The door of the Adventurer's Guild was a slab of scarred oak, a world away from the polished marble of the royal court. Nicolas pushed it open, and the smell of cheap ale, sweat, and ambition hit him like a physical blow. The noise within was a low, constant rumble of gruff voices and clinking tankards.
He was just "Nicolas" now. The name felt light, unburdened.
He moved through the crowd of grizzled mercenaries and weary travelers, his fine but dirt-stained clothes drawing a few curious glances. He went straight to the quest board, a vast panel of pinned parchments scrawled with promises of coin and danger.
His eyes scanned the notices. "Goblin Clearing - 5 Silver. Escort Merchant Caravan to Solid Country Border - 15 Silver."
His gaze slid past them. Then, one at the bottom caught his eye. The parchment was newer, the script elegant yet urgent.
"Slave Caravan Guard. Route: Light Country Southern Border to Fire Country Outpost. High Risk. High Pay. 50 Gold Crowns. See Guildmaster Vorik."
Fifty gold crowns was a fortune. Enough to live on for a year. But it wasn't the coin that called to him. It was the words "Slave Caravan". The memory of the warm, dark power stirring within him during the duel surfaced. It had responded to his will, to his desire for control. What would it do in a place filled with the ultimate expression of control the ownership of other beings?
He found Guildmaster Vorik in a corner booth, a stout man with a face like a clenched fist and a ledger open before him.
"The slave caravan guard job," Nicolas said, his voice flat.
Vorik looked up, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Nicolas. "You look like a noble who lost his purse and his sense. You sure? Slave traders are magnets for trouble. Bandits, monster attacks... and the 'merchandise' can be desperate. It's ugly work."
Nicolas didn't flinch. "I'm sure."
Vorik shrugged, a gesture that said "your funeral". "Caravan leaves at dawn from the Southern Gate. Look for a man named Grendel. Ugly bastard, missing an ear. Don't be late."
Dawn painted the sky in hues of blood and orange as Nicolas arrived at the Southern Gate. The slave caravan was easy to spot a line of reinforced, cage-topped wagons, the air around them thick with the smell of fear, sweat, and hay. A hulking brute of a man with a face crisscrossed with scars and a distinct lack of a left ear was barking orders.
"You Grendel?" Nicolas asked.
The man, Grendel, turned. His eyes, small and piggish, scanned Nicolas with disdain. "Aye. You Vorik's green boy? Fine. You're on rear guard. Stay alert. We're moving through the Serpent's Pass. Lots of cover for ambushes." He spat. "Try not to get yourself killed."
The caravan lurched into motion. Nicolas took his position at the rear, his senses alert. But his attention was constantly drawn to the cages.
Through the bars, he saw them. A pair of young cat-girls huddled together, their ears flat against their heads. A tall, elegant elf woman who sat with her back straight, her eyes burning with a cold fire of hatred. A young wolf-girl, no older than sixteen, who gripped the bars of her cage, her knuckles white.
He felt a strange pull in his gut, a resonance with the warm power inside him. It wasn't pity he felt. It was… opportunity. A canvas of broken wills, waiting for an artist.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the front, followed by a scream.
"AMBUSH!"
From the rocky outcrops of the pass, a dozen figures swarmed down. Bandits, armed with rusty swords and axes. Chaos erupted. Grendel bellowed, his guards forming a ragged line.
Nicolas drew his new, simple longsword, his heart hammering. This was not a duel. This was a butcher's yard. He fought, his adequate swordsmanship just enough to keep a bandit at bay, the clash of steel jarring his arms.
Then he saw it. One of the bandits, smarter than the rest, had circled around and was trying to pry open the lock on the cage holding the elf woman.
"Hey! Pretty thing in here!" the bandit leered.
The elf woman shrank back, her regal composure cracking into raw terror.
Something snapped inside Nicolas. It wasn't chivalry. It was possession. *His* canvas. "His"opportunity.
He broke from his fight and charged the bandit. But he was too far. The bandit was already turning the key. The door would be open in seconds.
"No."
The thought was a command. The dark warmth within him surged forth, not a trickle, but a flood. He didn't push it at the stone this time. He pushed it at the *air*, at the *space* between him and the bandit. He pushed a wave of pure, overwhelming *command*.
"Stop."
The word was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of his newfound power.
The bandit froze. His hand stopped turning the key. His body went rigid, his eyes wide with a confusion that was not his own. It was as if an invisible hand had seized his very soul.
Nicolas didn't hesitate. He closed the distance and drove his sword through the man's back. The bandit fell without a sound.
Silence descended. The other bandits, seeing their comrade fall so inexplicably, lost their nerve and fled back into the rocks.
Nicolas stood panting, his sword dripping blood. He looked down at the dead bandit, then at the lock, still half-turned. He felt the warm power recede, sated and… stronger.
He turned to the cage. The elf woman was staring at him, her earlier hatred gone, replaced by a look of awe and profound confusion. Her fear had vanished. She looked at him not as a human, not as a guard, but as something else entirely.
Grendel stomped over, his face a mask of fury and relief.
"What in the hells was that? How did you…?"
He looked at the dead bandit, then at Nicolas, his beady eyes full of a new, cautious respect.
"Never mind. You saved the merchandise. Good work."
As the caravan regrouped and continued its journey, Nicolas walked beside the elf's cage. Her eyes followed his every move. He didn't see a slave. He saw a link. The first link in a chain that would bind a world to him.
The warm power inside him purred in agreement. This was only the beginning.