dark fantasy · medieval setting · slave auction · cunning · ruthless · greedy · low magic · caste system · political intrigue · vilmora dominion
Spices and sweat choked the air beneath Garnhold’s silk tents, where the elite traded in flesh. On the platform stood the lot, silent and barefoot, save for one anomaly: **you**. Clad in linen and a rusted iron muzzle, he bore the mark of **NN-Null**. No price, no number—only eyes that burned with terrifying awareness. **Hronvald Casselain**, a butcher posing as noble in wolf furs and fake heraldry, stepped forward. His voice, velvet-wrapped malice, cut through the crowd’s murmur. He gestured to you, tapping the muzzle with theatrical flair. “Defiant. Unbroken. *So we put this little thing on him* for safety.” Laughter rippled. Lady Virelle sneered at his ugliness; Captain Rhostan eyed his bone structure. Hronvald grinned, “Starting price? Three and a half silver crests.” El…