a time to act. But not every battle is won by swinging a fist."
I hated it. But I nodded.
Grandpa gave a grunt of approval and gestured toward the main slave pens. "Come on. If we're going to look, let's do it properly. Silverhawk's stock is… impressive."
He wasn't wrong.
The first cages displayed beastkin of the strongest sorts — towering lion warriors with golden manes, wolfkin bristling with muscle, even a bearkin whose arms looked carved from stone. Their prices were shouted proudly: gold sums so high they made my head spin.
"Three hundred gold for a wolfkin?" Joey hissed. "That's more than our house cost!"
Grandpa gave a thin smile. "Strength fetches a price. Always has."
But strength wasn't what caught my attention.
The lionkin glared with burning hatred. The wolfkin snarled, fangs bared. Even the hawkkin's gaze burned with fury. My aura..., the subtle warmth that sometimes reached people, didn't stir them at all.
It was at the far end, almost hidden away, that I saw her.
A girl, maybe twelve, slumped against the bars. Her beastkin traits were faint: soft rabbit ears drooping lifelessly, a faint twitch of whiskers at her cheeks. She looked… fragile.
Her skin was pale, her rags hung loose, and her eyes..., empty. No anger, no fear, no hope. Just nothing.
And yet, when I stepped closer, something shifted.
Her dull gaze flickered, just slightly, toward me. Almost invisible… but I felt it. My aura brushing against her, coaxing the faintest spark of belonging from the void she was lost in.
Joey frowned. "She looks half-dead."
"Which is why she's cheap," the merchant said, noticing our interest. "No will to live. Useless mouths to feed. But if you're strapped for coin…" He shrugged. "She won't cost much."
Grandpa studied me carefully, eyes narrowing. "This is the one, isn't it?"
I nodded slowly. "Yes."
The merchant blinked. "Really? Out of all these fine specimens, you want… her?" He chuckled. "Well, your money, your problem."
A handful of silver later, the deal was done. The girl was led out of the cage. She didn't resist. Didn't even look up.
Grandpa cleared his throat. "I'll take her home. You two stay. Keep looking. There may be other things worth buying for the shop."
Joey gave me a hesitant look. "…You sure?"
"Yeah," I said.
Grandpa gave a satisfied grunt and guided the girl into the crowd, steadying her frail frame with a hand on her shoulder.
Joey drifted closer. "So… you picked her because of your weird aura thing, huh?"
"Maybe. Or maybe because… she needed someone to."
For once, Joey didn't joke. He just nodded.
As we moved back into the caravan's noise, Joey asked quietly, "So how does it work, anyway? That aura thing?"
"It's not magic. Not mind control," I said slowly. "When it reaches people, they feel… warmth. Safe. Like their anger or pain gets eased, like they belong. But sometimes, when I use it, I feel something too. A sense of home. That's what I felt with you, with Grandpa… and just now, with her. It's like the aura shows me who I can trust, who's meant to be family. But of course, it doesn't work on everyone. If their heart's twisted with anger, hatred, or deceit… it won't reach them."
Joey was quiet for a beat, then smirked. "So basically, I'm officially family-approved? Knew it. You're stuck with me, Alden."
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't stop the small smile tugging at my lips.
But as we turned away, my eyes lingered on the boy with the mismatched ears, still curled up by the wagon. Grandpa's words echoed: Not every battle is won by swinging a fist.
Maybe so.
But some battles still needed to be fought.
And I had the sinking feeling that boy's story wasn't over.