As the wagon passed the gates of Raimon, Kaelen thought, 'This city... feels different. I have traveled through small villages, and seen roads where beggars lay dying under the sun and nobody cares. I have also been to several slave cities but Raimon.... this feels something else entirely.'

  And, he was indeed correct.

  Raimon was less of a city and more like a beast, alive with filth and chaos.

  The streets stretched endlessly in a tangled maze of stone and wood, lined with buildings that leaned against each other like drunks in an alleyway. Half of the structures were either half-built or half-destroyed—Kaelen couldn't tell which. Smoke curled from chimneys, filling the air with the scent of burning oil, roasting meat, and something foul that made his stomach churn.

  'So this is where people like me end up?' Kaelen thought bitterly. 'A place where even the air reeks of rot?'

  He gazed at the people around the moving wagon. They moved like shadows—some hurried, head down, trying to avoid trouble; others strolled confidently, weapons on display, daring anyone to challenge them.

  The wagon moved forward leading into Raimon's underbelly which was packed with merchants shouting over one another, trying to sell their stuff before their throats were slit by the very customers they haggled with. Numerous stalls displayed everything imaginable: rare spices, smuggled artifacts, weapons with unknown enchantments, and even caged creatures with too many eyes or too many limbs.

  Kaelen’s gaze drifted to a wooden post, where a man swung idly in the wind, his dead body stripped of valuables. Someone had scrawled a message across his chest in blood:

  "PAY YOUR DEBTS OR FEED THE CITY."

  Kaelen swallowed hard and a thought ran in his head, 'I have seen corpses before. I have smelled the stench of death more times than I care to admit... but something about this place makes my skin crawl.'

  Suddenly, a sharp whistle caught his attention and he turned to look across the street where two men stood with blades drawn, cornering a third against a crumbling wall.

  “You should have stayed dead, Iver,” one of the men sneered. “No one leaves the Iron Fangs alive.”

  “I got out,” Iver spat, his hand twitching toward his belt, “You should’ve stayed out of my way.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Is that so?", another one said mockingly and touched the hilt of his blade.

  "Shadowfang Strike!"

  Kaelen barely had time to blink before a flash of steel ended the standoff. A wet gurgle, a body slumping to the ground, and the two killers wiped their blades clean like they had just finished eating dinner.

  No one screamed. No one called for guards.

  Because in Raimon, there were no guards—only syndicates, warlords, and killers-for-hire.

  The wagon jerked forward. Kaelen shuddered at the sight of the dead bodies and thought bitterly, 'This city... is a graveyard waiting to happen.'

  The road ahead widened into a marketplace if it could even be called that. Makeshift stalls lined the cracked, uneven streets, where merchants sold anything that could be bought, stolen, or bled for.

  A butcher’s stand displayed fresh cuts of meat, but Kaelen wasn’t sure if all of them came from animals. Further down, a woman sold vials of glowing liquid, claiming they could cure any disease, while a man in a hood beside her whispered about forbidden artifacts smuggled from ancient ruins.

  And then, there were the slavers.

  Kaelen’s wagon was one of many rolling into the Scarlet Exchange, the city’s most infamous auction house. The caravan ahead of his carried a group of beastmen, their fur matted with blood, their eyes filled with quiet rage. Another wagon held a dozen pale-skinned elves, their hands bound in shimmering anti-magic restraints.

  The guards driving Kaelen’s cart exchanged bets on which slaves would fetch the highest price.

  “That one—silver-haired elf. I’d wager a thousand gold.”

  “Bah, magic users are a gamble. What if he curses his owner? My coin’s on the big beastman—good muscle for the pits.”

  Kaelen looked at himself and thought, 'And what about me? How much do they think I’m worth?'

  He already knew the answer. He was too different. Too monstrous.

  One of the guards chuckled and nudged his companion, asking, “And what of the horned brat?”

  “Pah! Demon blood. Lucky if someone takes him at all.”, the guard replied carelessly.

  The crowd around them grew thicker as they neared their destination. A mix of mercenaries, traders, and crime lords gathered to inspect the incoming cargo. Some sneered at the captives, while others whispered to their attendants, already calculating potential profits.

  Suddenly, Kaelen felt it—the sensation of being watched.

  He lifted his gaze just slightly and locked eyes with a man standing atop a nearby balcony.

  Dressed in a strange black robe, his face was hidden beneath a mask of polished bone, save for his eyes—cold, calculating, hungry. The way he observed the slaves was not with casual interest, but with the precision of a predator selecting his next meal.

  Kaelen’s breath hitched and he thought, 'Who the hell is that?'

  A chill slithered down his spine and he forced himself to look away.

  “Move it!” A guard jerked Kaelen’s chains, snapping him out of his daze.

  The wagons rolled through a massive iron gate, and suddenly, the streets of Raimon fell away behind them. They had entered the heart of the Scarlet Exchange.

  Kaelen looked up at the towering structure before him—black stone walls, crimson banners fluttering in the air, and a sigil carved into the arch above the entrance:

  A hand clutching a severed chain.

  The symbol of those who ruled Raimon—the Slave Lords.

  Inside that building, his fate would be decided.

  But Kaelen had already learned a hard truth in life.

  He smiled sadly and thought, 'Fate is never kind.'