The slave market was less of a market and more of a sun-baked pit surrounded by wooden pens and sweaty bureaucracy. Bleached canvas tents fluttered like tired flags, and somewhere a goat was screaming like it was being murdered by taxes.
At the entrance, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a rickety desk under a faded parasol. Thin, balding, tan as old parchment, with the eternal squint of a man who has seen too many desperate sellers and not enough bribes.
He looked at me. Then at Odran—still naked, still chained, still looking like the world's most overqualified stripper. Then at the Dragon, who was doing his best to look uninvolved while pretending not to judge me.
The clerk blinked.
Then blinked again.
"Right," he said flatly. "Tell it to me again. From the start. Miss…"
"Saya," I said brightly. "Just Saya. Like the breeze that ruins men."
"Miss Saya." He folded his hands and stared. "You're here to…"
"Sell him." I pointed a very elegant, very manicured finger at Sir Odran. "Prime cut, still warm, mildly used. Very heroic. Muscles in all the right places. Not too bright, so minimal backtalk. You'll make a killing."
The clerk looked at Odran. Then back at me. "He's a paladin."
I blinked. "So?"
The clerk shifted in his chair. "That's not… how things are done."
"Thank you!" Odran shouted, tugging the chain like it gave him dignity. "That's what I've been telling her!"
"Oh shut up," I snapped, then turned back to the clerk. "Why not?"
The clerk took a breath. "Well. First of all—"
I raised one eyebrow. Slowly. Like the prelude to violence.
He froze. Cleared his throat. "Okay. Second of all. Do you have… proof of ownership?"
"What?"
"Paperwork," he said with all the enthusiasm of a man explaining that taxes are not optional. "You need papers. Documentation. Legal proof. You can't just show up with a random naked man and say 'I want to sell him.' There are rules."
"He's in chains."
"I can see that, Miss Saya, but that proves binding, not bondage."
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
"So what exactly counts as proof?" I demanded, hands on hips.
He adjusted his scrolls. "Was he captured in battle? Taken as part of war spoils? Is he a debtor registered with the Guild of Credit Enforcement? Did you win him in a legally sanctioned game of dice or cards? Was there a certified betrothal broken under terms of contract—"
"Oh for fuck's sake," I muttered.
"Exactly," the clerk said, shrugging. "You can't just walk into a licensed slave market with a man-on-a-rope and expect us to clap."
Saya. Speechless.
Genuinely. Honestly. For once in my gods-cursed life.
And behind me?
Sir Odran was smirking. Just enough to make his dimples show. The bastard.
The clerk didn't even sigh this time. Just lazily lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.
Two orcs appeared instantly, like overgrown mushrooms summoned by bureaucratic rot. Big. Green. Grumpy. Wearing matching vests that said SECURITY in badly stitched Common Tongue.
"Remove this man," the clerk said, pointing at Odran with his quill. "He's cluttering my entrance."
"What—what?!" Odran sputtered. "I am not clutter! I am a knight of the Third Order of the—"
"Unchain him," the clerk told the guards, ignoring the tantrum. "And kick him out."
Saya.exe stopped working.
I blinked. Stared. Whipped around as the orcs started unfastening the knots with the gentle grace of bored butchers.
"Wait. Wait wait wait. What. What. WHAT."
Odran yelped as a chain was yanked off his wrist. "Told you!"
I turned back to the clerk, sputtering. "You—you can't—how—I've been sold like twelve times!"
The clerk looked up. Calm. Mildly curious. "Yes. I believe you."
"I've been sold in Toemacha, in the vineyards outside Haligabalt, in the brothel pits of—look!" I yanked my tunic down just enough to show the faded lattice of brand marks on my hip, ribs, thigh. "Temple of Bleeding Hearts, Sabrabena. They stamped me like imported fruit."
The clerk leaned forward, adjusted his monocle, and squinted.
"Ah," he said, nodding. "Yes, yes. Official temple branding. They likely had a writ of indenture or court order from the Sabrabena magistrate. Proper stamp, see the crescent and the blood drop? Classic paperwork job. Very clean."
"I—what—I—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"
He folded his hands. "No, Miss Saya. I am not. Paperwork. That's the difference. If you'd like to sell yourself, though—well. That would be easy. Those marks speak for themselves."
He reached for his ledger and a little brass bell.
"Shall I put you down for the next auction slot? It's just after the goat-herders and right before the wine girl with the singing mole."
I glared. Hard. My fists clenched. My jaw locked.
"Don't."
"As you wish." He set down the bell. "But the offer stands. You've got the look. Very classic. Exotic touch. Maybe a touch of northern blood? The bleached skin does sell."
I seethed.
Behind me, Odran stood awkwardly rubbing his wrists while trying not to flash the entire market. The orcs had already shoved him down the stairs.
He looked up and grinned. "I'm free now, right?"
I didn't answer.
Because I was too busy fantasizing about using a quill to stab a clerk. In the eye.