"She possesses more worth in a single breath than the entirety of this rotting house."
Withdrawing my silver signet ring, I press the metal flat against the stone wall of her foyer. The magic seals the command permanently into the architecture of her estate.
"I invoke the High Sovereign right of absolute forfeiture." The magical decree echoes through the ruined halls. "Every sum of coin, every grain of wheat, every drop of water in your vaults is frozen. Your wealth is to return to dust."
Shifting my focus to Tharion, the captain secures the lower floor, his blade dripping with the blood of Seredryl’s guards.
"Chain her to the walls of the lower dungeons." My lethal directive seals her fate. "Let her starve in the dark. If she speaks, cut out her tongue."
"And the human, my lord?" Tharion's posture locks into rigid readiness.
My longblade clears its scabbard. The dark steel hisses in the quiet of the ruined manor, a raw promise of carnage. I orient toward the eastern expanse of the Undercity, locking onto the twisted, chaotic labyrinth of the Dark Market.
Megan’s fierce, amber defiance flashes in my memory. She unraveled the Patriarch’s treason. She yielded to me upon the desk of my study, whispering my name into the dark.
I will tear the flesh-brokers apart with my bare hands.
"We march on Sector Four." Descending the marble stairs, the slaughter is set in motion. "Leave no breathing thing alive."
17
MEGAN
The acrid, chemical burn of the root-sedative scrapes harshly against my tonsils.
Dragging myself back to consciousness, the world registers as a fragmented, spinning blur of deep shadows and damp, freezing stone. Attempting to lift my hands to rub the violent throbbing from my temples, the movement is halted instantly by the brutal, biting resistance of coarse hemp rope.
My arms are wrenched behind my spine, wrists bound tightly together, pressing my shoulder blades flush against a thick, cold stone pillar.
Forcing my vision to clear against the sting of the gloom, the air reeks of rusted iron, stale blood, and the unmistakable, foul stench of unwashed bodies. The reinforced warehouse is vast, illuminated only by a few sputtering, green-tinted alchemy torches bolted to the dripping walls. Massive iron cages line the far perimeter, packed with the terrified, huddled shapes of other humans and low-caste dark elves waiting for the auction blocks.
I am not in a cage. I am tied to a pillar in the middle of the staging floor.
"The sedative is wearing off."
The syllables lack any trace of warmth. Turning my head, my neck protests, stiff and bruised from the ambush in the corridor.
A tall, severe dark elf stands a few paces away, wearing the stamped leather armor of the southern districts. The crimson and gold crest branded onto his pauldron confirms his lethal status. He is not a lowly flesh-broker, but an elite enforcer—a right-hand lieutenant bound to Lord Kryven. Stepping into the weak light, he pulls a pair of thick iron manacles from his belt.
"Lady Seredryl delivered you with remarkable efficiency." The lieutenant’s dismissive focus rakes over my borrowed, blood-stained garments. "She’s a foolish, short-sighted woman. Convenient for use."
Testing the thick ropes binding my wrists against the rough stone of the pillar, I analyze the friction. The knot is complex, tied by someone proficient in securing livestock, but the hemp carries a slight dampness from the humidity of the tunnels. Locking my facial muscles into a completely blank mask, I refuse to struggle. The Lowtowns taught me a thrashing beast only invites the whip.
"Kryven cannot touch Lord Zhetrin directly." The dry, raspy scrape of my syllables defies my bound state as I tilt my chin upwards, anchoring my gaze on the enforcer. "So he relies on a treasonous cousin to abduct a human from her bed. Tell me, does the great Lord Kryven count this cowardice as a victory in his ledgers?"
A muscle feathers along the lieutenant’s jawline. Bridging the gap, the foul, rotting-earth stench of his magic rolls aggressively off his armor.
"Your tongue is sharp for a mud-dweller. But it will not save you. Lord Kryven intends to break Zhetrin completely. We are not simply selling you. We are placing you on the highest auction block in the center of the Dark Market tonight. Every degeneratewarlord and flesh-trader in Protheka will bid on the Warlord’s prized human."
Leaning closer, a cruel, triumphant smile stretches his pale lips.
"When Zhetrin learns you are being passed around the darkest tents of Sector Four, his legendary control will shatter. He will abandon his fortified walls to find you. He will march into the market blind with rage, and Lord Kryven’s entire mercenary army will be waiting in the shadows to cut him down."
The calculated cruelty of the trap settles deep into my marrow.
Kryven does not care about the gold of the auction block; he is utilizing me strictly as bait to lure Zhetrin out of his fortress and into a coordinated slaughter. The memory of the Warlord's fierce devotion replays in my mind, confirming he will absolutely tear the market apart to find me. He will walk right into the ambush.
I must disrupt the sum.
