The streets of Port Azharia pulsed with heat, thick and wet, rolling in from the distant sea in shimmering waves. Beneath the arching domes of the Sultan’s Grand Bazaar, beneath the gilded minarets and ivory towers, beneath the trappings of civilization that masked the city’s darker heart, there thrived a marketplace where coin did not trade for silks, spices, or foreign luxuries. Here, in the winding alleys where the stones ran dark with wine and filth, men bartered for flesh and blood.

  Marion Vex strode through the slave markets, his silk robes untouched by the grime that clung to the air, his step slow and deliberate, his rings clinking softly with every calculated movement of his fingers. He was not a man who hurried, nor a man who allowed others to dictate the pace of his business. The markets bent to him, not the other way around.

  The heat, the sweat, the stench of too many bodies pressed too close—it might have unsettled lesser men. But for Marion, it was the scent of wealth, of opportunity, of yet another game waiting to be played. And, as always, he intended to play to win.

  The women’s section of the market lay under the slanted shade of a canvas awning, where bidders murmured in low, measured tones, their eyes moving over their choices with the same detached interest they might grant a fine tapestry or an aging bottle of wine. The scent here was different—incense burned in thin spirals, a feeble attempt to mask the reality of sweat, fear, and perfume gone stale.

  Marion lingered at the edge, watching with idle curiosity as a girl with gold-threaded braids was turned this way and that for her prospective buyers. Her expression was carefully blank, her shoulders squared in practiced obedience. She had learned the role required of her—she had accepted it.

  He tapped his knuckles against his chin, considering a thought that had, on occasion, danced through the back of his mind. A fighter entering the pit draped in silk, a painted woman at his side, a symbol of prestige before the first blade was drawn. The gamblers would adore it. A spectacle before the slaughter, a contrast of beauty and brutality, a feast for the eyes before the real entertainment began.

  For a moment, he entertained the notion.

  And then, just as quickly, he discarded it.

  Men did not come to the pits to watch silk shimmer in the sun.

  They came to see it stained in blood.

  With a slow exhale, he moved on.

  The men’s pens were louder, harsher—filled with the voices of traders boasting their wares, bidders shouting their offers, and the occasional thick snap of a whip against the backs of those too slow to respond. Here, there was no incense, no illusion of civility. Here, flesh was sold as meat, not ornamentation.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A wiry auctioneer, his face sharp as a rat’s, stood atop a raised platform, barking over the noise. "Fine desert stock, trained from youth—fast with a blade, quick on his feet! Built for speed, not for mercy!"

  A young man was pulled forward, bronze-skinned and lean-muscled, his eyes bright with something that might have been pride or defiance, depending on who was looking. His arms were scarred in the way that suggested he had fought before, but not yet lost enough to be dangerous.

  Marion’s gaze flickered over him, unimpressed.

  Too pretty. Too clean. Too eager.

  The bids came fast and pointless, the traders clambering over themselves to purchase a slave with just enough charm to be a showman in the pits.

  Then came another—a northern brute, thick as a bull, shoulders broader than most men’s chests, his wrists bound in iron chains thick enough to anchor a ship.

  "Born on the Howling Coast!" the auctioneer crowed. "Raised on stone, strong as the cliffs themselves! A monster in the ring!"

  And yet, when the man blinked, his eyes were dull, placid.

  Marion clicked his tongue. Strength alone was a useless thing. The best wagers were made on sharpness. On cunning.

  He turned, ready to leave—

  And then, he saw the boy.

  He stood at the far end of the pens, just past the reach of the sun’s light, where the shadows gathered beneath the canvas awnings. He was younger than the others—sixteen, perhaps younger. His shoulders were broad, already thick with muscle despite his years, but it was not his build that caught Marion’s interest.

  It was his stillness.

  Slaves, when paraded for bidders, were never still. They trembled, they cowered, they flinched at the crack of the whip.

  But this boy stood without movement, without fear, without urgency.

  His back was marked with fresh wounds, the cuts raw and angry, but he carried them not with the posture of the beaten, but with something different.

  Not pride.

  Not arrogance.

  Something quieter.

  Something waiting.

  The auctioneer barely wasted words on him.

  "This one’s more trouble than he’s worth," he muttered, waving a hand as if brushing away a fly. "Some northern savage. Stubborn, unruly, won’t bow when beaten. Useless for the pits unless you’ve got the time to break him."

  The bidders moved past him without interest.

  Marion did not.

  He took his time. Stepped closer, just enough to see the boy properly in the dappled light filtering through the slats in the awning. His skin was paler than the others, his hair a dark, unkempt mess.

  His hands were chained, but he did not strain against them.

  His body bore the marks of discipline, but no signs of defeat.

  And his eyes—

  When Marion looked into them, there was no plea. No anger.

  Only cold patience.

  The patience of a man who had not yet decided how this game would end.

  Marion smiled.

  The auctioneer sighed, rubbing his brow.

  "Fifty crowns, and I’ll be rid of him."

  Marion raised a hand.

  "I’ll take him."

  The auctioneer exhaled in relief, waving over his assistants to unshackle the boy.

  Marion counted out the coin with deliberate slowness, letting the weight of the wager settle in his mind. He had played this game many times before. He had bought countless fighters, watched them rise, fall, break under the weight of expectation or bloom into legends in the pits.

  He had made many bets in his life.

  But this one?

  This one would be fun.

  hates it.

  And then he would have walked past you.

  it was never about glory.

  the hunt.