The destination port looked like a corner of the world the sun had forgotten.
Only a few lanterns flickered over the black water, casting warped shadows across the damp docks.
When the hold doors opened, relief did not come.
What came was the smell of mold and urine—and the metallic clatter of locks.
Lyra was hauled out. The light stabbed eyes long accustomed to darkness.
And then she saw them.
Cages on wheels.
They weren't prison cells. They were display cases.
A tall, thin man with a whip coiled around his arm like a leather snake directed the unloading.
"Fit them in! No talking!"
Each elf was shoved into a space barely large enough to exist in. Cold metal against warm skin.
Lyra was thrown into the central cage. It was so small she couldn't stand, nor fully sit. She had to remain curled inward—a position designed to humiliate.
She watched everything.
There was no hope in her eyes, but there was awareness.
Here, freedom was guarded. The terror of the ship had been physical; the terror of the docks was psychological.
The cages began to roll, dragged by heavy animals toward a massive warehouse.
Inside, a thin, arrogant woman climbed onto an improvised stage. She held a hammer like a royal scepter.
"Gentlemen, your attention!" Her voice sliced through the murmur of buyers. "Today, we have items of exceptional quality."
Items.
Not people.
Items.
The auction began.
Laughter. Bids. Fat men with gold rings shouting numbers as if buying livestock.
"One hundred coins!"
"Two hundred!"
When it was Lyra's turn, the cage was opened. She was dragged into the center of the light.
Trembling, she tried to hold her posture. She lifted her chin.
Not out of pride—but defiance.
"A young one with a graceful build," the auctioneer announced, spinning Lyra with a rough hand on her shoulder. "Bright eyes. Suitable for… many purposes. We'll start at three hundred."
Two men raised their hands.
But it was a coarse voice from the back that ended the contest.
"Five hundred!" shouted a man whose fingers were far too thick for the jewels he wore. "And I insist."
The hammer struck.
The sound was dry. Final.
Lyra didn't have time to process it. The man was already there.
He held chains binding three other elven women. All beautiful. All marked.
He smiled at Lyra. The smile never reached his eyes.
"My choice," he said, pulling a new chain from his belt, "is this one."
Cold metal closed around her wrist.
Lyra felt the air leave her lungs.
She hadn't been bought to clean a house.
She hadn't been bought to work a field.
The destination of the wagon she was thrown into was obvious.
White walls. Clean sheets.
A brothel.
And the only thing she could think, as the wagon rolled through the sleeping city, was that somewhere in that same city, the man of ice was probably sleeping in silk sheets, convinced that the world was in perfect order.