The path down into the canyon was less a trail and more a treacherous slide of loose shale and stubborn, thorny brush. Seraphine's people moved with a practiced, silent efficiency, offering no help as Kai and Roric stumbled in their wake. The air grew heavy with the smell of damp stone and woodsmoke, and the sound of rushing water grew from a whisper to a roar.
They rounded a final, massive boulder, and the outpost was revealed.
It was not a camp. It was a fortress carved by desperation into the very bones of the earth. A series of natural caves dotted the canyon wall, their entrances reinforced with rough-cut timber and iron bars. A narrow, turbulent river cut through the center of the canyon floor, its banks churned to mud by countless footsteps.
But it was the pens that stole the breath from Kai's lungs.
Cages of lashed-together wood and rusted iron dotted a cleared area near the river. Inside, figures huddled—some silent and resigned, others staring out with hollow eyes. A group of new arrivals, their clothes even more ragged than Kai's, were being prodded by grim-faced guards toward an empty enclosure. The clang of a lock snapping shut echoed sharply against the stone walls.
Roric let out a low whistle, devoid of its usual humor. "Charming place, but I think I prefer the Captain's hospitality. At least his cell had a certain… architectural integrity."
Their escort, a burly woman with a network of scars across her arms, shoved Roric forward. "Move. You're not guests on a tour."
They were led not to a cave, not to a leader for questioning, but directly toward the pens. The reality of their situation crystallized with every step. They were not being saved. They had been collected.
As they passed a larger cage, a man with the build of a blacksmith rattled the bars, his voice a raw plea. "Please! My family… they'll starve!"
A guard slammed the butt of his spear against the bars, making the man flinch back into the shadows. "You should've thought of that before you couldn't pay your taxes."
Seraphine stood near the center of the outpost, conferring with a haggard man clutching a wax tablet. She glanced up as Kai and Roric were paraded past. Her gaze was not one of curiosity or recognition. It was the swift, assessing glance of a rancher inspecting newly acquired livestock. She noted Kai's height, Roric's alert eyes, and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the man with the tablet before turning away.
The gate to a half-empty pen was swung open. A shove between the shoulder blades sent Kai stumbling inside, Roric following right behind. The gate slammed shut, the iron bolt crashing down with a sound of finality.
Kai gripped the rough-hewn wood of the bars, his knuckles white. He watched Seraphine's retreating back, the strange pull in his chest now a sickening knot of betrayal. This was the woman whose mere presence had stirred echoes of a forgotten past. And she had just sold them into a cage.
"Well, the service has certainly gone downhill," Roric muttered, slumping against the bars. "First a private cell, now it's communal living. I want to speak to the boss."`
Kai didn't respond. His mind was a shattered mosaic—a graveyard, the cold bite of manacles, the Captain's icy glare, the search for a runestone. And now, the splintered wood of a cage under his white-knuckled grip.
"Please spare us. Please spare us." The people caged kept chanting until an arrow went flying into one of the pens and pierced through an elderly man's leg.
The arrow's thwip was followed by a moment of stunned silence, then a scream tore through the canyon.
"AAAGH!" The elderly man collapsed, clutching his leg where the black-fletched arrow stood quivering.
The chanting died instantly, replaced by whimpers of terror. On a wooden platform above the pens, a guard casually nocked another arrow. "The next one goes through a throat!" he bellowed. "The next word any of you speak will be your last! You are not people here. You are product. And damaged goods get thrown in the river!"
The message was clear. Hope was a luxury that got you killed. Survival meant silence and obedience.
In the ensuing silence, broken only by the old man's ragged sobs and the rush of the river, Kai finally understood. This was the true face of the world he had been reborn into. It wasn't about kingdoms or tyrants. It was about cages. And the only way out was to become more dangerous than the guards.
The silence lasted for hours, stretching through the afternoon. Just as the sun began to dip below the canyon rim, casting long, distorted shadows across the pens, a horn sounded from the pass—two short, bleating notes.
A ripple of activity went through the outpost. Guards straightened. Seraphine emerged from her cave, her face a mask of cool readiness. She was followed by her lieutenant and the man with the wax tablet. But they didn't wait for the traders at the pens. Instead, they moved up the path to a flat, rocky clearing just outside the canyon entrance—a neutral meeting ground.
Through the narrow pass, a procession entered. These were the slave traders. They were dressed in garish, expensive silks that looked absurdly out of place, their faces covered by intricate leather masks. Their guards were hulking brutes in mismatched armor, leading a train of empty, cage-topped wagons.
The lead trader, a tall man with a peacock feather in his mask, approached Seraphine. His voice was a slick, oily thing. "Seraphine. Always a pleasure to do business. I trust your harvest has been… fruitful?"
"It has," she replied, her voice devoid of warmth. "The pickings are lean this season. The Emperor's dogs keep making it harder to collect. But the quality is… acceptable."
"Then let us not waste time with the dregs. Show me the stock."
Seraphine led them into the canyon. The lead trader's masked eyes scanned the pens with a dispassionate, commercial gaze. He paused before a large cage holding a giant of a man, muscles coiled and face set in a defiant snarl, his wrists bound in heavy chains.
"This one," the trader said, a note of approval in his voice. "He will do well in the gem mines. A month or two of breaking rock will temper that spirit." He gestured, and two of his brutes unlocked the pen. A fierce struggle ensued, but outnumbered and chained, the big man was eventually subdued and dragged out, roaring curses.
As the trader continued his inspection, he passed the pen holding Kai and Roric. Roric, leaning against the bars, muttered under his breath, just loud enough to carry. "Nice mask. Does it hide the fact you have no chin, or just the smell of your own hypocrisy?"
The trader stopped dead. He turned slowly, his silks whispering. The painted smile on his leather mask seemed to twist into a leer. "What did you say?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Roric met his gaze, a defiant smirk on his face. "I said you look like a peacock that fell into a dye vat. And you probably smell twice as bad."
In a flash of movement that belied his elegant appearance, the trader closed the distance to the bars. His hand shot through the gaps, grabbing a handful of Roric's tunic and yanking him hard against the wood. "You have a clever tongue, little man," he hissed. "I will enjoy having it cut out and fed to you."
Before Roric could retort, Kai's hand clamped down on the trader's wrist like a vice. "Let him go," Kai growled, his voice low and threatening.
The trader's eyes, visible through the mask's slits, widened in surprise and then fury at the pressure Kai exerted. "You dare!?"
"I said let him go," Kai said, tightening his grip until the trader was forced to release Roric with a grunt of pain.
The trader stumbled back, clutching his wrist. He pointed a trembling finger at them. "I will take these two! I will pay double! Triple! I will own you, and I will make every day of your long, miserable lives an exercise in agony for that insult!"
Seraphine watched, her expression unreadable, then gave a curt nod to the scarred woman. The pen door was thrown open. The hulking female guard entered. Kai and Roric fought, but she moved with brutal, overwhelming strength, disarming their struggles with ease and binding their wrists with coarse rope. They were dragged out and added to the small, chained group the trader had selected.
As the procession—now including the new slaves—was led back out of the canyon to begin loading the wagons and finalize payment, the lead trader was still fuming, rubbing his wrist. "You will learn your place," he spat at Kai and Roric.
It was at that moment, as the first slave was being shoved towards a wagon, that a new sound echoed from the pass—the chilling, harmonious ring of three perfectly synchronized sword blades being drawn from their scabbards at once.
Every head turned.
Silhouetted against the dying sun stood four figures. Captain Valerius, his face pale but his eyes burning with a new, glacial light. To his left, Silas, his twin daggers already in hand. To his right, Garm, who let out a low, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through the very stone. And just behind them, Lyra, her hands already weaving the first threads of a spell.
"We, the Knights of Illyria," Valerius's voice rang out, cold and absolute, his gaze locking on Roric and Kai "have come to collect our property."
The slave traders froze. Seraphine's hand flew to her sword. The lead trader looked from Valerius to his new, troublesome acquisitions, a dawning realization of deeper trouble on his face.
And in the midst of the captured group, Kai caught Roric's eye and a single, unified thought passed between them: Chaos. And in chaos, there was always a chance to escape. The real battle was about to begin.