Arthur adjusted the straps of the cart, the weight of hides, herbs, and assorted byproducts piled high behind him. The goblins followed in a loose formation, three of the younger ones shouldering bundles of firewood with surprising discipline. When they reached the city gates, the guards gave him wary glances—as always, the sight of goblins so obedient stirred unease—but no one dared to stop him.
The familiar smell of the marketplace washed over him: roasted meats, sweat, iron, and coin. He guided the cart toward the merchant's stall, the same one he had dealt with for months now.
"Arthur!" The stout merchant's eyes widened, and his round face split into a grin as he hurried forward. "By the gods, your yield again—look at this! Furs thick as winter pelts, roots fat and healthy, tinctures with more potency than I've seen from anyone else in the region."
Arthur crossed his arms, face impassive. "So the trade will be good, then?"
"Good?" The merchant laughed, already calling over assistants to weigh and stack the goods. "Better than good. Whatever you're doing out there, your land must be blessed. Soil that fertile, beasts that bountiful… it's unnatural, I tell you. But unnatural in the way every man in this city dreams of." He lowered his voice, leaning closer. "If word spread, you'd have nobles clawing at each other to own a share of your farm."
Arthur's mouth tightened. He didn't respond, but his thoughts flickered darkly to the truth—the grotesque engine driving that "fertility." Merlin, in the stables, swollen and radiant with devotion, her body turned into a vessel for his summoned goblins.
The merchant clapped his shoulder, oblivious. "Keep this up, lad, and you'll be the richest man in the province. Your farm's no ordinary patch of dirt—it's a treasure mine, more fertile with every passing week."
Arthur forced a short nod, accepted the heavy pouch of coin, and turned back to his goblins. Their yellow eyes gleamed, waiting for orders.
But as he walked away, a thought whispered in his skull, unshakable: More fertile every week…
He wondered, grimly, if even the merchant could imagine just how literal those words were.
Arthur slowed his pace as he made his way through the bustling streets. The noise of the market was thick—hawkers shouting prices, animals bleating, children weaving between stalls. Then his ears caught a different sound: the metallic clang of chains, the harsh bark of a slaver advertising his wares.
Arthur's gaze slid toward the source. A wide wooden platform stood against the plaza wall, and on it, a line of men and women knelt, wrists bound, collars clasped tight around their throats. Some had eyes glazed over, resigned; others glared defiantly, though they had no strength left to resist.
The slaver, a wiry man with a cruel grin, called out over the crowd:
"Strong backs for your fields! Delicate hands for your homes! And for those with particular tastes—we have the exotic, the unusual. Pay well, and you'll own them before sundown!"
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He had heard of the slave trade in the city, but seeing it with his own eyes pressed a strange weight in his chest. He noticed the details: the whip hanging from the slaver's belt, the way the iron collars gleamed like trophies, the way some of the bidders in the crowd licked their lips with greed.
The goblins clustered behind him shifted restlessly, their guttural breaths drawing stares. One child tugged at his mother's skirt, pointing, "Mama, look—monsters!" The woman yanked the child back, whispering fiercely.
Arthur ignored them. His gaze drifted back to the slaves. Some looked sturdy enough to swing a weapon, others weak but still alive—bodies that could be reshaped, used, repurposed. A dangerous thought pricked at the edges of his mind.
If goblins could be bred and bound to his summon… what of humans? What of slaves? Could they be bent to the same will?
The merchant's earlier words echoed in his head: Your farm's no ordinary patch of dirt—it's a treasure mine, more fertile with every passing week.
Arthur's jaw tightened. His hand hovered over the coin pouch at his belt, heavier now after the morning's trade.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the platform, imagining possibilities.
And then came the shift in tone from the slaver. His voice dropped low, heavy with theatrical secrecy. "For discerning gentlemen… rarities!" He pulled away a thick canvas cloth covering the back half of the platform.
Gasps rolled through the gathered crowd like wind through dry grass.
There she was.
A moogirl, kneeling in submission, wrists bound before her body. Her skin bore the kiss of the sun, warm and golden over muscle and curve. Her hips were wide, her chest full — a body sculpted for labor and milk. Two short, curved horns rose from her head, polished to a faint gleam. A thin, furred tail swayed gently from the base of her spine, a final mark of her breed. Her eyes, large and strangely gentle, held no defiance — only a quiet, wounded calm.
She was valuable in every way—beast of labor, of milk, and of breeding.
"Twenty thousand bronze for the cattle-girl!" the slaver roared, spreading his arms as if unveiling a treasure. "Gentle, fertile, strong! She'll plow your fields, feed your house with milk, and warm your bed through the night! Don't waste the chance—her kind sells quick, and you won't see another this season!"
Arthur felt something shift in him. He had heard of moogirls, though only in passing—docile, steady, naturally compliant, unlike the warped and corrupted creatures sold in underground arenas.
She was not only legitimate stock, sanctioned by guild and crown, but highly prized. Owning one was a mark of wealth, of foresight, of someone building not just survival but legacy.
His gaze lingered longer than he intended. His thoughts sharpened into lines of calculation. With her, the farm would not only sustain, it would grow.
Milk could be sold at market, fresh and in demand.
Her strength could turn the soil, haul the loads, free the goblins from the heaviest work.
And her presence in his home—warm, soft, steady—would ward off the cold solitude of nights that stretched empty and long.
His mind tallied the coin. Ten thousand bronze earned over three months of grueling labor. Twenty thousand for her—impossible. Yet as he stood there, the slaver's grin widened, his eyes reading the hunger behind Arthur's measured stare.
"For you, lad," the man crooned, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, "half. Ten thousand. A discount to mark friendship. I see the steel in you, the future. Men like you are the buyers I want."
Arthur's heartbeat thudded slow and heavy. Ten thousand—the whole pouch at his belt, the fruit of three months of work. Enough to keep him and his farm secure for nearly two years if spent carefully. Enough to change everything if spent here.
His fingers tightened around the leather pouch. He thought of Merlin, of the goblins, of the grotesque fertility of his soil, and of how this single purchase could anchor it all—legitimacy, growth, a future.
The crowd pressed in, waiting. The slaver leaned forward, whip coiled at his hip, eyes gleaming.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, a long, steady breath. Then he pulled the pouch free and let the weight of ten thousand bronze drop into the man's greedy palms.
"Done," the slaver crowed. He snapped the lock free, chains clattering, and shoved the moogirl forward. She stumbled, then caught herself, her eyes wide and shimmering.
Without hesitation, she pressed into Arthur's chest, soft and warm. Her breath trembled against his shirt, and a plaintive, almost childlike murmur slipped from her lips.
"Muuuuh…"
Arthur steadied her with one hand, the other still loose at his side. His thoughts burned and spun. Milk. Labor. Warmth. A companion who could transform solitude into something livable. A resource that multiplied itself.
The farm grows, he thought, and for the first time in weeks, a faint flicker of something like hope touched his otherwise expressionless eyes.