The gallows creaked as a dozen slavers met their end, their lifeless forms swaying in the morning breeze. Below, the crowd stood in solemn silence, not a single voice raised in pity. The former slaves among them glared with unmasked loathing, their hearts burning with a desire for every last slaver to be eradicated from existence. The air was heavy with the weight of justice served, the faint metallic scent of blood lingering faintly from the night's earlier chaos.
Lucas gazed down at the sea of faces, noting the children covering their eyes, their small hands trembling. His dark eyes flickered with a mix of resolve and contemplation. Turning to Mina, he spoke in a low, firm voice, "Send a team to bury these slavers outside the city. Find a spot, and erect a stone marker. Carve their crimes—'slavers'—into it for all to see."
He wanted the message to be clear: Sedona City was no place for slavers. While he couldn't yet control what happened beyond his borders, and though this era might treat slavery as commonplace, he would not allow his people to be chained. The marker would stand as a grim warning to any who dared bring such evil to his city.
"Yes, master," Mina replied with a respectful nod, immediately signaling a group of patrol officers to begin the grim task of removing the bodies.
"Let's go. We're heading to the tattoo shop," Lucas said, sweeping his sleeve as he descended the platform. Flanked by the War Wolf squad, he strode toward the commercial district, his steps purposeful, his mind already turning to the next task.
The crowd parted like a tide, forming a clear path for their lord. Their eyes, filled with awe, gratitude, and reverence, followed him. As he passed, heads bowed low, a silent gesture of respect for the man who had given them hope and security. The cobblestone street gleamed under the morning sun, and the distant hum of the city—vendors calling, carts rattling—seemed to hush in his presence.
The tattoo shop stood proudly beside the Guard Division, its sign adorned with a pair of wings, a symbol of freedom and a beacon for those seeking to shed the scars of their past. The building itself was modest, its stone facade weathered but clean, with a freshly painted sign that seemed to glow in the sunlight.
Tap tap tap…
Lucas led Mina, Ayesha, and Amelia, escorted by the War Wolf squad, to the shop's entrance. Behind them trailed a large group, mostly beastkin—former slaves now free citizens, their eyes alight with hope. They had come to witness the transformation Lucas had promised, to see the slave brands that marked their shame erased.
He glanced at Ayesha, the horned girl at his side, and resolved to personally oversee her tattoo, ensuring it was done right. He also intended to train the shop's staff in the art of tattooing, emphasizing the critical need for hygiene to prevent infections. A single mistake could turn a symbol of freedom into a source of suffering.
"Allow a few people inside. Keep the rest out," Lucas instructed Chris, the War Wolf squad leader.
"Yes, my lord," Chris replied, directing his team to guard the entrance and admit only a handful of civilians at a time.
Stepping through the shop's door, Lucas was greeted by a simple wooden counter where a young woman sat. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and she scrambled to her feet, bowing deeply. "City Lord!"
"Where's Bruce?" Lucas asked, scanning the room. The shop was sparsely furnished, with clean wooden floors and a faint smell of ink and antiseptic.
Bruce was a man Lucas had once operated on, a soldier who had spent months recovering from his injuries. Unable to return to active duty, he'd been reassigned to manage the Guard Division's prison, where he diligently learned to read and write. Now, Lucas had appointed him manager of the tattoo shop—a new role for a man eager to prove himself.
"The manager's upstairs practicing," The receptionist replied quickly, gesturing toward a staircase at the back.
"Good. Let's go," Lucas said, striding toward the stairs. The shop had been opened on short notice, spurred by Ayesha's situation. Without her ordeal, Lucas might not have thought to establish it so soon. The staff, including Bruce, were novices, learning the craft from scratch using instructions Lucas had provided.
Tap tap tap…
Ascending to the second floor, Lucas entered a spacious hall where Bruce sat hunched over a table, engrossed in his work. The man was jabbing a tattoo needle into his own arm, his face creased with concentration. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, startled, and sprang to his feet, offering a crisp military salute. "City Lord!"
Lucas nodded, his eyes drifting to Bruce's arm, which was covered in a chaotic array of poorly drawn patterns—crooked lines and misshapen shapes that looked more like scribbles than art. "You're practicing on your own arm?" He asked, his lips twitching with suppressed amusement. Hadn't he explicitly instructed Bruce to use pigskin for practice?
Bruce glanced at his arm, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Uh… my hands are clumsy, my lord. I used up all the pigskin."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, noting the bloodshot streaks in Bruce's eyes. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"
Bruce scratched his head, embarrassed. "I lost track of time. By the time I ran out of pigskin, it was already morning."
Lucas sighed, a mix of exasperation and fondness in his expression. "Today, I'll teach you how to draw patterns and tattoo properly," He said, his gaze lingering on a particularly plump, lopsided wing etched into Bruce's arm. A chuckle escaped him despite himself.
"Yes, my lord!" Bruce replied eagerly, stepping aside to make room.
Lucas settled into the chair, gesturing for Ayesha to sit beside him. He glanced at the handful of civilians who had followed them upstairs, their eyes wide with curiosity. "Come closer and watch," He called, his voice carrying an inviting authority.
"Yes, my lord!" The civilians responded, their voices tinged with excitement as they shuffled forward, eager to witness the process.
Mina stood nearby, her hand hidden beneath her sleeve, gripping her dagger. Her sharp eyes never left the civilians, her body tense with vigilance, ready to act at the slightest hint of danger.
"First, you need to sketch the design," Lucas explained, gently taking Ayesha's hand and rolling up her sleeve. Her arm was smooth and pale, the skin soft as silk under his touch, marred only by the cruel slave brand. "Draw the pattern you want to tattoo."
"Yes, my lord," Bruce said, scribbling notes on a piece of paper with a quill, his focus intense.
Lucas picked up a round-tipped pen from a wooden box on the table and began sketching on Ayesha's arm, carefully tracing over the slave brand. He drew a pair of delicate wings, their lines graceful and flowing, completely covering the ugly mark. While his artistic skills were modest, they far surpassed Bruce's clumsy attempts, and the design took shape with a quiet elegance.
Ayesha's cheeks flushed a soft pink, her purple eyes fixed on Lucas's focused expression. His seriousness was captivating, and she found herself entranced, her heart fluttering. They say a man is most handsome when he's focused, she thought, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
"Done," Lucas announced, setting down the pen and inspecting his work. The wings perfectly concealed the slave brand, transforming it into a symbol of freedom. He looked up at Ayesha, his eyes warm. "What do you think? Does it look good?"
Ayesha tilted her head, her eyes curving into crescents as she smiled. "It's beautiful," She said softly, her voice filled with genuine delight. The wings seemed to shimmer with meaning, a promise of a new beginning.
"Good," Lucas said, his smile softening. He reached into the wooden box and retrieved a specialized tattoo needle, noticing Ayesha's hand tremble slightly. "It'll sting a little, but just bear with it," He reassured her gently.
"Mhm," Ayesha murmured, biting her lip with determination.
"Before you begin, always sterilize the needle," Lucas said, his tone turning serious as he addressed Bruce and the onlookers. "Boil it in hot water, then clean it with disinfectant alcohol. The skin has two layers: the outer epidermis, which regenerates quickly, and the deeper dermis, which doesn't. The tattoo pigment is injected through the epidermis into the dermis, where it stays permanently."
Bruce froze, his quill hovering over the paper, his brow furrowed in confusion. Two layers of skin? The concept was foreign to him, and he stared at his own hand as if trying to see through it.
"Hold still," Lucas said softly to Ayesha, his voice soothing. He began tattooing, his movements deliberate and gentle, the needle piercing her skin with care.
The onlookers held their breath, their eyes glued to Lucas's hands. As the wings on Ayesha's arm grew more defined, their breathing grew heavier, their faces alight with awe and anticipation. The transformation unfolding before them was more than ink on skin—it was a reclamation of freedom, a defiance of their past.
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