he first figure came into focus. Riven's jaw clenched involuntarily. The supervisor of the black market. He'd seen him once before, years ago, when they'd first dragged him into this hole. The man who never descended to the third level. Men like him had no reason to.

  Mr. Baglio wore a pristine white suit that seemed obscenely luxurious in these surroundings, the fabric stretched taut over his protruding belly. Gaudy gold patterns adorned the vest beneath—the kind of ostentation that announced wealth without taste. His hat bore gold and white jewels that caught the light with every slight movement of his head. Even his shoes glittered with gold embellishments. Each tap of his ornate cane against the stone floor echoed through the corridor like a pronouncement.

  Why the fuck is this guy down here? Riven's teeth ground together as his vision cleared further. I've barely seen him come down himself... The thought trailed off. No need to finish it. He understood.

  Third-level slaves weren't meant for ordinary labor. They were for dangerous tasks. Tasks with no return expected. If the supervisor was personally descending with clients, whatever was brewing wasn't routine. It was dangerous.

  The noise in the corridor increased as other cells reacted to the unusual visitors. Chains rattled against bars. Voices rose in a mixture of desperation, anger, and pathetic attempts at usefulness. Riven shifted slightly, peering beyond his own cell to observe the activity further down. More supervisors were descending. More buyers. This wasn't normal protocol.

  The guard straightened, lowering his head respectfully as the group approached. "Welcome, Mr. Baglio." The name hung in the air like rot.

  Mr. Baglio stopped directly in front of Riven's cell. His gaze swept over the chained slaves, then lingered on Riven.

  Riven stared back, motionless, expressionless. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, barely perceptible in the harsh light.

  "You have something to say, boy?" The question wasn't curious. It was a warning.

  Riven didn't respond. He just maintained that slight smile, as if privately amused. Mr. Baglio studied him for several seconds, his expression unreadable. He exhaled slowly, almost disappointed. "Tch."

  The supervisor turned slightly toward his clients. "Before we proceed, allow me to ensure appropriate discipline." He made a casual gesture toward the guard. "Go in. Remind them of their place."

  The guard didn't hesitate. The cell door screeched—iron against stone—and chains clinked as the prisoners instinctively retreated.

  The man entered, uncoiling a leather whip.

  Riven's muscles tensed. Why? I didn't even say anything.

  The first lash fell. Then another. Then another. The whip didn't discriminate, tearing flesh without pattern or purpose. A high-pitched scream pierced the air, followed by another. Multiple voices overlapped in pain, panic, and confusion.

  The whip tore across Riven's back. Fire exploded beneath his skin, and he staggered but didn't fall. His fingers gripped the bars until his knuckles whitened. Another strike landed across his shoulder.

  Breathe. Don't scream. Warm blood trickled down his side.

  Other slaves collapsed, covering their heads, whimpering. The guard moved methodically through the cell, unhurried, as if performing routine maintenance.

  Finally, he stepped back. The cell went quiet—not because the pain had subsided, but because no one dared make a sound.

  That bloated bastard. All that fat trembling with every step, standing there like he owns the world.

  Mr. Baglio nodded with satisfaction. "Good. That should remind them where they are." He turned to the clients, his tone shifting instantly from irritation to polite professionalism. "My apologies for the inconvenience." He spread his hands slightly. "Now. As we discussed earlier—you were seeking a slave suitable for a difficult task. Correct?"

  One of the clients stepped forward. Riven forced his blurred vision to focus. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy presence. Muscles strained beneath worn leather armor. His expression seemed carved from stone.

  "That's correct. I am Ulric." He gestured to his right. "This is Kellen." Then to his left. "And this is Lya."

  Riven's gaze slid briefly to the others, pain still pulsing through his body. Kellen stood to Ulric's right—frail-looking, small and narrow-shouldered. His thin frame was draped in clothing that didn't quite suit him. Long black hair was arranged with too much care, as if he were trying to project something he wasn't. It wasn't working.

  Lya stood on the other side. She was shorter than both men. Her posture was straight, controlled. Green hair fell freely around her shoulders, clean despite the filth of the corridor. Her eyes moved slowly across the cells, watchful and unreadable. She didn't recoil from the cages. But she didn't lean in, either.

  "We're looking for a slave to assist us," Ulric said, his tone even. "You know the day approaches... We depart tomorrow."

  Tomorrow. The word caught in Riven's mind. What the hell happens tomorrow?

  The supervisor's smile stiffened. "Yes, of course," he replied quickly. "How could a businessman like myself forget such an important date?"

  You did forget. Idiot.

  The supervisor gestured toward the cell. "I have several candidates who should meet your requirements. First, this one—he's the most muscular in this cell. Or perhaps—"

  "That one." The interruption was calm but firm.

  Riven felt the gesture before processing the words. A finger pointed directly at him.

  Me? His mind stalled. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, staring through the bars as if the moment would pass of its own accord.

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  The supervisor frowned. "That one? Are you certain? He doesn't listen properly. Insolent. And barely in suitable condition. Look at him."

  Ulric and Kellen nodded. They weren't wrong. Riven's body bore the evidence of his captivity. Old scars crisscrossed recent wounds, some still open beneath dried blood. His skin clung too tightly to his bones, hunger having stripped away whatever strength remained. His wrists were marked by years of restraints, the raw skin turned pale and rough.

  "You said we would split the price three ways," Lya replied without raising her voice. "If we take him, I'll cover the full amount myself." There was no hesitation in her tone. Just a statement. "He could be useful. He looks observant. Pragmatic. How long has he been here?"

  The supervisor paused briefly. "About two years."

  Riven sensed the change immediately. Ulric's gaze sharpened. Kellen tilted his head slightly. "Two years." Longer than most. Much longer for someone like him. Riven could tell they were recalculating—not impressed, not sympathetic, just adjusting their expectations.

  Mr. Baglio showed no reaction. To him, Riven was nothing more than damaged stock. Worn flesh, barely worth the iron around his wrists. The clients' curiosity didn't concern him, as long as payment followed.

  Kellen stepped forward. "He's in poor condition. Fresh wounds. Malnourished. I assume you're not expecting a high price."

  The supervisor shrugged. "The price is one Lir."

  Riven knew what that meant.

  One Lir wasn't pocket money, but it wasn't wealth either. Enough to buy quality tools. Enough to matter—but not enough to argue over.

  He knew the difference between the coins.

  Vey were the lowest denomination, dull, thin metal bits passed endlessly from hand to hand in the lower city, the kind of money people counted carefully before buying food, the kind that disappeared as quickly as it was earned.

  A Lir was something else entirely. Heavier. Silver. Worth a hundred Vey, used for things of value—well-crafted tools, sturdy boots, a decent blade, items meant to last and keep their worth.

  Above that came the Cindral, a gold coin set with a small crystal at its center, the kind of money Riven had only heard mentioned in passing—lower city stories, names whispered when people spoke of the rich as if they belonged to an entirely different world. One Cindral was worth a thousand Lir, not used for tools or clothes or daily trade, but for things that changed lives—property, rare relics, contracts that bound futures.

  Judging by their reactions, the price wasn't excessive. Lya seemed satisfied with the arrangement, having agreed to pay the full amount herself. Ulric and Kellen didn't object. To them, it was a fair exchange, even a bargain, for a slave clearly not expected to survive long.

  The word "disposable" settled uncomfortably in his chest.

  One Lir.

  He knew what that meant—enough for tools, for things meant to last. More money than most in the lower city saw in months. More than he'd ever touched.

  And apparently, what he was worth now.

  Though the supervisor hadn't made a particularly good deal, he smiled. Dead weight removed was enough to satisfy. "The guard will clean the slave and prepare him for delivery. I invite you to wait in the main hall. I'll join you once it's done."

  An hour passed before the guard returned with Riven. His skin had been scrubbed raw but clean, the worst of the blood washed away. Fresh welts from the whipping stood out against his pale skin, angry red lines crossing over older scars. The dark circles beneath his eyes remained, too deeply etched to be erased by mere water. Hunger and exhaustion clung to his frame, bone-deep companions that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

  They had given him different clothes—plain brown trousers and a frayed shirt that hung loose on his emaciated frame. The fabric itched against his fresh wounds, but the sensation was almost welcome after years of filth-encrusted rags. His white hair, freed from matted clumps of blood and grime, fell around his shoulders in damp strands.

  He stood before the clients in the main hall, chains still binding his wrists. The room was spacious compared to the cells below—actual furniture, actual light. A small window near the ceiling allowed a thin shaft of daylight to penetrate the gloom.

  Ulric and Kellen were visibly irritated. Their postures had stiffened, arms crossed over their chests as if physically holding back their impatience. Their eyes landed on Riven with open displeasure, heavy and assessing, as if the delay alone had somehow diminished his value.

  "This took far longer than necessary," Ulric said, his voice clipped. He directed his words at the supervisor, but his eyes remained fixed on Riven. "Time is something we don't have in abundance."

  Kellen nodded. "We specified urgency when we made the arrangements." The statement hung in the air, somewhere between accusation and threat.

  Mr. Baglio spread his hands in a gesture of apology. "My sincere regrets for the inconvenience. The specimen required more... thorough attention than anticipated." His tone suggested the delay was Riven's fault—as if he'd deliberately accumulated two years of filth just to inconvenience them today.

  Lya stepped forward, her reaction markedly different from her companions. She circled Riven once, her gaze clinical but not cruel.

  "You look better now," she said, meeting his eyes directly. "Your hair is white again."

  Riven hesitated, the muscles in his throat working as if he'd forgotten how to form words for anyone besides himself. Two years of near-silence had made conversation feel alien.

  "Thank you," he finally managed. The word felt strange on his tongue, rusty and disused. He didn't trust her—couldn't trust any of them—but there was no advantage in rudeness. Not yet. Not until he understood what they wanted.

  Was this real? Had he actually made it out? After two years in that pit, was he finally free of it? Memories of his survival flashed through his mind without order or pattern—bodies collapsing beside him, screams cut short, choices made too quickly to regret until much later. He had endured more than most down there, learned when to fight, when to hide, when to let others die in his place.

  He'd become something else in that darkness. Something harder, sharper, more practical. But beneath all that—beneath the survival and the pragmatism and the necessary cruelty—he was still just a boy. Poor. Broken. Someone who had never asked for any of this.

  I'm not going back there, he thought with sudden clarity. Unless it's to rip that ridiculous mustache off that fat bastard's gold-covered hat.

  The guard approached with something in his hands. Riven stiffened, his muscles coiling tight beneath his skin. A band of black iron, wide and heavy, far thicker than strictly necessary for its purpose. Before he could react, the man positioned it around his neck. It was cold against his skin, the metal unyielding.

  The guard activated a small silver ring set with a tiny purple crystal embedded in the collar. The metal immediately contracted, tightening and locking into place with a dull click that Riven felt more than heard.

  The weight around his neck wasn't just physical. He could feel it now, pressing against his skin in a way that went beyond its material presence, stiffening every movement of his head, reminding him of its existence each time he so much as twitched. The pressure wasn't enough to choke, but it made its purpose clear. Insurance."

  A Relic.

  He'd heard the term before. Objects left behind by unknown forces—or created through means nobody spoke of openly. They carried effects that followed no clear rules. Nobody truly understood them. Only that they worked.

  He'd heard stories in the lower city, whispered accounts of items that could heat without fire, illuminate without flame, preserve without ice. The wealthy collected them, competed for them. The poor feared them, knowing anything so sought after by the rich would only bring them trouble.

  I'm not running. I'm not curious enough to find out how much tighter it can get.

  Which meant only one option remained. Follow.

  He raised his gaze, eyes drifting toward the three figures before him. He still didn't know what they expected of him, what kind of task justified the price, the secrecy, the rush.

  Tomorrow.

  The word wouldn't leave him. Whatever it meant, it had pulled supervisors into the depths, filled the third level with desperate buyers. Something big. Something dangerous.

  He'd find out soon enough.

  Ulric led the way, Kellen close behind. Lya walked beside Riven at the rear.

  Together, they left the hall and stepped into the streets above.