Zeron huddled in the corner of the cage, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as if they could shield him from the world outside.

  The sounds of the slave market swirled around him—booming voices, jingling coins, the crack of a whip, and laughter too cruel to be real. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, unwashed bodies, and something sharp and metallic, like blood or rust.

  The chaos raged on—loud, raw, unrelenting—but none of it touched him.

  His heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way free. He squeezed his knees tighter, his fingernails digging into his skin until it hurt—but the trembling wouldn’t stop. Fear didn’t just live in his mind anymore—it pulsed through his veins, a sickness that made his limbs feel brittle and cold.

  From the shadows of his cage, Zeron could see his father just a few feet away, gesturing wildly at the crowd. Every flick of his hands twisted like a blade in Zeron’s chest.

  He wasn’t just selling something.

  He was selling him.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Families were supposed to protect each other, weren’t they?

  His stomach churned, knotted by a sickening tangle of betrayal and despair. He wanted to scream, to ask why—but the words were locked behind his teeth, useless things that would never matter.

  He doesn’t care.

  The thought came like a whisper, sharp and final. It cut deeper than anything else.

  Across the square, other slaves were crammed into cages like his. Most were older—silent, hollowed out. A few were children. Some sobbing. Others too shocked to make a sound.

  One girl around his age caught his eye. Her hair was tangled and dirty, cheeks streaked with dried tears. She clutched the bars of her cage, her lips moving around something soft and broken—a name, maybe. Or a plea.

  She wasn’t speaking to anyone.

  She was praying.

  Just as Zeron started to look away, a slaver barked at her and struck the bars with a rod. The cage rattled with the impact, sending her scrambling backward.

  Zeron flinched hard, the clang echoing through his chest. He pressed himself deeper into his corner, as small as he could make himself.

  And still, he couldn’t disappear.

  Not before someone chose him.

  Then came another sound.

  Familiar.

  Unwelcome.

  His father’s voice cut through the din—sharp, impatient, unmistakably angry. Zeron couldn’t make out the words, but he knew that tone. He’d heard it at street stalls, haggling over scraps… or behind closed doors, when anger turned into something worse.

  Then—something shifted.

  The noise dulled. The heat of the crowd seemed to vanish, replaced by a still, breathless chill. It was like the storm had paused—like the world itself was holding its breath.

  Zeron looked up.

  A man stood nearby, cloaked in black that seemed to drink the dim light around him. His white hair fell loose around a lined, weathered face, and a thick beard trailed down to his chest—coarse and windblown like frostbitten wool.

  But it was his eyes that held Zeron’s attention.

  Bright. Piercing. Blue like a frozen sky. They locked on him—unflinching, steady—and refused to look away.

  Zeron couldn’t move. That stare didn’t just land—it unraveled him. As if this man already knew every thought he’d buried and every fear he dared not speak aloud.

  Who is he?

  The stranger finally turned—from Zeron to his father. When he spoke, his voice was calm—but carried the weight of command.

  “The boy,” he said. “He’s Sylvalis, isn’t he?”

  Zeron blinked. A new thread of confusion twisted through the storm in his chest. Sylvalis?

  His father stiffened, posture tightening as he turned to face the stranger.

  “I don’t know what you mean by—”

  “An elf,” the man cut in, his tone as steady and sharp as drawn steel. “Born in the north. Near Shadow Mountain.”

  The words hung heavy in the air, charged with something Zeron didn’t understand.

  His father hesitated. Scratched his beard. His gaze flicked between the stranger and Zeron, calculating. Then came a sigh—slow, reluctant—and a subtle slump of his shoulders.

  “His mother was,” he muttered. “I think. I bought her from a slaver here in the market. Nearly ten years ago.”

  Zeron’s chest tightened at the mention of her.

  The memories were hazy now—dreamlike and brittle. A soft voice humming lullabies. Lavender in her hair. Gentle fingers brushing his cheek.

  He had always wondered why she’d disappeared.

  Now, the stranger’s words reopened wounds he hadn’t known were still bleeding.

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  The man’s jaw tensed. His eyes flicked back to Zeron, and for a moment, something shifted behind them—pity, maybe. Or anger. Zeron shrank beneath the weight of it, his heart pounding faster.

  “How much for the boy?” the stranger asked.

  Zeron’s breath caught.

  He’s buying me? Why?

  His father smirked, folding his arms. That familiar, greedy glint lit up his eyes.

  “Depends,” he said. “How much are you willing to pay?”

  “Name your price,” the man replied. His voice was like iron.

  Zeron’s father stepped toward the cage, peering in. His eyes narrowed. That gaze crawled across Zeron like cold fingers, assessing him—like livestock before the slaughter.

  “Ten thousand silver,” he said with a sneer, leaning back smugly. “Take it or leave it.”

  A breath passed.

  “Done.”

  The word cut through the market like a blade.

  The coin purse flew through the air. It landed in his father’s hands with a heavy clink. For a moment, the man just stared—stunned—like he hadn’t expected to win his own bet.

  Then he tucked the purse away, the shock fading into triumph.

  The stranger stepped toward the cage, slow and deliberate. The rattle of keys made Zeron’s stomach twist.

  The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

  Zeron tried to disappear into the corner—but there was nowhere left to go.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” his father muttered, reaching into the cage and yanking Zeron out. His grip was rough, fingers digging into Zeron’s arm like claws.

  Zeron stumbled, legs wobbling beneath him. He wanted to fight—wanted to scream—but his body wouldn’t respond. It felt like his fear had turned to stone, weighing him down.

  “No use hiding,” his father muttered coldly. “You’re his problem now.”

  The cloaked stranger stepped forward and placed a hand on Zeron’s shoulder. The touch wasn’t cruel, not even firm—just steady. Measured. It was the first time in days that someone touched him without malice, and that only made it harder to breathe.

  Zeron trembled beneath the stranger’s hand, but followed.

  The marketplace noise faded behind them—still there, but duller now, like it belonged to a different world. Sunlight hit Zeron’s eyes, too bright after so long in shadow. He blinked hard. People passed on all sides, some glancing his way. Most looked away quickly. Others stared longer, their gazes filled with quiet judgment or disinterest.

  He pulled his arms in close, trying to shrink, to vanish.

  Then something warm fell over his shoulders.

  A cloak. The stranger’s cloak.

  “This will help,” the man said quietly. “Keep prying eyes off you.”

  The fabric was coarse and heavy, but warm. It smelled faintly of leather, smoke, and something clean—like pine. Zeron pulled it tighter around himself. He didn’t know whether the gesture was kindness or pity, but either way, it dulled the edge of the cold.

  The man—Alethar—lifted him onto the horse without effort.

  Zeron stiffened. His heart surged. He’d never ridden a horse before. Never been this far off the ground. The world suddenly looked different from up here—broader, uncertain, and far too exposed.

  Alethar paused a moment. His eyes swept the horizon—not watching the crowd, but something else. His gaze was distant, searching, like he was waiting for a shadow to move.

  Then he looked up at Zeron. “Ever been on one of these?”

  Zeron shook his head. His voice was somewhere between fear and exhaustion, buried too deep to reach.

  Alethar gave the faintest smile. “Then this will be an experience.”

  The horse moved beneath him—steady but jarring. The saddle creaked, and Zeron clung to the horn with white-knuckled fists. At first, the fear of falling kept him locked in place.

  But soon, it shifted.

  It wasn’t falling he feared. It was not knowing where he was being taken.

  He found himself watching Alethar’s back—the way he moved, the quiet certainty in each step. There was something grounded about him, something that felt… safer. Not safe. But safer.

  “What’s your name?” Zeron whispered.

  The man glanced back, not startled—just curious. “Alethar,” he said. “And you?”

  “Zeron.”

  Alethar nodded. “Your mother named you, didn’t she?”

  Zeron frowned. “How’d you know?”

  “It’s a Sylvalis name,” Alethar said. “Soft consonants. Flow like rivers. Common in the north.”

  Sylvalis.

  The word stirred something in his chest—deep and unfamiliar, but undeniable.

  He opened his mouth to ask—but nothing came. The questions were too heavy. The answers too far away.

  He just clutched the cloak tighter and looked down.

  Even outside the cage, he still felt locked in.

  Just quieter bars now. Made of fear, not iron.

  Alethar said nothing more. He led the horse through the winding streets as the sun began to set, painting long shadows across the road.

  And Zeron, small beneath the weight of a borrowed cloak, followed without a sound.

  Alethar didn’t press him. He simply walked in silence, leading the horse forward with the same steady grace that had carried them from the market.

  The road stretched out ahead—long and winding—cutting through fields bathed in the fading light of day. The sun hung low, painting everything in gold and rust, and turning the breeze cool against Zeron’s cheeks.

  Zeron wanted to ask questions. Why me? Where are we going?

  But exhaustion pressed on him like weight soaked through his skin. The ache of loss was still raw. And so, he said nothing.

  Eventually, they crested a hill, and a lone building came into view—old timber, faded stone, soft orange light flickering from its windows. A crooked sign swung above the door, creaking faintly in the breeze.

  A tavern.

  It wasn’t grand. It didn’t look like sanctuary. But it didn’t smell like blood or sweat. No shouting. No bars. Just the sound of wind through trees and the faint scent of woodsmoke and bread.

  Alethar stopped the horse beside a hitching post and tied it off with easy, practiced hands. Then he turned and lifted Zeron down.

  Zeron’s legs buckled under him. He stumbled as he hit the ground, muscles unused to standing on solid earth. His feet barely remembered how to walk. It felt like every step was borrowed—his strength still somewhere back in that cage.

  Alethar’s hand rested on his shoulder, steadying him.

  Zeron looked up at the building. Plain walls. Faded stone. A crooked roof. It wasn’t much. But something about it felt real—like it didn’t need to pretend.

  “Where are we?” he asked quietly, unsure if he even wanted the answer.

  Alethar didn’t speak right away. His gaze drifted skyward, as if reading something the rest of the world couldn’t see. There was weight in the silence, something unspoken lingering behind his calm.

  Then he looked down at Zeron.

  Zeron looked up, confused. Alethar didn’t meet his eyes at first—just stared at the crooked sign above the tavern, as if reading something etched in a language only he knew.

  “We’re home.”

  Zeron blinked. The word hit harder than he expected. Home. He didn’t know if it was truth or just another lie waiting to break—but the stranger’s voice didn’t sound like his father’s. And his hand didn’t feel like chains.

  He doesn’t care.

  That’s what Zeron would’ve thought. What he’d always believed.

  But Alethar’s touch—quiet, patient—said something else.

  The ache in Zeron’s chest didn’t vanish.

  But for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was falling.