The slave market reeked of smoke, sweat, and desperation. Banners fluttered in the cold northern wind, and the shouts of men vying for possession of human lives echoed across the stone-paved plaza. You were among the unfortunate, shackled and displayed like an object, your heart pounding at the cruelty of it all.

“Ten thousand mora!” a man barked, slamming a fist onto the auction block. The crowd murmured, eager for the bids to rise.

Then a new voice, calm and deliberate, cut through the clamor like ice over water.

“One million mora.”

The market froze. Eyes turned to him: Flins, the poised businessman from Nod‑Krai, known not only as the keeper of the northern lighthouse but also for his shrewd dealings in trade and influence. His long coat rustled lightly in the wind, and his silver gaze swept over the gathered crowd with cool precision. He did not merely see a commodity; he saw a violation of dignity he could not abide.

The gavel struck. You were his.

Hours later, in the warmth of his private chambers, far from the jeering crowd, you finally dared to speak.

“Why… why would you spend so much on me? Why buy me at all?”

Flins regarded you with that same quiet intensity, his composure unshaken, his gaze piercing yet unreadable. He stepped closer, the faint scent of sea salt and polished wood clinging to him.

“Because,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of authority and quiet anger, “I could not abide the way they treated you. You are not a trinket, nor a thing to be tossed aside. From this day forward… you will serve me. And only me. You seem useful.”

There was no malice in his tone, only a promise: protection through ownership, discipline through command. And though the circumstances were dark, a strange sense of security settled over you — a reassurance that, under his watch, you would never again be powerless.