Eron remained lying down, half-naked, his eyes fixed on the corner of his mind where Zara's image bloomed.
He wasn't resisting.
He didn't want to resist.
Every time water droplets slid down her body or her legs opened to reveal her sex, the fire inside him flared higher, until there was nothing left but the rhythm of his body and the tightness of his breath.
He didn't realize how much time had passed… until he felt the weight of his cock empty for the third time, his breath ragged like someone who had just returned from the bottom of a narrow tunnel with no air.
He sat up.
The insides of his thighs were damp, and that crooked smile still lingered.
He reached for the new dagger — Silva's Fang — holding it like a man who had just admitted to himself that he needed something to cut more than he needed something to touch.
He lazily put on his shirt and left the room.
The hallway was cold, the wood beneath his feet creaking.
At the kitchen…
Garon.
Still seated, in the same position, before the ceramic cup Eron had left earlier. Untouched.
Eron stopped at the doorway.
His eyes narrowed.
He stepped closer, then again.
"…Didn't you drink?"
His question was like a small stone thrown into still water.
But Garon didn't answer.
Eron reached out, took the cup, and drained it down his throat in a single gulp.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then said as he turned toward the door, his tone half-irritated:
"Don't worry… I didn't poison it or anything."
Garon's voice finally came, calm and steady:
"I didn't mean that."
Eron turned halfway, a short smile laced with bitterness:
"Don't bother… even I don't trust myself."
He left.
The village air carried to him the smells of mud, dampness, and a faint mold.
His steps unconsciously took him to the slave square.
The usual noise here was softer.
The place seemed emptier compared to what he had seen on his last visit.
He raised his gaze, looking for that slave who had always been with Garon… but didn't see him.
He asked the first familiar face among the traders:
"Where's that slave, Ravel?"
The trader scratched his head, then said:
"He was sold a while ago. That's why you don't see him around anymore. Times have changed, stranger… slaves have become scarce."
"Scarce?"
"Kireth, our main source, is in ruins. Even the kingdom itself has slowed its trade… No one dares bring them here anymore. No buyers, no stock."
Eron didn't comment.
His eyes slid along the rows.
Emaciated bodies, taut skin, half-dead eyes.
Cat ears, wolf eyes, tails hanging like execution swords, most of them completely naked except for their chains.
But her…
She was the one his gaze stopped on.
A young woman, skin the color of burnt wheat, dark hair spilling over her bound shoulders, ears like those of a wild fox, and a long, thick tail wrapped around her bare thigh as if shielding it from eyes… or inviting someone to tear it away.
Eron blinked slowly.
His smile was small, but it carried the same hunger that made him stand there imagining things that would not happen in the market.
He stepped closer to the cage, his eyes never leaving that thick tail curled around her thigh like a savage guard.
"How much for her?" he said, his tone not without a hidden threat.
The seller half-smiled, as if the answer itself were a crime:
"Seven hundred and fifty silver coins."
Eron raised an eyebrow:
"You think I'm buying a farm?"
The seller shrugged:
"Scarcity, sir… a full-grown vixen, her eyes intact, her teeth complete, and her body… needs no explanation. She's sold to someone who knows how to make use of her, not someone who's content to just look."
Eron let his gaze drop over her body once more, with eyes as heavy as a hand weighing the neck of a victim, before he remembered — for no clear reason — one of his unfinished tasks, and opened the system interface:
[Side Quest: "Chaos of Liberation"]
Free the slaves.
A great uproar may ensue.
Chance to obtain a Desire Shard – Rank C
Accept quest?
[Accept] [Reject] [Ignore]
He stared at the floating window for a moment before tilting his head toward the seller and saying coldly:
"I don't think it's my day… but I'll find a way to get another."
The seller furrowed his brows:
"Another?"
But got no explanation.
Eron changed the subject:
"Is there a place to train here?"
The seller pointed his thumb behind him:
"The stable. Wooden dummies, an open yard… no one will bother you there."
Eron nodded, then left without looking back.
In the stable, the smell was a mix of dried sweat, old wood, and something else like dust mingled with blood.
He drew Silva's Fang.
The organic blade throbbed between his fingers, as if it were a living creature eager to bury itself in fresh flesh.
He began training.
A thrust… a turn… a horizontal slash.
Every time the blade touched wood, it trembled as if tasting it.
Eron felt its influence slide into his wrist, up his arm, then into his chest.
He was about to try a new series of moves when he heard hurried footsteps on the dusty ground.
He turned.
Selena.
Her hair disheveled, her breath uneven, her eyes red from crying.
"Eron…!" Her voice cracked.
The first thought that came to him… was a dark, wicked one, gleaming in his mind as he looked at her exhausted body.
But before he could speak, she said between gasps:
"Garon… in the medical room… he's in bad shape."
Selena's steps were quick, almost dragging him by the wrist as he kept pace silently, until they reached the medical tent.
The smell of burnt herbs and cold sweat greeted him before he pushed aside the torn curtain and entered.
There… on the rough bed, Garon lay like a corpse trying to remember the shape of breathing.
His skin was pale, as if the blood had decided to abandon him, and green veins crept beneath it like snakes searching for a way out.
Eron approached, leaned slightly, his voice low but clear:
"Garon…?"
An eyelid stirred halfway, and Garon's voice came out as a dry whisper:
"Eron…?"
"I'm here."
He turned to the old healer woman, who was sitting by his head, pressing damp cloths to his forehead.
"What happened to him?"
The old woman exhaled sharply:
"Poison… or some strange illness. I don't know. I've never seen anything like it. The fever rises, the blood clots in some places and floods in others."
Garon tried to move his head, his eyes searching for something not there:
"I thought… I could be careful… but… maybe… my doubt in you… priest… is what brought… this."
Eron blinked slowly, then smiled — a small smile only those who know that mercy can sometimes be a mask could recognize.
He laid a hand on Garon's shoulder:
"It's alright… I'll find a way to treat this."
He said it warmly, though inside it gleamed like a dagger searching for a place to sink in.
Selena, standing at the foot of the bed, could bear no more.
She dropped to her knees beside him, tears falling without permission, clutching his hand tightly:
"Garon… don't leave me… don't do this to me."
Garon tried to smile, but the pallor swallowed his features.
"You're strong… you'll survive."
"I don't want to survive without you!"
She leaned further, her forehead against his chest, her small sobs filling the tent.
Eron stood in silence, watching the scene like someone observing a play whose ending he already knew, then bent slightly, reaching out to take Selena's free hand.
He pressed it gently, his voice low and reassuring:
"Calm down… I'm here. I won't let him go."
Eron kept holding Selena's hand, then quietly drew her closer, until she pressed against him like someone who had finally found a wall to lean on amid her collapse.
He wrapped his arms around her, buried a hand in her tear-damp hair, and whispered in her ear:
"I won't leave him… or you."
But his eyes… were not looking at her.
They were fixed on Garon's sprawled body, on his chest rising and falling slowly, on those green veins pulsing with silent danger.
Something in his expression shifted.
His smile tightened, and his pupils widened until they swallowed the light.
A glint… not the glint of hope or compassion, but that twisted spark known to no one else in this village but him.
The madness before the act.
The madness only he dared to embrace.
He kept holding Selena, patting her back with calculated tenderness, while deep in his eyes a dark idea sprouted, coiled, and waited for the moment to break free.
Garon closed his eyes again, weary, unaware that the beast standing before him… was now smiling in the dark.