I've gotten used to the stench. The foul mix of piss, sweat, and rot clung to the air, thick enough to taste. The cell walls were damp, the straw reeked of mold, and the iron bars held the kind of chill that seeped into your bones.

  This place was built for children, people who have nowhere to go. Not to keep them safe—no, that would be too kind. It was a holding pen. A market. They took us in chains, lined us up like cattle, and sold us to the highest bidder. Some became workers, slaving away until their lungs gave out. Others—well, their fates weren’t much better. When one of us died, they didn’t mourn. They didn’t even pause. They just bought another.

  And it wasn’t just children. Half-breeds, the ones with animal blood, were dragged in too. Some still fought when they were taken. Others had already learned the truth—resistance only made it worse.

  This was normal here. Accepted. Expected. The history books claimed the first conqueror of the Black Iron Empire outlawed slavery, that he ruled with an iron hand and no tolerance for corruption. If that was ever true, it didn’t matter now. The devils had won. The empire was theirs.

  Beside me, a boy—about several years younger—sat curled against the wall. He was new. Fresh meat. He hadn’t been here long, but starvation had already carved deep hollows into his cheeks. He looked like a walking corpse, his ribs pressing sharp against his skin.

  I knew that look. I’d seen it before.

  Despair.

  The kind that settled in your bones when you realized no one was coming to save you.

  Maybe he was still holding on to hope. Maybe he thought someone out there would care enough to tear this place down brick by brick. I almost envied that kind of delusion. But I knew better.

  This world didn’t care about the weak. It chewed them up, spat them out, and moved on. If you wanted to live, you endured. Simple as that.

  The cell was small. Cramped. Four of us barely fit, and when the slave operator felt particularly cruel, he’d shove in eight. No room to stretch, no space to breathe. This was where we pissed, where we slept, where we ate—when they bothered to feed us.

  They had to, of course. A buyer wouldn’t waste coin on something half-dead. We weren’t people to them. Just stock.

  “That one’s not gonna last,” Rook muttered beside me. He was another prisoner, a scrawny kid with an authoritative voice tone and an empty stare. His skin was pale and sickly, covered in old bruises and lash marks. A dark gray eyes and an ash-brown hair, unkempt, always falling into his eyes. And his most notable feature, a deep scar across his neck. He nodded toward the boy curled in the corner, his ribs showing, his skin gray with sickness. “Think so too, Galt?”

  I didn’t answer. Just exhaled, slow and steady, then pushed myself up. My legs tingled from sitting too long, the dirt beneath me dry and packed hard. When I moved, the outline of my body stayed imprinted in the filth. How long had I been sitting there? Too long.

  Then came the sound.

  Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.

  Every breath in the cell stilled. We knew that sound. Knew it too well.

  The slave operator.

  He only came down here for four reasons—to toss us stale bread, to remind us we were filth, to put another slave inside, or to drag one of us off for the auction block.

  "Wake up. We’ve got customers incoming."

  His voice cut through the stale, suffocating air, thick with years of smoke and liquor. Gravelly and hoarse, I’d heard it too many times, memorized the face behind it. If I ever got the chance, I'd carve that face off his skull and walk out of this hell myself.

  A white beard, patchy and unkempt. Balding scalp shining under the dim light. Bloated gut sagging over his belt, probably from years of drowning himself in cheap booze.

  Around me, the others stirred. Coughing. Groaning. Some still dead to the world, only to be shaken awake by the more desperate ones. They knew better than to ignore him. If one of us didn't get up, we all paid for it.

  "Three," he grunted. "Three of you get a shot at the auction this week. One of you might even see daylight again."

  I barely heard the rest. My attention flicked to the kid I’d been watching earlier. His coughing had gotten worse—deep, hacking bursts that shook his frail frame. Each one rattled in his chest. His ribs jutted out under paper-thin skin, and his hands were more bone than flesh. Veins bulging. Lips cracked. Mucus smeared across his nose.

  Huff.

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  Huff.

  Every breath looked like it might be his last.

  The bastard in charge finally looked his way. I followed his gaze, tense. Was that pity in his eyes? No. I knew better. Years of this place had taught me exactly what that twitch of his brow meant. Disgust. Contempt.

  And then—an almost amused scoff.

  I nearly opened my mouth, nearly did something reckless. Maybe if I spoke, I could pull his attention away, keep the kid from whatever came next. But then I stayed put.

  "You little sick—" He grimaced. "Come on."

  The cell door groaned open. Not ours.

  The bastard grabbed the kid by the arm and yanked him to his feet. He barely reacted—too weak to fight back, too sick to do anything but stumble forward. The man hauled him toward another cell. Empty, except for the bones.

  "Here. Stay there. Unless you stop coughing, you ain't getting out."

  The kid didn't respond. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. Even nodding looked impossible.

  The man didn’t care. He turned back to us, stepping toward our cell next. Metal screeched as the door swung open, and for a moment, the air shifted. Tension. Hope. Dread. All mixed together.

  He grabbed three of the others, dragging them out. Their eyes flickered with something that almost looked like relief. A chance—however slim—to breathe fresh air again. To see sunlight.

  Then he turned to me and Rook, still sitting in the dark.

  "Unlucky," he muttered. "Customers want younger ones. Guess the older ones bother 'em lately. No idea why." He chuckled to himself, like it was some inside joke only he understood.

  Then he left, the three behind him following in stiff, nervous silence. Their expressions were a mess—half-smiles, half-terror. They knew what this meant. One of them might get out. The other two? Back here. Left to rot until someone decided they were worth something.

  Rook let out a breath beside me. “That bald bastard.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll never get used to that smirk of his.”

  I glanced at him, giving a small smirk of my own. Not because I found it funny, but because it was the closest thing to agreement I could manage. That’s when I noticed it—how different he looked. Older. Worn down. His face had that hollowed-out look, like a man twice his age.

  Then again, I probably wasn’t much better.

  I didn’t bother saying anything. He wouldn’t care, and I didn’t see the point. Instead, I looked back at the kid, slumped in the empty cell.

  ??

  Days passed.

  One of the slaves got bought by a merchant. The other two weren’t as lucky. They were shoved right back in here with the rest of us, left to rot in this piss-stained hole.

  I never thought I’d end up a slave.

  Back then, I was just a kid. No parents. No one looking out for me. I walked the streets without a care, no idea how the world worked. Never crossed my mind that someone could snatch me off the road and sell me like cattle.

  I wasn’t the only one. Some of the others here probably had it the same way. A few were kidnapped. A few… were sold off by their own families.

  Like Rook.

  His father had debts. Couldn’t pay them. So he handed over his own son to settle it.

  They still took a piece of him anyway. The old man lost a hand for being short.

  When Rook told me that, I realized something.

  That people are really rotten to the core.

  Days blurred together. The cycle continued. More slaves bought. More slaves thrown in. And we were still here.

  Nothing changed. Not the stench choking the air. Not the damp rot clinging to the walls. Not the hopeless, hollow stares. The only thing that ever shifted was the weight of despair pressing down on everyone’s shoulders. Some slumped against the walls, backs bent, eyes vacant. Others whispered, muttered—anything to distract themselves. A few fought, clawing at each other like animals, desperate to feel something.

  I didn’t flinch at any of it. Didn’t feel disgusted. At some point, I stopped questioning whether this was temporary. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was all life had left for me—a number on a ledger, a body in a cell.

  Then came the footsteps.

  The usual operator, but he wasn’t alone this time. The murmurs in the cell quieted as the door groaned open, torchlight spilling into the suffocating dark. A man stepped in, cloaked in black. Long hair, strands falling loose over his forehead. He carried a lamp, its glow stabbing through the gloom, forcing our aching eyes to adjust.

  The operator barely looked up. "Pick whoever you want. Go on."

  The cloaked man moved the lamp closer, scanning the room. His voice was low, steady. "They all look sick." A pause. Then his eyes landed on the boy curled up in the corner. "That one. Is he dead?"

  "Not yet," the operator grunted. "But he’s not for sale this time. Kid’s barely breathing. I’ll be tossing him soon anyway."

  The man ignored that, shifting his attention to the rest of us. His hand lifted, gesturing toward the cells. "This batch—available?"

  The operator sat at the barrel in front of the cell. “that's right, you could take a clearer look at them, they won't bite.” he said.

  "As long as they're available," the cloaked man said.

  The operator blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "I'll take everyone in this cell."

  For a second, nobody reacted. It had to be a joke. A bad one. Nobody bought an entire cell—hell, most barely had the coin to buy one or two at a time. And this guy? He didn’t have the look of a noble, not even close. If anything, he looked more like a beggar, but his voice? Steady. Clear. No hesitation. He wasn’t joking.

  Who was this man? How did he plan to get us out of here? Did he have that kind of money? Or was he working for someone who did?

  The operator lazily picked at his ear with his pinky. "Did I hear that right, mister?"

  "You did." The cloaked man didn’t waver. "Of course, I expect a fair price. Considering I'm taking all of them."

  That got a reaction. The bodies strewn across the cell stirred, eyes flickering with something dangerously close to hope. They’d heard it too. Seen what I’d seen. Even Rook—who hadn’t so much as twitched for hours—had gone stiff, his hand pressing against his chest like he was making sure his heart was still beating.

  He reached out, tapping my shoulder, his fingers ice-cold.

  The operator, still frozen in place, suddenly let out a nervous little laugh. "Ah—oh! So you're serious?" The confusion melted off his face, replaced with something sharper. Hungrier. Excitement.

  Because if this man was serious, he was about to make a fortune.

  If I had to describe the feeling crawling up my spine, it was this: the cloaked man radiated something strange. Not power, not exactly, but a presence—an energy that made the air feel heavier. I had no idea why he was buying an entire cell of slaves. Maybe he was starting a business. Maybe he needed cheap labor. But he didn’t look like a merchant.

  The operator moved fast, almost tripping over himself to grab the keys. He hesitated for a split second, casting one last glance at the cloaked man before shoving a key into the lock. The heavy door groaned as it swung open.

  I watched the keys jingle in his hands. The same set I’d spent years dreaming of stealing. Planning my escape.

  "Ah, mister, this is—" The operator paused, his excitement barely contained. "To be honest, my first time handling a bulk order!" He actually clapped his hands together, practically vibrating. A few slaves shuffled forward, cautious, unsure if this was real. The rest of us followed, falling into line.

  "And it might be your last," the cloaked man said flatly.

  The operator’s face twitched. "How so?"

  Seven of us stood there—two beastmen, the rest human. Filthy, reeking, bones barely holding us together. Yet, despite the stench of piss and sweat, there was something in their faces once again. A spark. A dangerous thing in a place like this.

  Hope.

  "Oh," the cloaked man murmured, tilting his head. "News hasn’t reached this far, huh?"

  The operator wiped his brow, feigning indifference. "Been too busy to keep up. What’s this about?"

  The man took a slow step forward. Then another. The only sound was his boots grinding against dirt, the weight of each step deliberate, unhurried. He stopped by the operator’s barrel, resting a gloved hand on it.

  "It just broke out," he said. "But I’d suggest relocating." He let the words sink in before continuing. "Rumors say an unknown organization is wiping out criminal enterprises. And if your boss comes back to find this place in ashes?"

  The operator swallowed hard.

  "Let’s just say," the cloaked man murmured, "he won’t be happy."