It took me a solid hour of walking through the paved, labyrinthine districts to finally reach the outskirts of the northern front, where the grand building of Saint-Margasie loomed.
The structure was imposing, built with pristine white stone that gleamed almost unnaturally against the gloomy backdrop of the city.
Upon my arrival, the welcome was surprisingly warm—almost suspect for a place surrounded by such dark, whispering rumors.
Without questioning my presence, a young sister clad in spotless robes guided me through long, quiet corridors to the director’s office.
The moment I crossed the threshold, my eyes landed on the woman sitting behind a heavy mahogany desk.
Ponti’s words were no exaggeration: she was stunningly beautiful.
She possessed a gorgeous ebony complexion, highlighted by long, silky black hair falling gracefully over her shoulders.
Her silhouette was remarkably well-defined beneath her religious garments, giving her an aura of divine authority.
Observing her, I wondered briefly what could have driven such a captivating woman to join the ranks of the Graces.
But my curiosity stopped there; other people’s business didn’t interest me, and personal feelings were useless in my line of work.
I broke the silence in a calm, steady voice:
“Are you Reverend Luna?
The Shadows sent me to collect what is owed to them.”
She broke her gaze from her paperwork, a sharp flash of surprise crossing her dark eyes before she instantly regained her composure.
A mysterious, slow smile tugged at her full lips as she leaned back in her chair.
“Well, you are surprisingly well-informed to know my true name,” she murmured, her tone smooth as silk.
“I see the Shadows still train their collectors with formidable efficiency.
Regarding the sum set aside for this matter, everything is already prepared.
If you would please follow me…”
We left her office and headed toward the silent back corridors of the orphanage.
There, before a perfectly ordinary stone wall tucked away in a dimly lit alcove, Luna reached out and pressed a specific, hidden brick.
With a heavy metallic click, an unseen mechanism activated within the structure.
A concealed trapdoor in the stone floor swung open without a sound, revealing a narrow staircase plunging straight into the pitch-black depths below.
With a subtle wave of her hand, she invited me to descend behind her.
The further we advanced down this damp underground passage, the heavier and colder the air became.
A muffled, chaotic noise, distant at first, began to vibrate through the stone walls, growing louder with every step we took.
When we finally reached the end of the tunnel, the scene that unfolded before my eyes left me momentarily motionless.
We had just entered a massive subterranean hall hidden entirely from the eyes of the surface world.
Dozens of well-dressed spectators, wearing expensive silks and fine jewels, packed themselves tightly onto wooden bleachers.
At the center of the hall, on a brightly lit wooden stage, a man in a sharp black suit managed the frantic crowd, wielding a heavy wooden gavel.
The atmosphere in the room was boiling, nearly suffocating due to the intense heat radiating from dozens of iron torches lining the stone walls.
The sound of wealthy buyers aggressively shouting absurd numbers was regularly drowned out by the sharp, echoing crack of the auctioneer’s gavel, bellowing at the top of his lungs:
“Sold to the gentleman in the second row!”
Right beside him, exhibited on the stage like simple cattle in a slaughterhouse, stood young children.
They couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, their small frames shivering despite the heat.
Heavy iron chains bound their thin wrists and encircled their bruised necks.
Some of them were weeping bitterly, tears tracing clean lines through the dirt on their cheeks, their eyes wide with sheer terror.
Others remained completely frozen, locked in an absolute, broken silence, their spirits entirely crushed by the cruelty of their reality.
Swiftly analyzing the chaotic atmosphere and the greedy, depraved faces filling the bleachers, the horrifying truth hit me all at once: this was a clandestine slave auction.
And the “products” being callously sold to the highest bidder were none other than the vulnerable orphans of Saint-Margasie.
After a few tense minutes spent watching this horrific spectacle, a quiet nun discreetly approached Luna to hand her a varnished wooden box.
It was heavy, beautifully decorated with intricate golden engravings that disguised its grim purpose.
The director took it gracefully, then turned toward me, handing it over with unsettling ease.
“There you are, it’s all there,” she said softly.
Her lips bore a smile of incredible, almost maternal sweetness.
Looking at her, anyone would have trusted her without a second thought, yet here she stood, orchestrating a living hell for those under her care.
“Give my warmest regards to Lord Callis,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“And do not forget to mention to him that for next time, we will require a larger quantity of products.
The demand among our elite clientele is exceptionally high these days.”
That gentle, pious smile contrasted horribly with the absolute monstrosity of the trafficking she managed in cold blood.
I tucked the heavy box firmly under my arm and stood there, completely motionless, my dark gaze anchored into hers.
I didn’t say a word, letting the heavy silence between us carry my unspoken disgust.
After a long moment, I decided to withdraw, turning my back on the underground hall.
As I walked back toward the surface, the cold realization settled deep within me: among the many vile activities the organization practiced, human trafficking was merely routine.
Stepping back out into the open air of Malbour, I looked up at the grey sky and asked myself a single question: what terrible, dark truth would I discover next about Eresboros?