Chapter 32 – Dealer’s Choice
The sun filters through the shutters, painting the room in soft gold. The blankets are tangled from the night’s sleep, and the air is warm with sunlight and the lingering heat of three bodies sharing one bed. Kit stretches like a cat against me, eyes half-lidded, her vine-like tattoos glowing faintly in the morning light. Raka, sprawled at the edge of the bed, stirs with a lazy rumble, her silver-white fur catching the dawn as she props herself up on an elbow.
Kit smirks first, voice still husky with sleep but laced with excitement.
“So… healer shopping today? Think we’ll find someone who can keep up with this crew?”
Raka snorts, her tail flicking once as she glances at me.
“Healing magic’s not enough,” she says. “They’ll need a strong heart. And grit.”
Kit rolls over to face me, chin resting on my chest, her tone playful but edged with something deeper.
“And small, remember? Or…” She flicks a glance at Raka, grinning wickedly.
“We really are going to need a bigger bed.”
The three of us laugh—a sound that feels like sunlight.
“Today isn’t just shopping.” My voice drops into that low, steady tone.
“We’re going back to the Slave Market Tent. The Greasy Slave Trader will be waiting… and what we’re doing isn’t for fun. It’s a rescue.”
I’m not killing the moment—just setting the tone for what comes next.
Kit’s playful smirk falters. Her amber eyes narrow, shadowed by memory. She shifts closer, resting her chin on my knee.
“…Like day zero.”
Her voice is soft, haunted for a heartbeat before she steels herself.
“As a healer, alone, she’s going to be scared.”
Raka sits up fully now, fur shimmering like pale silver fire in the morning glow, her eyes finding mine.
“She might feel broken.”
Her jaw tightens, claws flexing unconsciously.
“We’ll fix that. We make her strong. Like us.”
I nod slowly, meeting both their gazes with the quiet, storm-like certainty they’ve come to rely on.
“She’s small. She’s a healer. And she likely won’t be well—not at first. That bastard will have her caged, thinking no one gives a damn. But we do.”
The bond pulses warm, fierce, and protective—a shared heartbeat across three souls.
Kit leans in, whispering with a sharp little grin returning, though softer now.
“So… how cute do you think she’ll be, Master?”
Raka lets out a short huff of amusement, but her tone stays firm.
“Cute doesn’t matter. Healing does. Family does.”
Then her eyes soften, flickering with warmth.
“…But if she smells like wildflowers, I won’t complain.”
I lead the way across the bustling market, boots crunching on the packed dirt. The laughter and chatter of merchants and townsfolk fades as we approach the far side, where the Slave Market Tent looms like a bloated parasite—canvas bulging, banners faded with grime. The air grows heavy. Even before we duck inside, the smell hits—sweat, fear, and that coppery tang of despair.
Kit and Raka flank me, their steps quieter now. Kit’s playful tail swishes once before going still, her amber eyes dark with something close to anger—no, resolve. Raka moves like a silent wall of muscle and fur, fixed on the tent entrance. Her claws flex as if itching to rend, but she says nothing.
I stop just before the flap and glance at them, my voice low and commanding.
“Remember… only I talk to the Greasy Slave Trader. Not you. Not here. We don’t start a fight we can’t win inside this cesspit.”
They both nod. The bond hums with tension—but also with focus, locked on the task ahead.
The moment I push past the flap, the air turns thick. Heat clings like oil, heavy and suffocating. Dim torchlight flickers over rows of iron cages stacked like coffins, shadows cutting across faces that barely look human anymore—skin sallow, eyes hollow, spirits broken. A cough echoes from somewhere deep, followed by the slow drag of chains.
And there he is—the Greasy Slave Trader.
He’s everything I remember and worse. Robes hang off him like a wilted flag, hair slicked back with oil, and that grin… all teeth, all rot. He rubs his stubby hands together when he sees me.
“Well, well! Look who walks in with quite the company.” His piggish eyes rake over Kit, then linger too long on Raka—a flash of greed before he masks it with false cheer. “Back for another, Master Locke? Didn’t think I’d see you so soon. Good business, eh?”
My voice cuts like steel, calm but edged.
“I’m here for one thing—a healer.”
“Healers… oh, precious little things they are. Hard to keep. Fragile, but worth their weight in gold.” He leans closer, breath sour as sin. “Lucky for you—I’ve got just the thing. Not much to look at. Sickly. Probably won’t last long without a… caring hand.”
He chuckles, and something in my jaw tightens. Behind me, Kit’s tail lashes once, and Raka’s claws bite into her palm—but they hold their tongues.
The trader waddles deeper into the tent, motioning for me to follow.
“Come, come! See for yourself. I have healers—renowned, exquisite creatures—but not in your price range, I gather.” He grins, teeth like yellow stones. “…yet there are exceptions. Quality—like your girls there. I remember the last deal. Costly, but… profitable for both of us, yes?”
He turns and continues deeper into the dim rows of cages, his voice floating back like oil on water.
“Follow. We’ll see what catches your eye. You want a healer? Ha! Lucky you came to me. They don’t last long in these pits.”
Kit brushes close to me, her whisper sharp enough to cut as it slips through the bond.
“His voice makes me want to slit his throat…”
On my other side, Raka’s growl hums low in her chest, mostly through the bond, claws flexing once against her shield strap.
“Say the word, and this tent burns.”
I don’t even glance at them—just project calm authority into the bond.
“Easy. Focus on our healer. This isn’t where we fight. Trust me.”
The trader stops in front of a smaller cage near the back. A single flickering lantern throws sickly light across the figure inside. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself—a slender Callin Girl, pale as moonlight, hair tangled and matted like silk left out in the rain. Her wrists are raw where the irons have rubbed her skin. A faint shimmer clings to her, like the last breath of a spell gone cold.
Her eyes—when they finally lift—are huge, luminous, and full of terror.
Bunny ears, drooping.
The Greasy Slave Trader taps the bars with one thick finger, voice syrup-slick.
“Here’s the one. Name’s… irrelevant. Cheap, soft, and eager to please. Not much use in a fight—but give her time, and she might grow into something… if she survives.”
“But—” he tilts his head, watching me watch her “—there’s something in her. A little flicker. Priest blood, maybe. Or… something purer. You’ve got a good eye, eh? You see it, right?”
He winks. Baiting me.
The HUD flickers faintly.
[Tier 1 | Level 1 | Class: Priest]
Raka growls low in her throat.
As he speaks, the bond between us hums with rising anger. Kit leans close, whispering in my ear, her voice like a blade sliding free.
“She’s dying in there, Master.”
Raka’s golden eyes fix on the girl, then flick to me. Her voice is low. Final.
“She won’t survive this place.”
I take a slow breath, forcing the heat down, burying it under something colder—even as I catch the desperation in the demi-human’s eyes.
“Trader… we don’t have time for an inexperienced healer. I need someone higher tier. You must have better stock.”
I hate the way I sound—but I have to. At Tier 4, the Greasy Slave Trader could crush us with a thought. To him, this is just business.
I deliver the line like cold steel.
The greasy trader reacts exactly as I expected.
The rotund man stops mid-waddle, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes gleam sharp and calculating—just for a heartbeat.
“Ah… but that costs coin, Master Locke.” He taps the iron bars, the hollow sound echoing through the tent. “…I see where your head’s at. You want someone who can pull their weight today, not next winter.”
He sighs dramatically, wiping his sweaty brow with a silken rag that’s seen better days.
“Higher-level stock is… rare. And rare means coin. And coin means…” He rubs two sausage-thick fingers together, smirking. “…commitment. You ready for that kind of commitment?”
Kit moves subtly closer to me, her voice a low thread of irritation through the bond.
“He’s testing you. Wants you to need him. Don’t give him that satisfaction, Master.”
On my other side, Raka’s rumble is darker.
“Commitment. He means your gold… or your soul.”
The bond thrums with their heat—
—but I stay ice steady.
The trader continues, waddling toward a far section of the tent, ropes of incense smoke curling through the gloom like ghosts. His voice drips with false sympathy.
“As I said, most healers don’t live long. Gobbled up by parties who run them ragged. But…”
He stops before a different cage, one shrouded in black cloth that glimmers faintly in the lantern light.
“…I might have someone for you. She’s… not cheap. And she’s… complicated.”
The trader grips the edge of the black cloth and yanks it free in one smooth motion. The air shifts with it.
Inside the cage, The Tiefling doesn’t shrink back or flinch. She lounges as if the space belongs to her—crimson skin catching the lanternlight, horns sweeping back from her brow, dark hair falling in loose, tangled waves. Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk as her eyes lift to meet mine, not afraid, not pleading—interested.
She tilts her head slightly, studying me with open, unapologetic intent.
“If you think you can control me, mortal…” her voice softens just a touch, smooth and coaxing, “I can be… very useful.”
The bond reacts instantly—not with fear, but tension. A flicker of heat rolls through it, sharp and immediate.
Kit stiffens at my side, her tail snapping once before going still. Her voice cuts through the bond, tight and edged. “She’s trouble.”
On my other side, Raka goes still—completely still. No growl, just a low, measured presence through the bond—instinctive, watchful.
“Dangerous… but strong,” she murmurs after a moment.
The HUD flickers faintly at the edge of my vision:
[Level 8 | Class: Warlock]
“See?” the trader says, almost smug now. “I deliver. This one’s fresh. From the wilds. Fought like a devil when they brought her in—broke three men’s jaws before the collar went on.”
“Exotic. Fiery. Dangerous. Men pay kingdoms for a taste of her power.”
“Not a healer, not really… but she’ll keep you alive in ways that matter.”
He grins, tapping the glowing sigil etched into the iron band at her throat.
“But don’t worry…”
The light pulses once.
“…she’s tame now.”
The Tiefling’s smile doesn’t falter, but something sharper slips into her eyes.
“Tame?…” she breathes, a soft, almost amused sound. “…hardly.”
“I have coin, trader. What else do you have? Where’s your special stock—the kind I’ve come to expect?”
The words taste wrong in my mouth. Flattery—even when it makes me sick.
The greasy trader’s smile stretches wide—too wide. He pats his belly like I’ve just told him the filthiest joke in the world.
“Hah! Now that’s the tone I like to hear. You talk like a man who understands the finer things in life.”
He waggles a ring-laden hand, and two guards step aside, revealing a heavier curtain draped in scarlet and gold.
“Special stock, eh? You don’t come to me for scraps—no. You come to me for the kind of quality that makes parties work.”
He waddles forward. Beyond him, rows of cages line the space—but these are different. Polished iron. Plush cushions. The women inside sit straighter, their collars etched with runes that gleam like jewelry instead of shackles. Every one of them radiates something—power, poise… or raw, dangerous beauty.
Kit’s nails bite into my arm, through the bond, her voice tight and dark.
“Special stock. Disgusting. He preens like a vulture showing off jewels ripped from corpses.”
On my other side, Raka’s tone runs lower, something darker simmering beneath it.
“He parades them like meat.” A pause, her breath slow and controlled. “…I want to rip his throat out.”
I push calm through the bond—control, patience. Not here. Not yet. This is for her.
The trader gestures toward a cage further back, his grin slick as oil.
“I think this one will satisfy your needs.”
She’s kneeling—but not like the others. Not folded in on herself. Held there by the collar at her throat, yes, but upright, shoulders set, spine straight. Silver-white hair falls in tangled braids that catch the torchlight like frost, and her skin holds that same pale, glasslike sheen. When the runes along her collar pulse faintly, her eyes answer—soft lavender, steady and aware. An elven woman.
Her robe is worn thin, ceremonial once, still carrying a quiet elegance that hasn’t quite been beaten out of it. Not a slave’s garment. Something older. Something earned.
She lifts her gaze to meet mine. No fear. No pleading. Just a calm, measured presence that refuses to bend. The collar hums once, tightening just enough to remind—but she doesn’t bow with it.
“You think you own me?” she says softly glancing at the Greasy Slave Trader, voice quiet—but cutting clean through the space between us. A breath. “You think anyone ever could?”
The bond shifts—no heat, no tension like before. Something steadier. Kit stills at my side, her earlier edge fading into something quieter. “…she’s not like the others,” she murmurs.
Raka leans forward slightly, golden eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but recognition. “She stands,” she says slowly. “Even on her knees… she stands.”
The HUD flickers faintly at the edge of my vision:
[Level 13 | Class: Cleric]
The trader spreads his hands, pleased. “Power. Poise. Discipline. This one heals, protects, and doesn’t break easily.” His grin sharpens.
“Of course… quality like this doesn’t come cheap.”
His eyes flick to mine.
“…and as you well know with your arrangement…”
“…she can be owned.”
That last line cuts deeply to my core—but I don’t let it show. I can’t.
“Dealer,” I say evenly, “bring them out. All three of them. I’ll make my choice.”
We wait while they’re gathered. Refreshments are offered—then promptly refused.
The Greasy Slave Trader presents, “Three for your inspection, as requested. Healers all … in different flavors.”
Three cages. Three girls on a low wooden platform—a sort of display ring. He smirks, tipping his head at me.
“Take your time, Master Locke. Just don’t break the merchandise before coin crosses my hand.”
My jaw tightens, but I let it pass.
Three cages stood before me. Three very different choices.
One of them would walk out with me.
I just had to decide which future I was willing to accept.