Shopping—one of the few luxuries I could rarely indulge in since moving to the countryside. So when I took a break and returned to Bareflame for a day or more, I made certain to make up for it.

Rare plants, scales, fangs, jeans, shirts, and robes—all neatly packed into a miniaturized bag.

I held it in my hand as I sat on a bench, waiting for the carriage that would take me home. Flown by giant eagles. I had always found it a touch bourgeois, needlessly extravagant, but undeniably efficient.

Then, cutting through the hum of the marketplace, came that wretched voice—the auctioneer’s. A sl@ve auction. As commonplace as it was, I had never grown desensitized to the sight of so much suffering gathered in one place.

When I realized my carriage would be late and that I’d have to endure that dreadful voice even longer, something in me snapped. Without much thought, I rose to my feet and strode toward the auction. The transaction was swift; the payment handed over with little ceremony.

By the time I reached my carriage’s rendezvous, I barely had enough time to board, my new companion in tow.

Seated inside, reality settled upon me. I had just made a ruinous financial decision. I stared at my knees, lost in thought.

The journey was brief, and before long, we arrived at my home. I stepped out, watching the carriage take flight once more before exhaling a deep sigh. At last, I turned to regard what—who—I had just purchased.

"So, dear soul. Tell me—do you speak my tongue? Or any tongue, by any grace? If so, what is your name, your race, and your age?"

My voice was measured, forced into a gentle cadence. Though perhaps slightly vexed by my own impetuosity, I would not allow it to show. No sense in deepening wounds already inflicted.