The market never slept.
Even under the harsh midday sun, the square breathed like a living thing—thick with dust, sweat, and desperation. Voices clashed in every direction: merchants barking prices, guards shouting orders, chains rattling as captives were dragged across stone. The air tasted metallic, sharp enough to sting the back of Tomora's throat every time he inhaled.
He stood barefoot on the auction platform, wrists bound, a heavy collar cold against his neck. The metal pulsed faintly, draining something deep inside him, like invisible fingers squeezing his chest. Every time he tried to focus, the pressure worsened, forcing his thoughts into a dull haze.
Below him, the crowd pressed closer.
Men with scarred hands and greedy eyes. Women draped in fine cloth who looked at slaves the way one might examine livestock. Soldiers leaned on spears, bored and watchful. Coins clinked as fingers tightened around purses.
Tomora swallowed.
The auctioneer—Pol, they called him—wiped sweat from his brow and raised his hammer. His voice boomed across the square, practiced and cruelly cheerful.
"Next lot! Young male! Thunder Vein—confirmed Stage One!"
A ripple passed through the crowd.
"Rare," someone muttered.
"Too young," another scoffed. "Won't last."
Tomora kept his head down, jaw clenched. The collar dug into his skin as he shifted his weight. His fingers twitched on instinct, sparks itching beneath the surface, desperate to be released. A faint flicker danced across his wrists—
The collar flared.
Pain snapped through him like a whip. His breath hitched, and the sparks vanished as quickly as they'd appeared.
Stay calm, he told himself. Think. Survive.
Pol gestured toward him with a flourish. "Strong blood, even stronger potential! Perfect for labor, war, or training! Who'll start the bidding?"
Silence lingered for a heartbeat too long.
Then a man near the front stepped forward.
He was broad and thick-necked, arms crossed over a stained leather vest. A jagged scar split his cheek, pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent sneer. He looked Tomora up and down like a butcher assessing meat.
"Ten gold," the man grunted.
Pol shook his head theatrically. "Come now, come now! A Thunder Vein? Surely you can do better!"
The man spat into the dirt. "Twelve."
A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. Some nodded in agreement. Twelve gold for a child slave was generous—by market standards.
Tomora's stomach twisted.
Twelve gold, he thought. That's all I'm worth to them.
Pol raised his hammer. "Twelve gold! Going once—"
Tomora's gaze drifted across the sea of faces, searching without knowing what he hoped to find. Kindness. Mercy. Anything.
Most eyes slid past him.
Some looked away, uninterested. Others gleamed with anticipation.
Then—
A voice cut through the noise.
"Thirty-five."
The word fell like a blade.
The square went silent.
Pol froze mid-motion, his hammer hovering in the air. The crowd shifted, startled murmurs erupting like startled birds.
"Did she say—"
"Thirty-five gold?"
"Who—?"
Tomora's head snapped up.
From the edge of the crowd, a woman stepped forward.
She moved without hesitation, her presence slicing cleanly through the chaos. Her cloak was dark and unadorned, but the fabric was fine, well-kept. Sunlight caught briefly in her hair as she pushed back her hood—deep, dark strands framing a sharp, composed face.
Her eyes were the most unsettling thing.
Cold. Focused. Calculating.
They locked onto Tomora, not with hunger or pity, but with something closer to certainty—like she already knew the outcome.
Pol blinked, stunned. "Th-thirty-five gold…?"
The original bidder's face flushed red. "That's ridiculous!" he barked. "He's just a kid!"
The woman didn't look at him.
"Thirty-five," she repeated calmly. "And I won't bid again."
A hush fell over the market.
Coins clinked as Pol swallowed hard. His greedy grin returned, wider this time, stretched almost to breaking. "Thirty-five gold going once… going twice…"
He slammed the hammer down.
"Sold!"
The sound echoed louder than thunder in Tomora's ears.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
Sold.
The chains around his wrists were tugged as guards stepped forward, but his eyes stayed locked on the woman as she approached the platform. Each step was measured, unhurried, as if the world itself had slowed to accommodate her.
She stopped in front of him.
Up close, Tomora noticed the small details—the faint scar near her jaw, the calluses on her fingers, the way her gaze flicked briefly to his collar before returning to his eyes.
"You're smaller than I expected," she said quietly.
Her voice wasn't cruel. It wasn't kind either. Just honest.
Tomora swallowed, his throat dry. "Why…?" His voice came out hoarse. "Why me?"
For the first time, something shifted in her expression.
Not softness—but interest.
"Because," she said, leaning in just enough that only he could hear, "you're not meant to die in a cage."
The guards unlocked his chains.
As they led him away, the market noise slowly returned—bids rising, voices shouting, life moving on as if nothing had changed.
But for Tomora, everything had.
As he passed through the crowd beside the mysterious woman, fear still coiled in his chest—but beneath it, faint and dangerous, something else stirred.
Hope.