"Did you hear?" a man muttered near the street corner, leaning close to his companion. "Darius Canmore's been put on the missing persons case. He starts today."
A bald man sat on a broken stone bench nearby, hands clasped together, head bowed slightly as though in prayer, though his ears were sharp. He didn't look toward the speaker, but a faint smile played across his lips.
From the shadows of the alley, a figure emerged. A man wearing a plain, expressionless mask.
The bald man straightened, eyes locking on the mask's empty gaze.
"I want to meet Jakhar," the masked man said, his voice steady, carrying easily through the cool night air.
The bald man rose slowly, brushing dust from his clothes. Then a crooked grin spread across his face. "Follow me."
They walked through the narrow streets of Evergarden's lower district, the place alive with distant shouting and the clatter of carts. The smell of smoke and iron hung heavy in the air.
As they turned down a quieter lane, the bald man spoke, his tone casual but sharp. "Jakhar has many who come looking for him revolutionaries, hunters, criminals… men who kill and die for something, or for nothing. Which one are you?"
"I'm the quiet type," the mask said without turning his head. "The kind who doesn't like to talk to strangers."
The bald man's grin faltered, and he said nothing more.
At last, they stopped before a half-collapsed wall that hid a darkened courtyard. The bald man gestured toward it.
"Wait here."
He disappeared through the opening, leaving the masked man standing there alone, the sound of distant boots and dogs barking somewhere far off.
The masked man's gaze swept over the square. swallowed by the noise and clamor around him. Men and women pressed together, their whispers carrying an undercurrent of greed. The air was thick with torch smoke and the heavy stink of livestock, the scent of a market
He knew this place. Everyone did.
Once a month, the captors came here to trade, slavers who had built a reputation so dark and so infamous that people traveled across kingdoms just to purchase from them. They claimed to offer "the highest quality," and their reputation made sure that every sale was fought over with gold and blood.
The masked man pushed through the throng until he reached the heart of the square. To his right stood a black carriage, iron-banded, its wheels sunk into the dirt. A single guard stood watch, leaning against the wheel with casual menace. His sword glinted in the torchlight, a knight's blade.
The mask tilted his head. Was the man truly a knight, or had he simply taken that weapon from one?
The mask moved closer. A small gap in the wood caught his eye, just wide enough to see through.
He leaned in.
Chains clinked faintly inside. Small figures huddled together in the gloom, children. He counted under his breath.
"One… two… three..."
"Five," a voice behind him said.
The masked man stiffened and turned.
A man stood just behind him, close enough that his breath brushed the mask. His expression was calm, almost amused, as though he had been watching him for a long time.
"There are five of them inside," the stranger said, his tone low, almost conversational. "They belong to Elder Gilber Gusthov. Every month, he buys five children when the captors comes."
The mask said nothing.
"No one's ever seen those children again," the man continued, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "Who knows what he's doing with them…"
His voice trailed off into a whisper, letting the implication hang in the night air like smoke.
The mask stood still, eyes fixed on the carriage. then a sharp voice broke through the noise.
"Move."
The voice was deep, flat, leaving no room for defiance.
He turned. A man with a long, cruel scar running down his face stared back at him. In his hands, a thick iron chain dragged across the ground, the links clattering softly.
At the other end of the chain stood a giant seven feet of looming muscle, his neck bound by a heavy collar of blackened steel. His eyes glowed faintly in the torchlight, cold and empty, like a beast that had forgotten freedom.
The mask shifted aside slowly and silently, giving them room to pass.
The scarred man gave the chain a sharp tug, and the giant moved, each step shaking the dirt beneath him. The crowd parted as they passed, no one daring to meet their gaze. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the two melted back into the sea of onlookers and were gone.
A sudden movement drew every eye to the stage. A man vaulted onto the platform with the ease of someone who owned the place, landing with a heavy thud that silenced the crowd.
"Well, well," he called out, his voice carrying easily over the murmuring crowd, "what a fine market day it's been. I trust you've all enjoyed today's market. Every slave has been sold, every deal struck." He paused, letting the murmurs settle, then allowed a slow, wicked smile to curl across his face. "But we wouldn't dare end the day without leaving you with something… memorable."
A ripple of anticipation spread through the gathered crowd. People leaned forward, whispering to one another, hungry for the promised spectacle.
From the rear of the stage, a captor appeared, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around a chain. The chain clinked against the wooden floor with every step, dragging behind him a figure, its head and body concealed beneath a dark, ragged cloak.
The announcer spread his arms theatrically. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, drawing out the moment as the crowd leaned forward, "allow me to present to you, our final prize."
The captor yanked the hood away.
Gasps erupted like a wave breaking against the shore.
What stood before them was no ordinary slave. Her ears, furred and pointed, stood out starkly against the pale curtain of her snow-white hair. Her face was soft, strikingly delicate, and her sky-blue eyes seemed almost too bright for the dim torchlight. The crowd fell into an uneasy hush, captivated by her otherworldly presence.
"A demi-human," the announcer declared with pride.
The audience was entranced. For a long, suspended moment, no one spoke, no one moved. She was unlike anything they had ever seen, beautiful and otherworldly, like a doll carved by the gods themselves.
"Tell me," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "has anyone here ever seen such a creature within our green lands? Of course not. She comes from beyond the walls, a wild country, dangerous country. And we…" he gestured to himself and his men with a flourish, "…have risked our lives to capture this rare, young beauty."
He let the words hang in the air before continuing, his tone shifting to business.
"For such a prize, her price is set at five gold coins."
The crowd erupted instantly.
"Five?!" someone shouted.
"Are you mad?" another cried. "That's too much!"
"It's robbery!" grumbled a man near the front.
"Lower it!" a woman barked from the back.
The announcer's grin never faltered. His voice cut through the noise like a knife.
"No one is forcing you to buy her," he said, his tone calm but sharp. "If you cannot afford her, then so be it." He tugged at the chain, pulling the girl a step closer to him. "I'll simply take her back with me and perhaps next time, she won't be for sale at all."
The threat lingered in the air. The crowd's protests quieted, replaced by murmurs of hurried debate. Greed and hesitation wrestled on every face as the captor stood tall, waiting for the highest bidder to break first.
Someone brushed against the mask's shoulder from behind. He spun quickly, ready for trouble,
but no one was there.
Then a small voice drifted up from near his boots.
"Down here, sir."
He glanced down and saw a boy, no older than twelve, looking up at him with a crooked grin. The boy wore an eyepatch over his left eye, the scar beneath just barely visible in the torchlight.
"You're the one asking for Jakhar, aren't you?" the boy said, his tone was casual, almost amused.
The mask gave a small nod.
The boy pointed with a thin, dirt-streaked hand toward a low, smoke-filled bar at the edge of the square. Its wooden sign creaked in the wind, half-broken, but the name was just barely legible.
"That's where you'll find him," the boy said,
The mask left the slave market and went straight to the bar. he then stepped into the bar, there he found the air thick with the smell of smoke and cheap ale. The patrons were a rough bunch, a mix of criminals, thieves, and hunters, all gathered together in a haze of desperation and defiance.
A loud, impassioned speech cut through the din of the shop, a man's voice ringing out with enthusiasm. "This kingdom is ruined, those rich bastards treat us like street rats. Your father lived as a servant, died a servant, you are living as a servant. Do you want to die a servant? Do you want to see your children suffer the same fate as you? Or do you want to bring the change you always wanted? Together, we can be more than commoners. Who's with me?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but one voice stood out, laced with sarcasm. "What can a bunch of drunken people do?"
"Those idiots surely know how to talk."
the mask went straight to the bartender, a man in his mid-forties with rugged air and a black snake tattoo slithering up his neck, looked up and asked, "What do you want, sir?" Mask's look was disarming, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he replied, "I heard you sell the best alcohol in the kingdom. Is it true?" The bartender chuckled, a low, gravelly sound, and said, "Of course, sir. You heard right."
He also added, "Those aren't the only things I heard. I also heard you hold valuable information. Is it true?" The bartender's expression turned serious, his smile fading like a snuffed flame. He leaned in, his voice taking on a cautious tone, "The answer depends on who you are."
"I'm just a normal human"
"And how can I trust this normal human, who hides behind a mask."
The bartender offered the mask a drink, "we don't do business with unknown people. So drink this and leave."
The bartender was moving to the other customer, when the mask said "you're hard to understand jakhar or should I call you Bruce." After hearing his true name, which he hid from everyone, he was shocked. Then he came back to him and asked "how do you know my name?"
"You were looking for your long lost sister, for many many years, right? Did you find any leads?"
The mask knew Bruce would get angry if he said that. But Bruce didn't respond. He just stood there, with an angry face.
"I'll give you a lead about your sister's whereabout."
Bruce searched for his sister for many years, still he couldn't find any leads. He almost lost fate in finding her, but that's when he said this. He knew this man can't be trusted, but if what he holds is true, it could be a great chance for him to find his sister.
"What do you want in return?"
The mask held a coin on the table, the coin only had its broken half. Then he moved it to Bruce. "A man will come asking for help, with its other half. Help him then he will give you what you want."
The mask gave the drink back to Bruce, the same drink Bruce offered him. "I don't drink, you need this more than I do."
Then he left without saying any other words.