Woon stepped into a room colder than the rest of the building—not by temperature alone, but in mood. The air was thinner here. Drier. Like everything warm had been filtered out and replaced with something clinical.
The room itself was square, walls lined with faded silver inlays that hummed faintly with dormant magic. A large circular crest had been carved directly into the stone floor—etched with rune lines and concentric rings, some glowing faint blue, others dull and cracked like dried mud.
At the far end of the room stood a short pedestal with a thick, open tome resting atop it. The pages didn't flutter, despite the absence of glass or bindings. Magic held them still—waiting.
The silent slave woman entered behind him, the new slaves in tow. None of them spoke.
Woon glanced around. No chairs, no incense, no theatrics. Just the cold efficiency of a place made to bind people like cattle.
Smith followed last, his shoes tapping lightly on the stone as he strolled forward, all warmth from before now slightly muted.
"Contract chamber," he said casually, as if pointing out a pantry.
"Old, but reliable. Built with neutral glyphwork, so it won't conflict with divine blessings or resistances."
Woon raised an eyebrow.
"I take it the process is safe?"
Smith chuckled as he reached the pedestal.
"As safe as enslaving someone can be."
Woon didn't smile.
The slave woman moved to the wall and began lighting the corner braziers one by one. Each one ignited with a soft *fwoosh*, casting flickering orange light that danced across the silver glyphs.
Woon stepped forward and looked down at the ritual circle.
The cooking girl stood still behind him, the others waiting in line. Their faces were neutral, but their eyes weren't. The foxkin's ears twitched again, the badger-kin scanned the room with quiet calculation, and the human maid was carefully keeping her eyes locked on her own feet.
Smith tapped the edge of the book, then gestured toward the center of the circle.
"If you'll just step in, I'll begin with the terms. It won't take long."
Woon sighed. "Let's get it over with."
He stepped into the circle.
The magic recognized his presence with a faint vibration underfoot, and several runes lit up in response—soft pulses of white and blue climbing the etched lines.
Smith flipped a page in the tome and began to recite.
"By the laws of contract binding, we initiate transfer of ownership—"
Woon tuned most of it out. The man had the tone of someone who'd read the same script a thousand times and barely cared anymore.
Instead, he focused on the magic creeping up through his boots—tingling warmth and something else beneath it, like invisible threads brushing against his skin. It wasn't painful. Just… invasive. Like being scanned by a force that didn't care if you consented.
One by one, the slaves were called forward.
__________
First, the tiger-kin.
He stepped into the circle without hesitation and stood directly across from Woon. His boots hit the rune-ringed edge with a heavy thud, and almost instantly, a second glow flared beneath him—reddish-orange, sharp and angular, like the marks carved into old battlefield steel.
Smith muttered a short activation chant from the tome.
The glyphs responded with a low hum, and a thin thread of white light stretched from the floor beneath the tiger-kin to the center of Woon's chest. The connection pulled tight with a subtle snap, like fishing line catching on a hook.
Woon flinched slightly at the tug in his gut. Not painful, but invasive—like something unseen was tying itself to his spine.
*Alright. One done.*
Smith gave no prompt. He merely nodded once toward the next.
The badger-kin stepped forward. Slower. Heavier.
The moment he crossed into the circle, the light reacted again—duller red this time, with thick, blocky patterns that rippled under his feet. As the energy climbed his legs and flared upward, Woon felt a pressure against his sternum, like someone pushing a thumb into the center of his chest.
Another thread snapped into place. Firmer. Steadier.
*Reliable. Probably the quiet type.*
Next came the human girl.
She moved quickly, without needing to be told, her steps quiet but certain. The circle's runes shifted to a soft blue when she stepped in—gentler, more fluid, the glyphs forming almost like water ripples. When the contract clicked into place, Woon didn't feel it tug so much as settle. A thin string of magic curved into him like it was meant to be there.
*Light touch. Might be the easiest one to work with.*
Then, the foxkin.
She hesitated for a moment at the edge of the circle—her small hands tightening at her sides, ears twitching nervously.
Smith didn't pressure her. Neither did the silent woman nearby.
Finally, she took a breath and stepped in.
The circle flared—not as bright, but strangely alive. Amber and silver pulsed beneath her bare feet, and the runes reacted in swirls instead of lines. When her bond linked with Woon, it felt less like a string and more like a whisper—light, delicate, almost uncertain. It made his skin prickle.
*That one's going to need time.*
Smith turned his attention to the last.
"The girl behind you," he said, glancing up. "We'll do her next."
The cooking girl stepped forward from behind Woon, silent as ever.
She crossed the circle and stood directly opposite him. She didn't look up. Didn't fidget. She simply stood there—composed, still, and waiting.
The runes lit beneath her feet the moment she stopped moving. Not red. Not blue. A pale gold shimmer, more refined than the others—elegant, almost quiet.
Woon felt her thread snap into place cleanly—no sharp pull, no gradual draw. Just a firm, immediate bond.
Smith raised an eyebrow slightly as the light dimmed.
"Well... that one was clean."
*That's the last one. Finally done.*
He shut the tome with a soft *thump*, brushing his gloved hand across the cover like sealing a deal.
"The bindings are complete," he said.
"Congratulations. They're yours now."
Woon stepped out of the circle and looked at the group. Five sets of eyes looked back—some cautious, some blank, one still flicking from wall to wall.
He exhaled slowly.
*Right. That's it then.*
__________
Smith walked to the door and opened it.
"Let's not linger. Ritual residue makes some folk nauseous."
Woon didn't argue.
He stepped out into the corridor without a word, and his new staff followed in a quiet, orderly line. No chains dragged across the floor. No one spoke. Just the soft rhythm of footsteps on old stone—six sets in total, each one echoing faintly against the narrow hallway walls.
The slave woman—the silent attendant—bowed faintly at the end of the hall and disappeared behind another door without waiting for thanks. Her job was done.
Smith followed them to the front of the building, arms folded behind his back, humming faintly under his breath. Not quite a tune—just the idle satisfaction of a man who'd closed a lucrative deal.
They passed back through the orange-lit corridor, the thick scent of varnish and stale perfume returning with every step. The interior hadn't changed, but Woon felt different walking through it now. He wasn't browsing anymore. He was leaving with product.
__________
When they reached the front room, Smith stopped beside the decanter table and turned with a final, easy grin.
"If you need more—or wish to sell—my door is always open," he said. "You've got a good eye, sir. I look forward to future business."
Woon nodded once.
"We'll see."
He stepped through the creaking front door and out into the air.
It was late afternoon now. The gloomy sky had shifted toward gray-blue, casting longer shadows across the narrow street. The strange hush of the slave-trading district still lingered, but outside, the silence felt cleaner. Crisper.
The kind of quiet you get just before something starts.
Woon adjusted the collar of his coat and took the first step forward.
Behind him, five sets of footsteps fell in line—soft, steady, and silent.
No words. No questions. Just motion.
He didn't look back.
There was no need.
They were headed to the diner.
And whatever came next...
Started there.
To be continued.....