The air in the tent was heavy with the stench of sweat, leather, and damp fur, mingled with the metallic tang of blood. The boy in the center of the room stood proud despite his youth, his chest rising and falling steadily. At about fourteen, he was enormous for his age—his shoulders broad, his muscles defined, his presence intimidating. His skin bore the pale traces of scars that marred his arms, back, and chest, evidence of a life lived under the lash. Despite the crude loincloth barely hanging around his hips, there was a dignity in the way he held himself, his sharp, blue eyes fixed on his brother.

  Oleksandr stood off to the side, his wrists and ankles bound with iron chains that dug into his skin. His face betrayed nothing, though a flicker of emotion flashed in his eyes—anger, worry, and a deep, unspoken bond with the boy in the center. He was every bit as imposing, though his stance was more controlled, less confrontational. His silence was not resignation but calculation, his gaze shifting between the men as if committing their faces, their voices, their very souls to memory.

  Thekkur turned his head slightly toward Oleksandr, just enough to catch his brother’s eye, though he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The bond between them was like a pulse in the room, a steady thrum of defiance beneath the surface. They had been born into chains, but they had not surrendered to them.

  The Tatar strode into the center of the tent, a stout figure with a face weathered by the unforgiving steppe winds. He held Thekkur by the arm, jerking the boy forward like a prized animal on display. Thekkur moved stiffly, his expression a mask of stoic defiance.

  "This!" the Tatar barked, his voice sharp and commanding as he spun Thekkur to face the crowd. "This is prime stock! Strong like a bull, young and hardened by work and fight." He slapped the boy’s shoulder, the sound reverberating through the tent like the crack of a whip.

  Thekkur's chest rose and fell steadily, his muscles taut as the Tatar roughly lifted his arm and squeezed his bicep, forcing him to flex. The men gathered around leaned in, their eyes gleaming with predatory interest, inspecting every inch of the boy’s body.

  "Look at the scars," the Tatar continued, tracing a finger along the pale lines crisscrossing Thekkur's back. "Proof of discipline. Proof of survival. This one has taken the lash and never broken." He circled to Thekkur’s front, lifting his chin with rough fingers to show off his face. "See his eyes? Not dull, not dim. There's fire in this one. Intelligence. He learns quickly, fights like an animal. A prize for any pit master." The Tatar’s voice rose above the murmurs, confident and commanding, as he continued his pitch. He gripped Thekkur’s chin, tilting the boy’s head left and right for all to see, as though he were appraising a statue.

  “You see him now,” he boomed, “as mighty as he is as a youth, imagine him as a man. He’s not done growing. This here is a cub that will grow into a bear.” His hand moved to Thekkur’s shoulder, squeezing it to emphasize the boy’s solid musculature. “Fair, good breeding. Eyes like a tiger, yes? Not only strong and healthy, but beautiful. You want a beast for the pit or a prized body for labor, this one is both.”

  Thekkur’s pale eyes gleamed beneath his furrowed brow, piercing through the haze of smoke that filled the tent. Despite the harsh life etched across his scarred body, there was a stark beauty to him, a raw and feral intensity. His sun-kissed skin, marked by the lash, bore the evidence of his resilience, and his stoic face, framed by his unkempt pale hair, held an untamed grace. Even as the Tatar twisted his head, turning it for the crowd to scrutinize, Thekkur’s gaze never wavered. He stared back at the potential buyers with a defiance that was almost daring.

  “And what of the other one?” A voice called from the crowd, cutting through the spectacle.

  The Tatar’s grin widened, glancing toward Oleksandr. With a nod, Oleksandr’s handlers jabbed him forward, the chains at his wrists clinking as he took a deliberate step. Thekkur and Oleksandr locked eyes, a moment of unspoken understanding passing between them. They were forged together in suffering, tempered like steel. Nothing could sever that bond.

  The Tatar seized the moment, gesturing to the brothers. “Not one, but two! Prime stallions, bred strong and fierce. Look at them side by side!” He brought Oleksandr next to Thekkur, showcasing their symmetry. Despite their chains, the boys stood tall, their presence commanding even in the oppressive atmosphere of the tent.

  “They are better sold together,” the Tatar declared. “The full bang for your buck. These two, they go undefeated as a duo! A pair of wolves in the pit, they fight like demons. Their bond, their instincts, it’s unmatched. You’ll not find their like again.” The crowd murmured with intrigue, eyes roving over the brothers. Some nodded, recognizing the value in the offer, while others assessed them with cold, calculating stares. But for Oleksandr and Thekkur, the world outside their shared gaze faded. Their fates were intertwined, and no chains or gavel could ever break that.

  A man near the front of the crowd, his robes fine and embroidered, squinted at Thekkur, then Oleksandr. “Is their hair lightened?” He asked, suspicion lacing his tone as he gestured to their pale blonde locks, nearly silver in the dim light of the tent.

  The Tatar laughed, a deep, throaty sound, and shook his head. “No, no, my friend. What you see is nature’s doing. They are exotic, attractive, the rarest of stock! No expense has been spared in keeping them in peak health and condition. Hair as fair as the northern snows, untouched by dyes or tricks. True Adonises.” He stepped closer to Thekkur, running a hand along the boy’s shaggy, pale hair to display its sheen. “You’ll not find another pair like this, I promise you.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, heads nodding, voices exchanging hushed words. Clearly, the boys’ unique appearance was another mark in their favor, a trophy for whichever buyer could secure them. The Tatar, sensing the mounting interest, grinned broadly and gestured to the auctioneer. “Let’s not waste time! The starting bid—”

  “Five hundred silvers!” Shouted a stout man near the back, his face ruddy and his hand already raised.

  “Ah, now we’re talking!” The Tatar beamed, clapping his hands. “These boys are undefeated in the pits. You’ve heard and seen it yourself! Together, they’ve felled numerous foes at once. Eight. Ten, and more to come as they grow! Strong, disciplined, and clever—this is the investment of a lifetime!”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Six hundred!” Another voice cut in.

  The auctioneer’s rhythmic chant began, the numbers climbing steadily. “Six-fifty! Seven hundred! Do I hear seven-fifty?”

  Thekkur and Oleksandr stood side by side, their chains rattling softly as the crowd erupted into a heated bidding war. Despite the chaotic energy around them, the brothers’ faces remained impassive, their expressions masks of steely resolve. Thekkur’s pale eyes burned fiercely, scanning the crowd like a wolf sizing up its prey, while Oleksandr’s gaze flickered between the buyers and his brother, calculating and calm.

  “Not just fighters,” the Tatar added, his voice rising above the clamor. “These boys can haul, build, work the fields. And with a face like that,” he gestured toward Oleksandr, “who wouldn’t want such rare beauty to grace their household? Seven hundred fifty, now eight! Do I hear eight?”

  The numbers soared, hands rising in fierce competition. The crowd’s energy was electric, their desire palpable, but the brothers’ focus didn’t waver. Even as their value was appraised and sold like livestock, they remained defiant, exchanging a fleeting glance that spoke volumes. Together, always together.

  The final bid echoed through the tent like the toll of a bell, marking the end of the brothers' short-lived moment of freedom. “One-thousand five-hundred silver!” The auctioneer called, his voice tinged with finality.

  The crowd murmured, some faces disappointed, others eager, but no one seemed to care who had claimed the prize. The brothers, still bound by chains, stood side by side, their eyes betraying little more than a flicker of resignation. The finality of the moment settled over them like a heavy cloak. They were no longer property for bidding—they were sold.

  A man stepped forward from the crowd, his attire rich and impeccable, his gaze as cold as his countenance. He was tall, with the dark, sharp features of a Uyghur merchant— a man whose wealth was evident in the way he carried himself. His eyes scanned the boys with the detached calculation of someone accustomed to buying and selling flesh. His gaze flickered over Oleksandr, then Thekkur, appraising their strength, their youth, their value.

  “Don’t look me in the eyes, slave,” he muttered, his tone low and dangerous. The order was given without passion, more like a command that required no explanation. Thekkur, a glint of defiance still lingering in his pale eyes, lowered his gaze, though it was clear he did so with little care. Oleksandr, ever the stoic, did the same, his chain rattling as he shifted slightly to stand in sync with his brother. The buyer turned to one of his men, a tall figure with a scar running down his cheek. “Have them examined and branded,” he commanded, his voice devoid of empathy, as if the brothers were little more than cattle to be marked and cataloged.

  The brothers were led away, their chains dragging on the ground, their steps measured and sure, despite the humiliation. As they walked toward their new life, the weight of the moment hung heavy in the air. Each step they took carried them further from the brief hope of freedom. The harsh reality of their fate loomed, but they didn’t speak.

  ------------

  The acrid scent of seared flesh filled the air, curling around Oleksandr as he reclined on the bench. Behind him, the sharp sizzle of a brand meeting skin cut through the din of the market, followed by a muffled cry that faded too quickly. He didn’t turn to look. He didn’t need to. The sound and smell were etched into his memory. Samorix sat to his left, arms crossed, his one good eye fixed on the auction platform. Ivan, to his right, leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped between his knees, silent and thoughtful. Oleksandr’s gaze never wavered from Oddvarr’s stock—people, paraded like livestock. Though his face remained impassive, his jaw tightened ever so slightly. The past bled into the present in moments like this, unbidden and unrelenting. He watched as another chain of slaves was led forward, and his mind drifted, despite himself, to the heavy clink of his own chains so many years ago.

  His steely gaze bore into the spectacle of misery before him—the cries, the rattling chains, the lifeless faces of those paraded for profit. The thought of doing to these merchants what they did to others burned in his mind. To break their bones with the same iron, to lash them with their own whips, to see their blood mix with the dirt of their own markets. The brand seared into his own memory begged for vengeance, its phantom heat rising in his chest as he imagined them marked with their own tools.

  But not now. Not here.

  He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his muscles to relax, though his jaw remained clenched. This place was more than a market; it was an artery feeding the world’s insatiable hunger for wealth and power, a hydra with too many heads to sever in one blow. If he acted rashly, he’d only tighten his own noose, and a pointless death like that would only honor his enemies.

  One day.

  One day, when the title of consort rested on his shoulders alongside Princess Savka, when he had armies at his back and the authority to lead them, he would return. Not as a lone man shackled by his past, but as a storm, wielding fire and steel to cleanse this wretched place.

  For now, he watched, his gaze cold and sharp as the daggers hidden beneath his tunic. The opulent degenerates who lounged in silks and jewels, profiting from the suffering of others, would taste the edge of his vengeance. It wasn’t a question of if, only when.

  Oleksandr's gaze is drawn to a group of young men who are being led onto the auction block. They are clearly Franks, and their muscular frames indicate that they've been trained for manual labor. He watches as they are inspected and appraised by the buyers, their future uncertain and grim. His gaze lingers as they’re herded off the stage, before the heavy hand being placed on his shoulder broke his focus. He turned slightly, his eyes narrowing as he traced the runic tattoos and rough-hewn rings to their owner. Oddvarr leaned in with a wolfish grin, his breath carrying the scent of mead and smoke.

  “Those ones were a good find,” he says, nodding toward the auction stage. “On the coast of France, I found ’em. Strong lads, eh? Took some persuading, but they’ll fetch their weight in silver now.” His grin was broad, wolfish, but Oleksandr only nodded, his jaw tight. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray him. “Farm boys,” he continues, his grip on Oleksandr’s shoulder still firm. “All brothers. They put up a bit of a fight, but once we threatened to take their sisters, they knelt quick as anything.” Oleksandr’s muscles tense under Oddvarr’s grip, his mind racing with anger and disgust. He keeps himself in check, however, knowing that he must play this careful. He does not react, and his voice is neutral as he replies.

  “They look strong,” he remarks, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Aye. We let the girls go as a reward... for their bravery.” His hand lingered on Oleksandr’s shoulder a moment longer before he gave it a final pat, then turned and wandered off, the weight of his presence lingering even after he was gone. Oleksandr’s jaw tightened, his expression carefully neutral, though his skin crawled where Oddvarr had touched him. It felt as if the man’s shadow still clung to him, heavy and suffocating. Samorix squinted at Oleksandr, the low sun catching the deep lines of his weathered face. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, his tone guarded.

  “That was strange. Too much interest, that one.”

  Ivan’s gaze followed Oddvarr, his eyes cold and hard, tracking the man until he disappeared into the chaos of the market. Only then did he turn to Oleksandr, his face grim. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “Aye. Let’s get out of here.” Samorix agrees, nodding at Oleksandr to get up.