The wind of those years brought no promises, only the persistent echo of horseshoes striking the mud of the roads and the metallic clinking of the cages swaying on the carts.
That sound had become part of the landscape, as common as the cawing of crows or the creaking of old trees growing beside the trade paths.
The caravans crossed the world like long serpents of wood and iron, and inside them traveled very different merchandise: spices, fabrics, weapons, exotic animals… and also lives.
Before the Demon King of that era fell, the world was not divided by borders drawn on maps, nor by proud kingdoms raising their flags.
It was divided by something much simpler and crueler: the price of a life.
There were cities where a man could buy a horse with what a demi-human child cost, and others where a famous warrior paid a fortune for one who had survived several captures.
In the records of some kingdoms they did not even appear as people; they were noted as rare resources, in the same way that silver mines or sacred forests were registered.
The markets of the great capitals were the place where that reality became most visible.
During the day, the streets filled with colors and noise.
Merchants shouted offers, street musicians played out-of-tune instruments and travelers negotiated the price of what they needed to continue their journey.
The aroma of imported spices mixed with the smell of roasted meat, spilled wine and the smoke of braziers.
At first glance, anyone would think that place was a symbol of prosperity.
But among the most luxurious stalls, where silks and jewels were sold, there were carts covered by thick canvas blankets.
Around them there was always a strange silence, a type of silence that did not belong to a market full of people.
The nobles, dressed in fabrics worth more than an entire village, stopped in front of them with calculated curiosity.
They walked slowly, observing with the same interest with which someone inspects a horse before buying it.
When the merchant pulled a rope and lifted the canvas, the sunlight fell suddenly on what was inside.
Those who had spent weeks or months locked in shadows squinted in pain.
Some raised their heads with effort, others barely moved, too weak to react.
Pointed ears, bristled tails, slit pupils reflecting the brightness of the day.
The demi-humans were observed with the same coldness with which the blade of a sword is examined.
The buyers analyzed their bodies carefully.
They checked their muscles, their scars, the shape of their teeth or the shine of their eyes.
There were those who asked to see them walk, those who ordered them to growl or show their fangs.
They did not do it out of direct cruelty, at least not always. For them, that was simply part of a transaction.
The demi-humans were not presented as living beings with stories or families; they were appraised as if they were tools of war.
They were breathing trophies.
However, behind the colors of the market and the shine of the coins, there existed a place few wanted to remember.
In the bowels of castles and royal prisons, far from the eyes of the nobles who paid for them, was the true face of that business.
The dungeons were not made to house hope.
Their stone walls seemed to sweat a constant humidity that seeped into the prisoners' worn clothes.
Water accumulated in small cracks and fell slowly from the ceiling, marking the passage of time with an irregular drip that repeated day and night.
The air inside was not breathed easily; it was so heavy it seemed necessary to chew it before swallowing.
That persistent smell was impossible to forget. It smelled of rust, mold and that metallic sweetness left by dried blood when no one bothers to clean the floor.
There was also the smell of weakened bodies, old sweat and the desperation that clung to every corner of the prison.
In one of those cells, silence did not mean peace.
It was the type of silence that appears when people no longer have the strength even to complain.
An eleven-year-old boy remained seated on the floor, legs bent and shoulders slumped.
His bones stood out under pale skin with an unsettling clarity, as if his body were shrinking in on itself.
His small hands, cracked from the cold and lack of food, sank into the motionless body of his mother.
He hugged her with a desperation that did not seem appropriate for his age.
He squeezed her so tightly that his fingers trembled, as if by doing so he could return the warmth the stone floor was stealing from her.
His voice came out in a whisper that barely broke the cell's silence.
—Mom… wake up. It's almost day.
He shook her shoulder gently, as if afraid of hurting her.
The woman's body moved with lifeless heaviness, swaying slightly before becoming still again.
Her eyes, which in another time had been full of stories and patience, now remained open seeing nothing.
The boy buried his face in her neck searching for something he knew he would not find.
For an instant he remained completely still, as if his body refused to accept what had happened.
Two steps back, his older brother watched the scene in silence.
He was thirteen years old, but his expression was not that of a child.
His eyes had lost the shine that someone his age is supposed to have, replaced by a premature hardness that is only born when childhood ends too soon.
His hands were clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles looked like white stones. He did not cry. Not because he did not want to, but because he felt that if he let a single tear escape, everything else would collapse with it.
In that place, someone had to stay standing.
Around them, the other prisoners remained silent.
Some watched the scene with sadness, others looked away toward the floor.
No one wanted to look too long at the woman's body, because everyone knew what it meant.
Hunger does not only devour the flesh of the body. It also slowly eats away the dignity of those who suffer it.
A demi-human woman began to crawl slowly across the stone floor.
Her knees left a damp mark in the dark dust as she advanced.
In her trembling hand she held a small piece of bread, so hard and gray it looked like a stone.
When she reached the children, she raised her hand carefully.
—She would not want you to turn to dust —she said in a tired voice—. Take it. It's the last I have.
The older brother looked at the bread for seconds that seemed eternal.
He knew perfectly well what sharing food meant in that place. However, he took the piece with trembling hands and brought it close to his younger brother's mouth.
He did not eat it first. He simply held it in front of his mouth until the boy took a small bite.
At that moment, something changed in the cell's atmosphere.
It was not a sudden movement nor a loud order. It was something quieter, heavier.
The other prisoners began to approach the mother's body slowly. Their steps were uncertain, almost ashamed.
There was no cruelty on their faces. Only a terrible mixture of need and resignation.
Before dying, the woman had spoken in a weak voice. Some of the closest prisoners had heard her words.
She had asked that they not let her children die of hunger.
She had asked that they use what remained of her.
The woman who had given the bread understood what was about to happen.
She extended her arms and drew the two children to her chest. Her thin hands gently covered their eyes, preventing them from turning their heads.
—Don't look —she whispered tenderly—. Just listen to my voice.
Then she began to hum a song. It was an ancient melody, one of those songs mothers sing when trying to put their children to sleep.
It spoke of green forests, of rivers running free and of open meadows where the sun always shone.
But behind her voice, another sound appeared.
The scrape of metal against flesh.
The soft crunch of fibers giving way.
A wet sound that the cell's silence amplified until it became impossible to ignore.
No one spoke. No one asked for forgiveness. In that hole in the world, morality had been replaced by a simple need: survive one more day.
The song continued for several minutes, until finally the noise stopped.
It was then that a metallic crash echoed through the corridor like thunder.
CLANK.
The door at the end of the hallway burst open, letting in a yellowish light that seemed too bright for that place.
A guard advanced down the corridor striking the edge of his sword against each bar as he walked.
Clang… clang… clang…
He whistled a cheerful tune, completely out of place in that site. When he reached the cell, he stopped and observed the interior with a carefree smile.
His gaze swept over the tired faces of the prisoners, the stained floor and the hunched bodies.
For him, none of that was strange. He observed it with the same indifference with which a farmer checks his livestock before selling it.
In his mind, those beings were not people. They were creatures born to fight, tools that one day would awaken the power running through their blood.
"The Awakening of the Beast"
An ability that broke the limits of the body, that allowed ignoring pain and unleashing a force capable of tearing enemies apart on the battlefield. That power was the reason so many kingdoms desired to possess demi-humans.
And it was also the reason so many ended their days in a cage.