Astelle had lived through her share of situations, but the past week or so easily ranked as the most "interesting" stretch of her life.
After she'd destroyed the arena, armoured figures immediately surrounded her, pointing some strange-looking staffs. Right after, her slave mark had lit her up with more pain than she'd experienced from it before.
When she finally came to, she was already here and chained up.
She couldn't tell how much time had passed, and the last time someone willing to converse had been here was a while ago. Not to mention, it had been the Baron here to inform her of her new status as his property and of his high expectations for her.
She didn't like the man. There was something deeply vile about him. He seemed to be the kind to view morality as a lesser option, someone capable of anything and frighteningly likely to prove it.
Astelle wondered if she preferred the former owner over the Baron. The memory of Patrick beating her bloody when he first "acquired" her immediately dismissed that notion.
She settled on believing she hated both of them just about the same.
"You alright?"
The purple-haired girl slowly lifted her head toward the voice. When her eyes met Frid's, she blinked a few times in what the man assumed to be subdued confusion.
"Ah, I don't have my helmet since...you know," Frid explained, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.
"Right..." Astelle replied, offering an apologetic look. "I'm sorry about that."
Frid plopped down to the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of her.
"It's fine," He said, casually waving it off. "I should apologise to you. I hear you had a rough time afterwards because of me."
"Nothing I couldn't handle."
Frid burst into loud laughter.
"I like you," he said once he caught his breath. "And—sorry about attacking you when we first met. I got a little carried away."
"That's the least of it," Astelle pointed out flatly. "Everything that happened after that still counts as our first meeting, too."
He laughed again, this time awkwardly, clearly lacking a defence.
"I fought three Gifted who seemed to know you," she continued.
"Gifted?" Frid looked at her, confused. Then realisation became evident on his face after a few seconds. "Is that what people with powers like yours are called?"
"You didn't know?"
"Nope." He shook his head. "I only knew they existed and that was it."
Astelle nodded, accepting it without comment.
"They tried to kill me," she said. "The bubble girl especially seemed to be committed."
Frid looked unsurprised. He had been involved in the arena scene and the dark underbelly of the city for a while now, so he could hazard a guess at what had happened with the three behind the curtain.
"Uno, Dreer and Felkist are special cases," he explained calmly. "You could say that the entire dark side of Lukaria owns them, so they have to move for its convenience."
Astelle's expression tightened. She felt a myriad of emotions and struggled to make sense of what she should think about everything.
"...Did I do the right thing?"
Frid turned fully toward her. "What do you mean?"
"Their owners are bad people, right?" Astelle asked, her voice more restrained than usual. "They told me to die for their sakes... does something bad happen to them if they fail?"
Frid opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He had no comfort to give her—and suspected she didn't want any. He understood her. She was worried that her actions would cost those three dearly. Hundreds of faces that refused to leave his recollection flitted through his mind.
'But that's different from this...'
"They won't die," he told her resolutely. "I can't be sure about anything else happening to them, but they won't die."
Golden eyes met pink ones.
"Their actual owner wouldn't let it slide if they were killed," he added.
"I thought you said they belonged to the whole dark side."
A cold shiver went up his back, remembering a shirtless man with long red hair standing amid a sea of corpses, blood coating essentially every inch of his body.
"You're interesting!" The redhead exclaimed excitedly. "Come work for me!"
Frid smiled grimly. "That man is the dark side of Lukaria."
Astelle understood from the tone of his voice that it was someone better off left alone. If anyone else had said it, she might have discounted it, but Frid was strong. She could tell. A person who unsettled him was likely in a different tier of power.
Her situation was worse than she'd thought.
All she'd wanted was to see what Arie had been talking about. One night, and she'd veered far from that simple goal. Now, she understood—just a little—how Ilan must have felt all this time.
Frid sprang onto his feet, unknowingly breaking Astelle out of her spiralling thoughts.
"I got distracted," he said, walking up to the wall where her chains were bolted. "I came to let you out."
Astelle blinked.
"That guy decided that?" She asked, thinking of the Baron.
"Nope. I did. I'll deal with the rest after."
"...Really?"
"Yeah," Frid said easily. "There's not much they can do to me anyway. It'll be fine."
"There are seals on the chains that activate any slave mark within range if there's an attempt to break them."
"I know." He gripped the chain near her left wrist. Muscles tightened along his arms as he applied pressure—then it snapped clean apart. "Not a problem."
Astelle flexed her newly freed left arm, staring at Frid in astonishment. He'd broken it faster than the seals could react.
"Three more to go."
---
- Patrick's Slave Den -
Jon watched as one of the younger slaves rushed toward the door at the sound of knocking against the metal.
He didn't need special powers to know who it was. Their master had been hanging around the same person for the past two days.
The red-haired man slipped into the building, his expression the very image of stone-faced. Unlike when they had first met him, he was dressed much more casually, though every inch of his skin apart from his face remained covered, and the scarf was still ever-present.
"Mr. Aluilde!"
Patrick approached, beaming as if he'd spotted a long-lost brother. The redhead's face melted into the same pleasant, accommodating smile he'd greeted them with days prior.
"Pat!" Aluilde exclaimed, slinging an arm around the smaller man's shoulder. "Ready to go? I found us a place with good returns."
He threw an odd, unreadable look at Jon as they walked past him.
"No need to come along, slave. Your master's in perfectly good hands."
Jon's eyes followed them as they walked out, the door shutting behind them.
Something wasn't right about that man. Jon had only been present twice as the two wandered through gambling houses, and each time Aluilde had tried to hide it, but he was jittery, constantly looking over his shoulder. He also seemed intent on roping Patrick into some kind of business deal.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Jon?" The young slave boy who had opened the door for Aluilde asked.
Jon stayed quiet for a moment, then ruffled the boy's hair.
"It's not something a kid like you needs to worry about yet."
He turned away, heading toward the other combat slaves' quarters to get them out in the field and oversee their training.
Thinking of Aluilde and the bad feeling he got from Patrick's association with him, an old piece of folklore came to mind. It was apparently from before the Haze.
"Red hair is a bad omen around these parts," he muttered.
He could only hope it was a bunch of nonsense.
---
- The Lawless City, Balcoa -
It had been a long time since Ilan had last considered using his powers for convenience. Even so, he found himself sorely tempted now.
They were sat in a seedy-looking bar, studying the transport schedule for vehicles bound for the Dergad Haven. They still hadn't had any luck locating Astelle, and the one who instigated her into running off couldn't even remember what she'd said to her in the first place.
"Ilan."
He didn't like being here for as long as they had been. In fact, his blood pressure had probably spiked to record highs. The lawless city was home to every worst kind of unsavoury character you could think of. Worse still, he'd heard a war had broken out here not long ago.
"Ilan."
If he used his ability, he could probably find Astelle's whereabouts and get a rough estimate of the time they had to get to her before she moved or... something else happened to her.
But it would leave him deathly ill for days.
"Ilan!"
The grey-haired man's attention snapped to Arie. He lunged forward, clamping a hand over her mouth and shushing her.
"Are you crazy?!" he whispered, panic bleeding through his voice. "You'll get us killed—or worse!"
Arie shoved his hand away, leaning in so her words stayed low.
"Then listen to me."
Ilan's eyes darted around the room, averting his gaze whenever he caught sight of people's glances.
"What is it?" he spat out, ducking his head onto the table.
"Astelle's in Lukaria."
Ilan straightened, blinking slowly. "What?"
"I said my sister's in the Lukaria Haven," Arie repeated casually. "I'm not sure where exactly, but she's in there somewhere."
The short man's mouth fell open as he tried to formulate a response, or even make sense of the reality of what he'd just heard.
"You're certain?"
"A hundred and one percent."
"And how long have you known this?"
"Since the last time we went through the Haze."
Ilan massaged the bridge of his nose. That was five days ago. He held back the urge to snap into an outrage, his fear of the potential threats around them overpowering his boiling frustration.
"Okay, then there's no need to go around like idiots," he said calmly. "We'll head to Dergad as planned. From there, we can take the nearest gate straight to Lukaria."
"That's all fine with me!"
"Right... let's get going."
As the two rose from their seats to leave, Ilan immediately noticed that basically every other person in the room had stood with them. Facing the ground, he fought back the tears that tried to well up in his eyes.
'Fuck...'
---
- Fernand Estate -
Henry stared at Frid with an unreadable expression. Frid met his gaze with a hardened look, tilting his head slightly, staring down at the man in defiance. The common servants shifted uneasily, unsure what this standoff would lead to.
Then a smile broke out across the brunet noble's face.
"Very well," he said, his voice bright and airy, coupled with the pompous laughter common to nobility. "You can have the keys to her shackles."
He tossed them at Frid's feet.
"Not much reason to keep them on if she's no longer bound to where she was supposed to be."
Frid crouched, picking them up and handing them to Astelle behind him. Having accomplished what he came to do, he turned towards the exit to the main estate, intending to leave the Baron's living room without exchanging any extra words with him.
"I hear you and Pendrick met and almost fought each other again," Henry said, his demeanour turning serious abruptly. "I can't have that."
Frid stopped mid-step, glancing back half-heartedly.
"What happens between me and him is none of your business."
"Now, now, Gewalt," he said, a light smile playing at his lips as he noticed the pronounced vein on Frid's temple at the mention of the name. "I might let you do as you please for the most part, but I still own you."
He leaned back into his couch, tapping his fingers against the armrest.
"I'm having Dorn do some things for me," he continued vaguely. "I want you to follow him around and help him whenever your... talents become necessary."
Frid pivoted back towards the man, his expression not hiding the unadulterated rage he felt.
"I told you I wouldn't take part in your sketchy business anymore," he said, voice low and threatening.
Fernand laughed in response, standing up and lightly tapping the head of his cane on Frid's shoulder.
"Relax," he said as he walked behind the slave, casually approaching a servant who held a covered tray in her hands. "It's nothing of that sort."
Uncovering the tray, he lightly snacked on a small cut of steak, savouring the flavour and then turning back to Frid.
"You'll understand when you start doing the work."
Frid stared at the man coldly before exhaling heavily.
"Fine," he said as he started walking away again.
As he passed by, Henry raised his cane to chest level, signalling him to stop. He gestured at a servant, who approached carrying something far heavier than he could manage.
"Put it back on," Fernand said plainly, a smile on his face. "We agreed, didn't we?"
Frid received the familiar item from the servant, looking down at the replacement helmet in his hand.
He looked up at the Baron, then back down, before sighing and donning it on his head. That same servant approached, giving an apologetic look before locking the padlock in place on the metallic chinstrap.
"There we go," Fernand clapped. "Now you can leave."
Frid and Astelle steadily walked out of sight, the sound of the main door opening and closing coming not long after.
Henry maintained a smile on his face for a moment. Then, in a sudden motion, he picked up the fork on his plate and stabbed it into the hand of the servant holding the tray. She dropped it, screaming and falling to the ground, writhing in pain.
His expression soured, and he clicked his teeth, motioning for them to take the hysterical woman away.
'It still doesn't work,' he thought in frustration, the image of him tapping Frid's shoulder with his cane played in his mind. 'I was sure it would if he was weakened...'
"I'll have to get Simon to look for an alternative method."
He fell back into another of his couches, signalling for someone to replace his food.