-Year 7335, Slave Market of Varzyus — Derylini Forest-
The smell of the auction room is the same as the cells. Sweat, fear, death. Torches on the walls cast dancing shadows on the wooden stage. I am on my knees. Arth beside me. Chains on my wrists. Iron rings on my ankles.
"Don't show anger," he whispers, eyes fixed on the floor. "Buyers like docile slaves. If you look dangerous, no one buys you. You stay here forever."
"Maybe that's better," I reply, voice dry.
"It's not."
The buyers enter. Men and women. Some in fine clothes, others in travel-stained tunics. They speak in low voices. I catch fragments.
"The king summoned all the barons."
"They say it's Trussum."
"Quiet. This isn't spoken of in public."
Trussum. A demon lord. War. Endomyar is burning before I've even begun my mission. Perhaps that will make things easier.
The auctioneer climbs onto the stage. He is fat, face red, voice shrill.
"First lot! Slave number 729. Strong. Good for the mines."
A thin man with hunched shoulders is dragged forward. Bidding starts low. He is sold for almost nothing.
Then a woman. Then a child. I look away.
"Slave number 734" — the auctioneer points at Arth. — "Former noble. Cursed, they say. Fifteen years here and no one has wanted him."
The buyers laugh. Someone shouts from the audience:
"He brings bad luck! Whoever buys an Erréndias invites disaster!"
No one bids. Arth keeps his head down. His face empty. The auctioneer sighs, annoyed.
"Back to the cell, old man."
Arth is pulled off the stage. His eyes meet mine for a second. He says nothing. Just disappears.
*I won't see him again*, I think. *And I don't care.*
"Slave number 735!" The auctioneer points at me. "Young. Strong. Gold and red hair. Rare. From another world, they say."
The buyers whisper. Some look at my hair with curiosity. Low bids. One, two, three.
"Five silver coins!"
"Six!"
"Seven!"
A hand rises at the back of the room. It is a woman. Light brown hair, blue eyes. Soft face. Simple but good-quality dress. About thirty years old.
"Ten silver coins," she says, her voice calm.
Silence. No one competes.
"Sold to Lady Lysara, wife of Baron Ander Féris!"
The guards release me from the chains. The woman approaches. She smiles. It is a genuine smile. Warm. The kind of smile you don't see in slave markets.
"You will like my house," she says. "It's small, but cosy. My daughter, Mira, will love having someone new to play with."
I incline my head. Feign humility.
"I will serve well, my lady."
---
Before leaving, I stop.
"My lady, may I ask permission? The man who was beside me... the old man. I would like to say goodbye."
Lysara hesitates. Looks at the guards, then at me.
"Alright. But quickly."
I approach Arth's cell. He is sitting on the floor, back against the wall. His eyes lift.
"I'm getting you out of here," I whisper.
"You're mad. You can't."
I grab the bars of the cell. Pull. The iron creaks but doesn't give. I pull harder. The noise echoes through the room.
"What are you doing?" a guard shouts. "Let go of that!"
"Come with me," I say to Arth. "Now."
"I can't. The chains..."
I try to break the lock. My hands slip, bloody from the earlier fight. The guards are on top of me. A cudgel hits my back. Another hits my head. I fall.
"You bastard!" The guard kicks my stomach. "Want to go to the cell too?"
"Enough!" Lysara's voice cuts through the air. "He is mine. Do not hurt him."
The guards step back, but one of them delivers a final kick.
"Don't come back here, slave. Or you die."
I am dragged outside. Thrown into the street mud. Blood drips from my split lip. My right knee hurts. My face is swollen.
*I will kill them. One by one. When I am king again, I will return here and kill them all.*
I stand. Wipe the blood on my sleeve. Straighten my dirty clothes.
Lysara waits at the door. Her blue eyes are worried.
"What happened? You're hurt."
I force a smile. Sweet. Humble. Almost childish.
"Forgive me, my lady. I tried to say goodbye to a friend. The guards didn't like it. It won't happen again."
She touches my face. Her hand is warm. Soft.
"Poor boy. Let's go home. I'll take care of that."
---
Lysara's house is on the outskirts of the village, near the forest. It is modest by noble standards, but comfortable. Stone walls, thatched roof, a small garden in front.
A girl runs to her as soon as we enter.
"Mama!"
Curly hair, blue eyes like her mother's. Six, maybe seven years old.
"Who is he?" The girl points at me.
"He is our new guest, darling. His name is Zirinos. He will stay with us until Papa returns."
I kneel to her height. Smile.
"Hello, Mira. Do you like stories?"
She nods, eyes shining.
"I do."
"Then I'll tell you one. Later."
---
The days pass in a slow rhythm. Lysara is kind. She gives me hot food, clean clothes, a room with a soft bed. Mira follows me everywhere, asking for stories.
I invent worlds. Heroes and princesses. Dragons and treasures. Nothing about Z. Nothing about masked men. Nothing about blood.
"And the hero defeated the monster?" Mira asks.
"He did. But he got tired. So he went to sleep."
"Like me?"
"Like you."
Lysara laughs at my patience. At night, we dine together. She asks where I come from.
"Far away," I answer. "Very far."
"Do you have family?"
"I did."
"What happened?"
"They died."
She doesn't insist. Her hand touches mine across the table.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It doesn't hurt anymore."
Mira falls asleep early. Lysara and I stay in the living room. The fire crackles. She talks about her husband, Ander.
"He was summoned by the king. Weeks ago. They say it's because of a demon lord... Trussum. I pray he returns safe and sound."
"I will pray for him, my lady."
*I will pray that he dies far away. So I never have to face him.*
"Call me Lysara. No need for 'my lady'."
"Lysara."
She smiles. It's the same smile from the market. Warm. Genuine.
*She will die with that smile on her face.*
---
Night falls. The house falls silent. I hear the slow breathing of Lysara and Mira sleeping.
In my room, I find a dagger in a chest. Forgotten. Perhaps Ander's. The blade is short, sharp. Perfect.
I wait. Hours. Until the moon is high in the sky.
I leave my room. Walk silently. Bare feet make no noise on the wooden floor.
Lysara's bedroom door is ajar. I enter.
She is on her side, sleeping. Moonlight traces the outline of her body — shoulders, waist, hips. Her light brown hair spread on the pillow.
I sit on the bed. My left hand clamps over her mouth. My right hand presses the dagger to her throat.
She wakes. Her blue eyes open wide, startled. Her body tenses. Her breathing quickens.
"If you scream, I'll kill you now," I whisper. "If you do what I say, maybe I'll let you live."
Tears stream down her face. She trembles. She does not scream.
"Good girl."
I remove my hand from her mouth. She doesn't move.
"Lie on your back."
She obeys. Her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her hands trembling at her sides.
"Please," she whispers. "Mira is sleeping."
"If you wake Mira, I'll kill her first. Then I'll kill you."
She falls silent.
I satisfy my desires. The dagger always at her throat. The fear in her eyes excites me. Her body trembles with every movement. She bites her lips to keep from moaning. Blood drips from a superficial cut on her neck — the blade pressed too hard.
When I finish, I stand. She remains lying down, eyes still on the ceiling. Body still. Only tears falling.
"Why?" she asks, her voice broken.
"Because."
I pull the dagger. Cut her throat.
Blood spurts. Hot. Red. Spreads across the sheets, across the floor. Her body spasms — once, twice, three times. Then lies still.
Her eyes remain open. The smile is no longer there.
I do not stop.
I cut off the arms. The legs. The torso. The head. I make small pieces. Small enough to fit in a sack. The smell of iron and flesh fills the room. My breathing is heavy, but my hands do not shake.
I have done this before. Many times.
The blade scrapes against bone. The flesh separates with a wet sound. The moon outside, indifferent.
I remember the slave girl in Z's palace. I remember my cousin Zérias. I remember the video I sent him.
*I am a monster. Yes. So what?*
I clean the dagger on Lysara's clothes. I look at the remains.
*I feel nothing.*
The window creaks.
I turn.
A hooded figure stands on the sill. Small. Agile. A blade glints in the right hand. The left hand rests on the frame.
The intruder jumps into the room. Lands silently. Stands still. Just watches.
Eyes gleam in the darkness — green, icy. I cannot see the face. Hood pulled low. Black clothes.
I prepare to fight. The dagger still in my hand.
The intruder does not attack. Just watches.
The silence lasts seconds. Or minutes. I don't know.
"Who are you?" I ask, voice cold.
The intruder does not answer. The blade glints.
The moon illuminates half a face. A scar on the cheek. Thin lips. Firm chin.
The intruder smiles. It is a small smile. Familiar.
*Where have I seen that smile before?*
"Rest, Zirinos," says the voice. It is female. Low. Calm. "Your time has not yet come."
The blade lowers.