The pain in Emilia’s arm was a steady pulse, like a drum beating the rhythm of her new life. She sat on the edge of her bed, her left arm wrapped in a bandage applied grudgingly by a servant. The manor’s healer, an older woman with bony fingers and a gaze that could cut glass, had confirmed it wasn’t broken, just deeply bruised. “You’re lucky,” she’d said, her tone implying Emilia didn’t deserve it. “Rest, or you’ll make it worse.” But rest wasn’t an option, not in a world where dungeon creatures could burst into your courtyard and your own family’s eyes were as sharp as their fangs.

  Celeste’s room, with its velvet curtains and perfumed air, felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. Emilia stood, ignoring the twinge in her rib, and approached the desk where she’d left the Compendium of Tameable Creatures. She opened it again, rereading the section on slimes. “Easy to maintain, adaptable, lacking natural aggression.” Perfect for someone like her, with no magical talent and a body still learning to fight. But the question was how to get one. Slimes didn’t grow on trees, and though the library mentioned they were common in dungeons, venturing there unprepared was suicide.

  Then she recalled a line from the book: “Tameable monsters are traded in specialized markets, both legal and illicit.” Emilia frowned, drumming her fingers on the desk’s wood. The Varnholt family had money—piles of it, judging by the gold chandeliers and endless banquets. If she could tap into that wealth, she might buy a slime. Legal markets, according to the book, were a maze of bureaucracy, with permits that could take months and strict oversight to ensure creatures weren’t used for rebellions or crimes. But the black markets… those were faster. More dangerous, yes, but with enough gold, any door could open.

  The problem wasn’t just money. She was Celeste, the baron’s fourth daughter, a noble known for cruelty, not cunning. If she requested access to family funds or got involved in something as shady as a black market, it would raise suspicions. Lysa already watched her like she was an impostor, and the baron wasn’t one to tolerate whims without explanation. She needed a plan, and fast.

  A knock at the door snapped her from her thoughts. “Celeste, open the door right now!” It was Lysa, of course, her voice a mix of disdain and urgency. Emilia sighed, closed the book, and hid it under a pile of parchments. She opened the door to find Lysa, in a purple dress that likely cost more than Emilia’s entire orphanage, arms crossed.

  “What in the hells is wrong with you?” Lysa snapped, barging in without invitation. “First, you start playing with swords like a peasant, then you let a rookie guard beat you, and now you lock yourself in here like some nun? Father’s furious, and Mother says you’re embarrassing the family.”

  Emilia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m not embarrassing anyone,” she said, mimicking Celeste’s haughty tone. “I’m just… busy.”

  “Busy?” Lysa let out a sharp laugh. “Please, Celeste, don’t insult my intelligence. Everyone’s talking about your ‘training.’ The servants say you look possessed, and Freya’s convinced you’re planning something stupid to get attention. What is it, huh? Trying to impress someone? Or are you just losing your mind?”

  Emilia felt a spark of panic but crushed it. Lysa was a viper, but she was predictable. If Emilia could handle her, she might turn that venom to her advantage. “Maybe I’m just tired of being the family’s punching bag,” she said, letting a hint of bitterness seep into her voice. “Not all of us want to spend our lives competing for a marriage or a fancier dress, Lysa. Leave me alone.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Lysa blinked, clearly thrown off. For a moment, it seemed she’d fire back with another insult, but instead, she narrowed her eyes. “You’re weird, Celeste. Weirder than usual. If you’re up to something, I swear I’ll find out.” She spun on her heels and stormed out, leaving the door open and the echo of her footsteps in the hall.

  Emilia closed the door, leaning against it. Lysa was a problem, but also an opportunity. If she could convince her that this “change” was just a phase, she might buy some breathing room. But first, she needed to move. Training with Gavril was in an hour, and afterward, she planned to question him about monster markets. If anyone knew how to navigate Eldoria’s underbelly, it was him.

  The back courtyard was soaked from the previous night’s rain, with puddles reflecting a leaden sky. Gavril waited by a chalk-marked training circle, holding two wooden swords. His arm, injured in the creature fight, was bandaged, but it didn’t seem to slow him. When he saw Emilia, her cloak mud-stained and left arm still stiff, he raised an eyebrow.

  “You look like a cart ran you over,” he said, tossing her a sword. “Hope you’re not here to whine, princess.”

  “I don’t whine,” Emilia replied, catching the sword with her good hand. The weight sent a jolt of pain through her arm, but she ignored it. “Just tell me what to do.”

  Gavril grunted, clearly impressed despite himself. “No fighting today. We’re working on your aura. If you don’t learn to channel it, you’ll never be more than a punching bag.”

  The lesson was grueling. Gavril had her repeat basic stances, focusing on breathing and “feeling the flow” of the aura. Emilia closed her eyes, searching for that warm spark she’d felt before. It was elusive, like grasping smoke, but with each repetition, it grew clearer. Gavril corrected her mercilessly, adjusting her posture and growling whenever she got distracted. “Focus, damn it! The aura’s not a toy—it’s your life.”

  At one point, as Emilia practiced a slow strike, she felt a burst of heat in her chest. The wooden sword seemed to hum, and a faint blue shimmer ran along its edge. Gavril froze, eyes narrowed. “That’s it,” he said, more serious than usual. “One step. But don’t get cocky, princess. You’re still a mess.”

  Emilia was panting, but a smile crept onto her face. It was progress, and in this world, every scrap counted.

  After the lesson, as the guards dispersed and the rain began to fall again, Emilia approached Gavril. He was cleaning the swords, his face streaked with sweat and mud. It was a risk, but she needed information.

  “Gavril,” she said, keeping her voice low. “What do you know about monster markets?”

  He looked up, clearly surprised. “Monsters? Now you want to play beast-tamer? Gods, Celeste, you’re a headache.” He scratched the scar on his cheek, studying her. “There are legal markets in the capital, but they’re slow. Months of waiting, permits, inspections. Then there’s the black markets—in the alleys of Shadowport or the ruins of the Old District. Fast, but pricey, and if you get caught, the baron won’t be able to save you.”

  Emilia nodded, processing the information. Shadowport sounded dangerous but doable. The Varnholt family had gold, and if she could find an excuse to travel—maybe a “whim” befitting Celeste—she could buy a slime without waiting months. “If I wanted something simple, like a slime, where would I go?”

  Gavril let out a dry laugh. “A slime. Of all the beasts, you pick the most pathetic. Guess it suits you.” He grew serious, lowering his voice. “Shadowport. There’s a guy, Marcus the Blind. Sells critters like that for a handful of gold. But watch yourself, princess. That place isn’t for rich girls.”

  Emilia memorized the name: Marcus the Blind. It was a start. “Thanks,” she said, and for the first time, she sounded genuine.

  Gavril stared at her, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re a mystery, Miss Celeste. Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I don’t hate it.” He turned away, leaving her in the rain.

  Emilia stood there, the water soaking her cloak. The manor, with its intrigues and gilded walls, was a prison. The dungeons, with their monsters and promises of death, were a threat. But a slime—a simple, “cute” creature in a world of horrors—could be her ticket to freedom. She needed gold, a plan, and the courage to dive into Eldoria’s underbelly. And she would get it, because Emilia wasn’t Celeste, and giving up had never been her way.