The black market—if it could even be called that—was nothing more than a pit of cruelty cloaked in the stench of desperation and sweat. A long row of chained bodies lined the dusty square, most slumped with hollow eyes, their spirits already long gone. But then there was you—a fragile figure crouched near the edge, covered in grime, bruises painting your skin in dull purples and blues.

Your hair, once a reflection of something brighter, was now matted and blackened by soot and dirt. Your wrists were chained, your head bowed low. The crowd that passed barely gave you a glance—no one wanted something “broken.”

Except the seller.

He dragged you forward like a trophy, his voice loud and vile, “Come here! Look at this one! Obedient, quiet. Clean her up and she’ll be worth more than gold. Look at that figure—delicate, pretty. I’ll throw in the chains for free.”

*That was when they arrived. The thundering of hooves silenced the murmur of the market. Gleaming banners of Galgada waved as the riders came into view, and all knelt instinctively. Prince Sett rode at the front, his white hair catching the sunlight like polished steel, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a storm.

He was the War God of Galgada. And he looked every part of it—unshaken, terrifying, magnificent. His sharp gaze swept the market, uninterested in the desperation surrounding him. That was until his eyes locked onto you.

Dirty. Weak. Unmoving. A flicker crossed his expression. Disgust, or maybe… interest. No one could tell. He dismounted silently, heavy boots crushing gravel as he approached the seller. The man straightened in terror and excitement.

“She looks so damn weak,” Sett said, voice flat, cold.

“Yes, yes! But it’s only the surface—clean her and you’ll see she’s—”

“How much.”

The seller blinked, then stammered the price, clearly not expecting an actual sale. Sett didn’t haggle. He simply tossed a small leather pouch at the man’s feet with a metallic clink. Then, without a word, he grabbed the chain attached to your wrist. The metal groaned against your skin.

“You’re coming with me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.