Gold changed hands with a dull metallic clink.
Tomora felt the sound more than he heard it.
The chains around his wrists tugged as the crowd shifted, voices blurring into one low, greedy murmur. He lifted his head slowly, eyes burning beneath dirt and sweat, and met the gaze of the woman who had spoken.
She stood apart from the others—straight-backed, composed, untouched by the filth of the market. Where everyone else smelled of dust, oil, and desperation, she carried the faint scent of clean air and something sharp, almost metallic. Her dark coat hung neatly from her shoulders, unwrinkled, unbothered by the chaos around her.
Thirty-five gold coins.
That was his price.
Tomora's jaw tightened. His fingers curled against the cold iron of his restraints until the metal bit into his skin.
A disgusting thing, he thought.
Buying human life like cattle.
The woman's eyes flicked toward him. They weren't cruel. They weren't kind either. Just sharp—measuring, deliberate. As if she were looking at a locked door instead of a boy.
"Come," she said calmly. "You're coming with me."
No reassurance. No explanation.
The guards unlocked his chain from the platform and shoved him forward. Tomora stumbled once, caught himself, and forced his legs to keep moving. He didn't look back at the cages. He didn't look at the auctioneer. He didn't look at the crowd.
If he did, he knew he would burn them all.
---
The mansion rose beyond the market like it didn't belong to the same world.
High stone walls wrapped around manicured gardens trimmed with unnatural precision. Fountains poured crystal-clear water into marble basins. Guards stood at the gates—not slavers, not bandits, but trained soldiers in polished armor.
Tomora felt every step as they crossed the threshold. The dirt of the market gave way to smooth stone paths. The stench of sweat vanished, replaced by perfumed air and blooming flowers.
Inside, the mansion was worse.
Polished marble floors reflected golden light from massive chandeliers. Red carpets softened footsteps. Painted ceilings stretched overhead, depicting heroic battles and shining warriors—none of them slaves, none of them chained.
Tomora slowed, eyes scanning everything. His shoulders remained tense, ready to bolt, ready to strike if the collar loosened even a fraction.
The woman noticed.
"Don't worry," she said quietly, not looking back.
Her voice wasn't gentle. It was controlled.
That made it worse.
---
They reached a wide hallway lined with portraits—men and women in military uniforms, faces stern, eyes proud. Black Iron insignias gleamed in gold frames.
Tomora's breath hitched.
He recognized the symbol instantly.
Black Iron.
The woman stopped before a large wooden door and pushed it open. Warm light spilled out, thick with the scent of burning wood.
Tomora lingered just behind the threshold.
Inside, a study stretched wide and imposing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books bound in leather and iron clasps. Maps of territories covered one wall, marked with pins and red lines. A roaring fireplace crackled at the center, casting flickering shadows across the room.
A man stood near the desk.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His hair was streaked with gray, his posture rigid with authority. A decorated military coat hung from his frame, medals lining his chest. The Black Iron insignia rested proudly over his heart.
A general.
His boots echoed sharply as he paced.
"You're wasting my money on slaves again?" he snapped, not bothering to look at her. "How much did you say this one cost?"
Tomora pressed himself instinctively into the shadows near the doorway, heart pounding. His pulse thundered in his ears louder than the fire.
"Thirty-four gold coins," the woman replied calmly.
The general scoffed. "Ridiculous."
He turned slightly, irritation etched into his face. His eyes passed over the room—and for a split second, they brushed over the darkness where Tomora stood.
Tomora held his breath.
The general didn't react.
"I'm running late," the man continued, already reaching for his coat. "We'll talk when I get back."
He paused near the door, glancing toward a massive portrait hanging above the fireplace. It depicted rows of Black Iron soldiers standing victorious over kneeling figures—faces obscured, bodies bowed.
"Remember," he said, his voice lowering just a fraction, "loyalty above all."
The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.
Silence followed.
Only the crackle of fire remained.
---
Tomora stayed still, his body coiled tight like a trapped animal. His mind raced—Black Iron mansion, Black Iron general, Black Iron daughter.
Did she buy me to hand me back to them?
The woman didn't turn around immediately. She stood facing the fire, hands clasped behind her back, watching the flames twist and dance.
"You can come out," she said softly. "I know you're there."
Tomora stepped forward slowly. His collar hummed faintly as he moved, reminding him of its presence.
"What do you want with me?" he asked. His voice was steady—but only because he forced it to be.
She turned then.
Up close, he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes. The controlled posture. The way her gaze sharpened when she looked at him—not like prey, not like property, but like a problem she hadn't solved yet.
"I wanted you," she said.
"That's it?" Tomora snapped. "You paid gold to for me?"
A corner of her mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite.
"You looked interesting ," she replied. "i was just curious."
Tomora's fists clenched.
"And you're Black Iron."
"Nope," she admitted easily.
The fire cracked louder, sparks bursting upward.
"But why do you ask," she added quietly, "Are you one of the wanted ."
For the first time since the market, something unfamiliar flickered in Tomora's chest.
Not trust.
But curiosity.
And that frightened him more than chains ever could.