It was not long until the slave caravan reached the great city of Lunahria.
The city's walls rose pale and weathered against the sky, still standing, still breathing, still pretending to be safe. It was not the kind of place that looked like it could fall. That, Cassia thought dimly, was what made cities like Lunahria dangerous.
By the time the caravan settled on the outskirts, most of the slaves were already gone.
Merchants came and left in quick succession. Coin changed hands. Chains were unlocked, then replaced by others. Voices barked orders, names were shouted, and faces disappeared one by one. Cassia watched them leave without saying a word, without asking where they were going. She had learned long ago that questions were a luxury.
By nightfall, only two of the original caravan remained.
The slave owner, and Cassia herself.
The man had not planned for this.
He sat beside the wagon, rubbing his temples as the camp slowly emptied. The buyer was late—dangerously late—and Lunahria was not a city that welcomed delay. Still, he waited. Not because of obligation, but because the buyer was wealthy. Wealthy enough to excuse strangeness. Wealthy enough to excuse risk.
Cassia sat quietly nearby.
She was small for her age, wrapped in layers that never quite fit her. Her silver hair caught the lantern light too easily, a soft sheen that drew the eye no matter how much dirt dulled it. Two small black horns curved from behind her ears, delicate and unnatural in their symmetry. Her green eyes were empty—not vacant, but guarded, as if something had learned early not to trust the world.
The slave owner glanced at her.
She did not look dangerous.
That troubled him to his core.
With a tired sigh, he motioned her closer. She obeyed immediately, kneeling in front of him. He began fixing her hair with slow, deliberate care, fingers rough but precise, contradictory to his dangerous appearance. He worked as though the act mattered, as though this was something that needed to be done properly.
Cassia did not resist.
She had known worse hands.
"You'll be sold tonight," he said eventually, not unkindly.
She nodded, "Mm."
"The merchant arrived this morning," he continued. "Late, but alive. That alone makes him unusual."
Cassia stayed silent.
"He travels with a cohort," the man went on, more to himself than to her. "Three in total. All different races. Mad, if you ask me. But madness and money often walk together."
He finished tying her hair and leaned back, studying his work as if she were porcelain rather than flesh.
"There's something off about you," he muttered. "Buyer knows that. That's why he wants you."
Cassia's fingers curled into her sleeves.
Footsteps approached.
Three figures emerged from the crowd beyond the lantern light.
The one in front walked like the world made space for him without being asked.
His name was Achilles.
He was human, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence effortless rather than forceful. His armor was worn but well-kept, and his gaze was sharp without being cruel. There was confidence in the way he moved, but also restraint—as if he were constantly choosing not to be something worse.
Behind him walked Jules, an elf with pale skin and tired eyes. He carried himself gently, hands resting near the satchel at his side, where healing tools and glyphs were stored. His expression softened when it landed on Cassia, though concern lingered beneath it.
The last was Artorius.
An orc, tall and heavy-set, draped in robes threaded with arcane markings. His tusks were filed down, his eyes calculating. Magic clung to him like heat, subtle but unmistakable.
Achilles stopped a few steps away.
"That's her?" he asked.
The slave owner nodded. "Cassia."
Achilles crouched slightly, lowering himself to her eye level. "You don't have to speak," he said calmly. "I just need you to listen."
Cassia looked at him tentatively.
"Do you know what you are?" he asked.
Her throat tightened. She shook her head after some time.
"You're a demon," Achilles said plainly. "Not the kind people tell stories about. The other kind. The rare kind."
Jules shifted uncomfortably. Artorius said nothing.
"There are things sealed in this world," Achilles continued. "Powers older than kingdoms. Older than gods, in some cases. And there are keys."
His eyes met hers.
"You are one of them."
Cassia's chest felt tight.
"Five of the seven Orthodox Divinities are dead," Achilles went on. "Two by our hands. The rest will follow."
The words did not sound triumphant. They sounded tired.
"You matter because you can help us finish it," he said. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday."
Cassia looked away.
The slave owner cleared his throat. "Payment?"
Achilles stood and nodded to Artorius, who produced the coin without comment.
As the chains were removed from her wrists, Cassia felt something unfamiliar settle in her stomach.
Not hope.
Not fear.
Something worse.
A sense that whatever had begun in Aerinaelia had not ended there.
It had merely changed shape.