The Samurai’s blade sang—a high, clear note, like the chiming of a bell.
The slave crumpled, though not dramatically, not like in stories.
He just . . . folded.
First his knees, then the rest, like a puppet with cut strings. Blood spread across the stage, dark and thick, pooling in the gaps between boards. The smell slammed into me a moment later. Copper meets useless meat. Useless human.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—
They’d killed him. Right there. And no one—not a single merchant—batted an eye.
“Next!” the auctioneer called cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just watched a man die.
The man with the steamed bun took another bite. Honey clung to the brittle hairs on his chin. A woman beside cooled herself with a paper fan, her eyes scanning some object she’d likely bought at one of the nearby stalls. Another pair of children—small children—raced past, their laughter trailing behind like streamers on the wind.
Servants dragged the old man’s body away, leaving a dark smear, while others rushed forward with buckets and rags to clean the blood. Each of the cleaners wore silver circles abouttheir necks, marks of slaves owned by the auctioneer. His ring, a perfect match to their collars, glinted in the day’s brilliant sun.
The cleaning slaves worked efficiently, with practiced movements. The water they poured turned pink, then red, then pink again as they scrubbed.
My legs threatened to give out.
My guard’s grips tightened. “Steady,” one muttered, not unkind. “Don’t make a scene.”
I watched, numb with horror, as more were brought forward. Some sold quickly—a young woman purchased by a merchant with calculating eyes who examined her teeth like one would a horse, a strong-looking man bought by someone in military garb after a brief, efficient bidding war. Each exchange was brisk, cold, transactional.
Then it was my turn.
Hands shoved me up the stairs.
I stumbled but caught myself, emerging onto the stage to face the crowd.
A sea of eyes turned toward me.
Merchants in fine robes assessed, their eyes the discs of an ever-calculating abacus.
Men in armor, arms crossed, weighed my martial prowess.
Noble figures craned from the back as servants held parasols over their heads.
And women—several women with painted faces and ruby lips holding delicate fans—watched with interest I couldn’t quite grasp.
As I stepped onto the stage, its planks creaking beneath my weight, I couldfeelthe bloodstain, still damp, still warm through the thin soles of my sandals. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I clasped them together, trying to hide it, but the trembling spread. Sweat soaked the silk under my arms, at the small of my back. My throat worked, but my mouth had gone dry.
Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Don’t—
“A rare offering!” the auctioneer announced. “Young, healthy, and look at those muscled arms and broad shoulders. This exotic beauty hails from the northern isles and is educated—well, as educated as barbarians may be.”
A tittering flitted through the crowd, and I watched as potential buyers whispered and cajoled.
“He is suitable for household service, labor requiring strength, or—” He paused meaningfully. “More pleasurable purposes.”
More pleasurable purposes?
My skin crawled.
“Opening bid—fiveryo!”
A military man raised his hand immediately. “Five.”
