The marketplace buzzed with activity. Vendors hawked their wares from stalls that lined the muddy streets.
Ryan surveyed the scene, taking in the food, drink, textiles, and even the slave traders shouting their prices.
"Slaves! Two gold coins for a healthy one!"
A trader beckoned to him. "Interested, sir?"
Ryan eyed the caged men, mostly muscular laborers. Slavery was rare here; most commoners were serfs bound to nobles, technically "employed" rather than owned. Only prisoners of war without ransom faced true enslavement.
"Useless to me," he thought. Without land, slaves were just mouths to feed. Their only value would be as sacrifices, but ordinary humans offered negligible returns. Not worth the effort.
He moved on to a horse trader. "What are your prices?"
"Fifteen gold for a nag, forty for a warhorse."
Ryan whistled. A basic horse cost more than two cows combined.
"How many do you have?"
"Fifteen in total—ten nags and five warhorses."
"Perfect," Ryan nodded. "I'll take them all. But I'll barter, not pay in gold."
The trader's eyebrows shot up. "Barter? Depends on what you're offering."
Ryan produced an ornate wooden box, wound its spring, and released a tinkling melody. Tiny figures danced inside. The trader's jaw dropped.
"A music box," Ryan said. "From a distant empire. This is for your stock."
The man snatched it before Ryan could blink. "Done!" He fled, undoubtedly imagining the fortune he would get reselling it to a noble.
Fool, Ryan smirked. Modern trinkets were dirt cheap back home. He'd bought crates of them for pennies.
Ryan repeated the process across the market, swapping gadgets for every available horse. Then, in a secluded spot, he raised his hand.
"Sacrifice."
Light flashed. The horses vanished. In his palm lay a black whistle.
Odd. He blew it.
The note hung in the air as the dark mist coalesced. A thunderous neigh echoed, and from the fog emerged a steed of nightmares—jet black and armored in obsidian plates. It stood a full head taller than Ryan. Its eyes burned crimson, and a razor-sharp horn crowned its skull.
Ryan grinned. This was no ordinary horse. It radiated battle hunger, the kind that would trample lesser horses into paste.
"Neigh!" It knelt, bowing its massive head.
Ryan stroked its armored flank, admiration blooming. Men loved two things: vehicles to drive and beasts to ride. This was both.
"You're darkness made flesh," he mused. "I'll call you Duskstrider."
Mounting up, he nudged the reins gently. Duskstrider surged forward as if reading his mind. The wind roared in Ryan's ears as they tore through the countryside—rider and demon steed, perfectly matched.
---!