Slaver's POV – Maurice
Today had started like any other day worth forgetting.
I opened the shop while the morning was still young enough to pretend it cared about me. The fog was low in the streets, a gray blanket crawling around boots and wagon wheels, and the air had that damp, metallic bite that always came before noon.
I swept the front step, unlocked the door, and stepped inside to the smell of old wood, oil, and sweat that never truly left the beams no matter how many times you scrubbed them.
"Open the shutters," I told the boys on the floor. "Feed the stock. Beds changed. Floors swept. If I find one mouthy rat left in the kitchen bins, I'll skin you both and sell you for half-price."
They grinned because they knew I wouldn't, but fear is a useful seasoning. Keeps the stew from going bland.
The shop was quiet after that—quiet the way a graveyard is quiet before someone remembers they're buried there.
A few regulars drifted in. A farmer with a limp came for muscle, a seamstress haggled for a girl with small hands, a widower bought a boy old enough to carry firewood but young enough not to argue.
Transactions slid across my desk like coins down a drain: routine, practiced, clean enough that I didn't have to think about the mess behind them.
By late morning I was deep in the monthly books, counting costs in one column and profits in another, trying to convince myself the numbers still meant stability in a world that only got hungrier. No fresh merchandise today, I'd noted. That was rare. Usually by now there'd be at least one desperate peddler or one idiot with a rope and a dream showing up to unload something human-shaped and morally inconvenient.
I was about to close the ledger for lunch when the front door opened.
I sighed internally, the way you do when your stomach is already halfway to a meal and the universe yanks you back by the collar. But business is business, and in this economy I'd rather eat late than not at all.
I stood and turned with my best merchant's smile already on my face—and then that smile stopped being practice.
"Quellan," I said, and I meant it. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
He was one of my most reliable trade partners. Not one of my most pleasant, mind you—Quellan was a snake that knew how to stand upright—but a snake that brought me coin and didn't waste my time. That counted for something.
"You're looking a little worse for wear today. Life finally catching up with you?"
I chuckled as if it were a joke. He looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out by the road. His metal armor was dented in places it shouldn't have been, his hair was a mess under the hood, and his eyes had that hollow shade people get when sleep hasn't loved them in a while. Even his grin was tired.
Still, he walked like he owned the floor.
"Maurice," he said, and we shook hands. His grip was firm but a fraction too sweaty. "Always a pleasure."
"Likewise," I replied. "What brings you in today? Buying or selling?"
It was a courtesy. We both knew he never bought. Quellan liked to take things, not pay for them.
"Selling, of course." He exhaled like he'd been holding the breath for two weeks. "Forgive the appearance. I picked up a rare find a few weeks back. Exhausting trying to find her family. Couldn't. So… here we are."
That set off my first alarm bell.
Trying to find her family? Slavers don't go looking for relatives unless there's profit in the bloodline. A slave's background doesn't matter to the trade—only their body, their obedience, their resale. If Quellan had been searching, it meant either he was lying, or what he'd found was worth more than a simple sale.
"A rare find," I repeated, letting the words hang. "You must be in a generous mood to bring your rarities to me."
He gave me that trademark sketchy smile, the one that always looked like he was hiding rot behind his teeth. "I saw that look. Trust me. She really is."
He leaned in as if we were conspiring rather than negotiating. I leaned in too, because curiosity is a habit that's hard to break even when it'll get you killed.
"She's a noble," he whispered.
I leaned back so fast my chair squeaked. "A noble?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Have you gone mad? How did you get your hands on a noble girl without a patrol hanging your bones at the nearest crossroads?"
For a flicker—barely a blink—his eyes lit with something hopeful, almost eager. Then it was gone, swallowed by his usual calm. If I hadn't been watching him for years, I might've missed it.
"Normally I'd tell you that's a trade secret," he said, voice smooth as oiled leather. "But since it's you… I'll share."
Flattery. Cheap, obvious, and still effective if you let it be. I didn't.
We both knew he was about to hand me a story polished just enough to pass through the mouth without choking.
"We found her in a forest," he began. "Which forest is a secret. She was alone. Just standing there, lost-looking as a lamb in a wolf den. Noble appearance obvious to anyone with eyes. When we approached, she panicked and ran. We chased. She hurt her legs bad in the escape—fell off a cliff, actually. We got her back safe, gave her the only healing potion we had. Not enough to fix her fully."
He told it carefully, the way a man tells a fable he expects to be repeated. He spoke of searching nearby towns, using connections, bringing her name—whatever name he claimed she never said—to every inn and watch post that owed him a favor. He described a noble family that never appeared. A reward that never came. Burden turning into loss. Loss turning into necessity.
He made himself sound almost… decent.
That's how I knew it was a lie.
"Are you sure she's a noble?" I asked.
He looked wounded, like I'd slapped him. He was good at that too.
"Of course she is." He spread his hands. "When we found her she was wearing a pure white dress without a touch of dirt. Skin smooth as fine porcelain. And her presence—Maurice, you know it when you see it. Not a peasant's stare. She looked like a princess on a stroll."
A princess on a stroll in the woods, alone, wearing white? I didn't buy it for a heartbeat. Not the princess part. Not the stroll part. Not the woods part.
But noble or not, something about this girl had put Quellan through a grinder. And if Quellan looked chewed, it meant the job had teeth.
"So where is she?" I asked.
His grin brightened, too quick. Like he'd been waiting to win that point. He nodded over his shoulder. One of his companions—the leather one, by the look of him—stepped back out the door. Quellan turned to me again as if he couldn't wait to keep selling me on my own purchase.
"Fair warning," he said. "She's shy. Stubborn. Barely speaks. Not once in two weeks, really. That's why we gave up the search. And even with her legs hurt she insists on doing things herself. Won't walk unless she's holding something, but she can stand."
"Mute?" I asked.
"Not at all," he said quickly. "We've heard her voice. Her laughter, more like. At first we didn't know it was her, but once you hear it… you don't forget it."
He said it the way men talk about wine or music or women they don't deserve.
"The laugh left such an impression on you?" I asked, trying to read beneath his words.
He stared off into the distance like he was admiring a painting only he could see. "It's sweet," he murmured. "Like… like it belongs in your chest forever. I've laid awake all night after hearing it, just echoing in my ears. Chases sleep right out of you."
That should have been the second alarm bell.
Two weeks with her and your sleep is gone, Quellan? Either he was spinning romance to raise the price, or something about her laughter had been… wrong.
Before I could pull on that thread, the front door opened again.
His companion returned carrying a person in both arms like a sack of flour.
My stomach sank.
"Quellan," I snapped before I could soften it. "Why in all mercies is she tied up like that?"
He didn't answer. He walked over calmly, as if presenting a prize instead of a person, and began undoing the ropes around her. The leather one stepped back, rubbing his wrists as if he'd been hauling more than weight.
Quellan shifted the girl upright with a hand around her waist. She wobbled, legs shaking, and he steadied her like a gentleman in a play.
When he pulled the sack from her head and untied the gag, I went still.
She was… small. Not child-small, but young. A late bloom of a girl on the edge of womanhood. Dark red hair fell straight past her shoulders, glossy even under grime. Her face was dirty in the honest way of travel, but there were no scars, no bruises where a desperate life usually leaves its handwriting. Big blue eyes stared out at the room like a startled deer's—wide, glass-bright, trembling.
And the collar around her throat was unmistakably noble work: a clean band of metal with faint symbols etched in a style I'd seen once or twice in my life on higher-end captives or cursed property. The kind of collar that didn't come from a roadside bandit's kit.
She looked at Quellan first, then at me. Her lips quivered. Her hands clutched awkwardly at her dress, as though she was trying to keep herself together by force of will. She didn't say a word, of course. But fear has its own grammar. I understood every syllable of her silence.
A stupid, inconvenient ache tugged at my chest.
She's a child, some soft part of me thought.
Another part—older, sharper—slapped it down.
She's merchandise.
Fools who let their feelings steer don't live long in this trade.
"How much?" I asked.
"Two gold," Quellan said, smug again.
I barked a laugh. "Two gold for a broken slave? You've lost your wits. Five big silver."
"It doesn't matter if she's broken," he said smoothly. "Her beauty alone sells for five gold. Ten if you find her family. My companions think she's from another kingdom. My connections stop here. Yours don't. Two gold stands."
"Noble conjecture on your end," I said flatly. "And you're assuming a family exists that'd pay. A broken slave is still broken. Not many buyers want a pretty vase with cracks. One gold is the most I'll pay."
He let it hang long enough to feel like he was thinking, though I knew the pause was another trick. Then he smiled broad as sunrise and offered his hand.
"One gold," he said. "Deal."
We shook. Coin passed.
Quellan's shoulders loosened the moment the gold hit his palm, like he'd been holding a debt in his lungs.
I should've felt victorious. Instead I felt uneasy.
As he and his companion turned to leave, I watched him from behind and caught one last glance of the girl. She stood exactly where he'd left her, meek as a sparrow, eyes lowered, trembling in the most convincing helplessness I'd ever seen. Too convincing, maybe.
Still, she didn't resist when I approached. Didn't fight when I guided her toward the back. She moved carefully, one hand on a wall, testing her legs like a foal. Every step looked like it hurt even if her face tried to hide it.
We passed cages on our way down the hall. Heads lifted. Eyes tracked. A murmur rose from the stock—thin and hopeless. The girl flinched but stayed quiet.
I opened her cage and helped her inside. She folded down onto the floor with painful slowness, dress gathering around her knees like a wilted flower. She kept her gaze low. Kept her breathing soft. Kept herself small.
The perfect slave act.
I locked the door.
When I turned to leave, the ache returned, sharper now. I ignored it and forced my mind back to routine: paperwork, lunch, restock.
And then—
A cold chill ran down my spine.
Not the kind that comes from a draft. Not the kind that comes from a damp stone corridor. This was sudden and clean, like someone had brushed ice across the inside of my ribs.
I stopped mid-step. The hairs on my arms rose. My breath fogged in front of me though the hall wasn't cold.
I don't scare easy. You don't last as long as I have if you do. But I've learned to respect certain sensations. Call them instincts, omens, or old wives' warnings—doesn't matter what name you give a knife as long as you know it can cut you.
I glanced back at her cage.
The girl sat with her head bowed, shoulders trembling faintly, as if she were quietly crying. The image should have soothed me. Instead it made the chill deepen, settling into my bones.
Bad luck walks in white, my grandmother used to mutter. Especially when she doesn't talk.
I swallowed and told myself I was tired. That Quellan's story had put my nerves on edge. That strangeness clings to the mind if you let it.
But as I walked toward the front again, I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't just bought a slave.
I'd bought a problem.
And whatever followed her into my shop—fog, laughter, gods, or curse—was now my responsibility to keep contained.
I went back to my desk, sat down hard, and stared at the closed ledger like it might explain the world. My lunch could wait. My stomach had already turned.
Behind me, down the hall, something creaked softly.
I pretended not to hear it.
For now.