Marrowpine’s market square is still slick with mud from last night’s storm, but the town doesn’t slow for it. Trade never does.
Vendors shout over one another, boots squelch through the muck, and the smell of fresh bread fights a losing battle against wet earth and livestock.
On the far side of the square, the canvas tent looms.
Not part of the market. Not really.
Something separate.
Something tolerated.
Kit stays close at my side—arms folded, posture loose, but every part of her alert. Her tail flicks once.
“Let’s find her,” she says quietly.
The moment we step inside, the world changes.
The noise of the market dulls, swallowed by thick canvas and something heavier.
The air hits first.
Heat. Sweat. Iron. And something sharp beneath it all—fear, stretched thin over too many bodies.
Cages fill the space.
Rows along the walls. Stacks in the center. Metal bars, bent frames, repurposed wagons locked with chains and rusted clasps.
Too many.
Far too many.
Eyes follow us.
Some hollow. Some burning. Some already gone.
Fur matted with filth. Scales dulled and cracked. Bruised faces. Starved limbs. A young minotaur hunches too large for his cage, horns scraping the canvas above him. An elf girl sits slumped in the corner of hers, dried blood at her lip.
Kit makes a sound.
Not a word. Not even a growl.
Just… something low and tight.
Her tail goes rigid behind her.
I rest a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ve got this,” I murmur. “Let me talk.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Then—one sharp nod.
Still silent.
Still shaking.
At the front of the tent, nothing has changed.
The same greasy trader.
Plump. Comfortable. A man who never worries about what he sells.
His grin splits wide as he counts coins beside a bored scribe, rings flashing on his stubby fingers.
When I speak, he doesn’t look surprised.
“Trader,” I say. “I’m in need of a new girl.”
His eyes lift slowly.
Then flick to Kit.
Then back to me.
“Course you are,” he purrs, like we are discussing wine.
“Plenty to choose from. Fighters, dancers, cooks, even one who swears she’s a priestess—though she bites.” He chuckles to himself. “Or maybe you’re after something more… personal.”
Kit shifts beside me. Ears twitching.
Silent.
Watching.
The trader leans back, gesturing lazily toward the cages.
“You want docile? I’ve got soft ones. Broken in nice and neat. Won’t give you trouble.”
His grin sharpens.
“Or you want something with teeth?”
He taps the counter once, slow.
“There’s a wildcat in the back. Took a swing at one of my handlers yesterday—nearly broke his knee. Strong. Fast. Not trained. Not obedient.”
A pause.
“Not cheap.”
Kit exhales, low.
“Neither was I.”
The trader’s eyes flick to her again.
Amusement. Brief. Measured.
Then gone.
He doesn’t take the bait.
“We’re not looking for soft,” I say. “We need a tank. Someone who can hold a line. Level fifteen, give or take.”
That gets his attention.
Not surprise.
Interest.
“A tank,” he echoes, leaning forward slightly. “Now that’s a different conversation.”
He snaps his fingers.
A nearby scribe fumbles open a thick ledger, flipping pages with stained hands.
The trader rests both palms on the counter, smiling like a man about to sell something expensive.
“You’re not here for comfort. You’re here for survival.”
His eyes gleam as he glances down, the scribe finally finding the page. A thick finger taps once against the ledger.
“Let’s see what hasn’t already been promised to people with deeper pockets…”
He looks back up at us, smile settling into something satisfied.
“Careful what you pick,” the trader murmurs. “Some of them bite back.”
“You’ve got options.”