Cold water hit her like a slap.

  Katharina gasped and flinched, the shock of it tearing her back into consciousness. She coughed as it sloshed down her chest, goosebumps forming as the air hit her bare skin.

  Where the… where is my shirt?

  Her thoughts stumbled clumsily over the realization. She shifted, eyes darting downward. Her upper body was exposed save for the soaked bra that clung to her.

  If they were gonna undress me, why not just strip me naked?

  But she was relieved that whoever took her shirt hadn't taken more.

  Her skin prickled from the temperature, but her limbs refused to respond properly. She was slumped against a stone wall, her hands bound above her by a coarse rope tied tight around her wrists. Everything ached. Her shoulders, her jaw, her head. Especially her head, a pounding, fogged pressure like a hangover mixed with whiplash. Where am I?

  Before her thoughts could settle, a woman knelt beside her, older, blank-faced, with sleeves rolled high. She carried a rough cloth in one hand and began scrubbing at Katharina’s skin without a word. It wasn’t gentle. Every pass of the rag felt like sandpaper across her arms and stomach, and when the cloth reached the dark bruise that had formed in the shape of a large hand on her upper arm, the woman paused. She clicked her tongue, a sharp, disappointed sound, and muttered something in the same unintelligible language Katharina had begun to dread.

  Her fingers grazed Katharina’s cheek, where the rune-stone had left a small gash. This time, the woman sighed more deeply and shook her head in silent judgment. And a sorrowful gaze, almost apologetic, met Katharina's dazed eyes.

  The rope around Katharina’s wrists was loosened. Her arms dropped limply to her sides, too sore to move. She barely had time to flex her hands before two familiar shapes stepped forward, the same men from before. No warning. No words. Just two meaty hands, each seizing a shoulder.

  She was lifted easily, one man on either side, and dragged forward with her feet skimming the ground. Her legs dangled, barely brushing the floor, and her toes caught every crack in the uneven stone. She didn’t struggle. Her body felt wrong, heavy, slow, like she was stuck underwater.

  They passed a few narrow windows. The light outside was soft and blue-grey, still morning perhaps, but not first light. Time had passed. It could be hours. She wasn’t in the same part of town anymore. Or the same town, maybe. Her mind reeled with the fragments of this morning: the woman, the coins, the silence.

  They brought her into a dim chamber. There was a long wooden bench pressed against one wall, and across from it, a desk with stacks of parchment and a lamp burning low. Behind the desk sat a man, younger than the brutes, well-groomed, dressed in layers of rich fabric stitched with understated detail. A merchant? A clerk? He looked her up and down, then muttered something to the men without looking at them directly.

  "??? ??? ?∞ ??? ??∞ナ?."

  They obeyed, clearly he was their master, and soon to be hers for all Katharina knew.

  She was dropped onto the bench like a bag of grain, the men still gripping her arms tightly to keep her still.

  The well-dressed man approached and took her jaw in one hand, not roughly, but not kindly either. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh beneath her cheekbone; his fingers slid along her jawline. He tilted her face and pushed her mouth open, gently but insistently. Katharina was too dazed to resist. Her lips parted. Her jaw slackened.

  With scrutinizing eyes, he peered in, tilting her head from side to side, then smiled.

  He turned to the desk behind him, picked up a narrow block of parchment, and jotted something down with fast, neat strokes.

  Then came the rest.

  He moved with efficiency, noting every small mark along her ribs and shoulders, pausing at an old scar near her collarbone, tapping once near her navel. When he reached her arm and saw the bruise, his face twisted into displeasure. He glanced up at the two men and said something clipped, curt.

  "°?? λ??? ??? ?? ????Ω? ??? Ω????."

  The tone was unmistakably annoyed. One of them shrugged, as if to say, 'Well, it's her own fault.'

  Katharina’s thoughts were swirling. He’s picking at me like I’m some animal. Trying to determine my value.

  She felt she was being inspected as nothing more than livestock.

  Her hands were lifted and examined next. The bloody knuckles made the man pause. His brows lowered in irritation. Still, he turned her palms up, tracing along the base of her fingers, feeling the softness of her skin. This time, he nodded. Pleased.

  Then he looked back up at her face, gleeful delight in his eyes. Like a schoolgirl, he started twirling the end of a strand of Katharina's long blond hair. She noticed that all the men had a similar dark brown hair color, and now that she thought about it, so did the woman and her husband.

  But before she could finish the thought, the man inspecting her had grabbed her head, twisting it forward, picking at her scalp.

  When he had finished, he returned to the desk. With a flick of his fingers and a barked word, the men took that as their cue.

  They lifted her again. Her legs worked now, weakly, but enough to keep her from dragging.

  They walked her down a short corridor, unlit and narrow, lined with doors, where the whimpering voices of countless people could be heard behind. They reached a door almost at the end and shoved it open. Inside was a cell. A small one. Iron bars. Cold floor. And a hard bench. Nothing else.

  One of the men tossed her inside with all the ceremony of discarding trash. She hit the stone on her side and let out a sharp breath.

  As the door swung shut behind her, one of the men grinned as he said something to her.

  "??’χχ ?? ??ナΦ 木?? °?? ?∞ナ? ??? ???∞??? Ω??? ????."

  She had no way of knowing what he had said, but she had a terrible feeling about it.

  Elsewhere in the capital, far from stone cells, morning arrived with a gentler hand. Sunlight slid across the polished floors of a grand townhouse, filtering through gauzy curtains and warming the edges of gold-inlaid mirrors. The air was scented with cedar, incense, and the faint smoke of a still-glowing hearth. A breeze whispered through a high-arched window, stirring a row of finely tailored capes lined on a rack.

  Prince Leopold of the Empire stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the fall of his collar with a careless precision only the truly beautiful could afford. His reflection was razor-sharp: straight blond hair flowing loosely over his shoulder, his face somehow both sharp and soft, and those damnably clear blue eyes that had earned him far too many favors over the years.

  Behind him, half-dressed and still buttoning the cuffs of a crisp tunic, Asbj?rn talked without pause.

  “I’ll need to swing by the slave merchant first. Got a tip that a new girl came in early this morning. Sounds interesting. Might have other good stock too - worth checking.”

  Leopold raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth curling. “You are always thinking of business.”

  Asbj?rn grinned without looking up, running a ringed hand through his fiery red hair as he tucked the hem of his embroidered vest into a belt of soft grey leather. “Well, I am going to be a duke one day. Someone’s got to keep the family coffers full, and the bloodline pretty.”

  “You sound like your father.”

  “That’s the idea,” Asbj?rn said, finally straightening and reaching for a military-style cloak. “Honor the Ravnsund name. Preserve the bloodline. Acquire beautiful things. It’s exhausting.”

  Leopold chuckled and chose his own cloak, a deep forest green one, lined with black velvet and modest gold thread. Plain by his standards. Regal by everyone else's.

  They weren’t in full regalia, no medals, no rings of station, no palace insignia. Just finely tailored tunics, dark trousers that caught the light like brushed ink, and cloaks made to blend in with the officer class. Discreet. Respectable. Just enough to command deference without being ostentatious.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Still, the illusion of subtlety didn’t last long.

  As they strolled down the broad stone streets of the city’s upper wards, heads turned. Women glanced sideways from café tables and carriage windows. A few stared openly. One girl nearly tripped over her dog’s leash.

  Asbj?rn noticed and smirked. “Maybe we should’ve brought the royal guard after all. With enough horns and banners, we could’ve cleared the road.”

  “And made it easier for my dear mother to find out I wasn’t at my morning briefings?” Leopold said dryly. “Hardly.”

  “Ah, yes, the Great Escape of His Highness the Crown Prince. Scandalous.”

  “Scandal is boring. This is just... self-preservation.”

  They exchanged a look, warm, amused, perfectly familiar. Old friends who knew too much and liked each other anyway.

  Their boots clicked in unison as they turned down a narrower street, where the buildings leaned in slightly and the scent of old stone and burnt sugar filled the air. The slave merchant was close now.

  They turned another corner, and the narrow alley spilled out suddenly onto a broad, bustling road. The city seemed louder here, carts creaked across the cobbles, hawkers called out in sharp voices, and the scent of roasting nuts tangled with the faint stink of sewage. Across the street stood a high iron gate, open at the mouth of a wide, sun-bleached courtyard.

  Two guards flanked the entrance. Not the kind placed to repel invaders. No, these men were turned inward, arms folded, eyes scanning the yard like predators watching a pen. Their job wasn’t to keep people out.

  It was to keep the merchandise in.

  Asbj?rn didn’t break stride. He crossed the street with the lazy confidence of someone used to being expected and welcomed. Leopold followed, only slightly behind, his hands tucked neatly into the folds of his cloak.

  A well-dressed man near the entrance looked up and beamed as they approached.

  “His Grace, Ravnsund!” the merchant called, his voice ringing with delight. “I had a feeling you’d come today!”

  Asbj?rn returned the smile, flashing his pearly whites. “Can’t resist a good opportunity. Word travels fast, it seems.”

  The two clasped hands and fell quickly into conversation, supply chains, shipping delays, new batches from inland provinces, and buyers with eccentric tastes. Their voices blended into the clamor of the yard.

  Leopold drifted away.

  He moved slowly through the courtyard, hands still tucked, posture loose, expression unreadable. Chained men and women sat along benches or low platforms. Most looked up as he passed. Some smiled too brightly. Others whispered half-formed promises in trembling voices.

  “I can serve-”

  “I’ll obey anything-”

  “You won’t regret-”

  He didn’t respond. He didn’t hear their words. Not really.

  Because the noise in his mind was already deafening.

  He didn't enjoy coming here on most days, but it could be amusing to observe the truly desperate, just once in a while. The weight pressed in from all sides.

  Desperation screamed from every corner, not in voices, but in thoughts, sharp, wordless things that clawed at the inside of his skull. Regret. Panic. Hope where there shouldn’t be any.

  Please, not that one, anyone but that one, I’m too thin, I’m too old, she’ll sell better, I can still work, I can be useful, I was good, I did everything they asked, don’t send me back, don’t send me back-

  It buzzed like flies.

  Among the cries was a different kind of thought mixed in, the lusting of the buyers. Faces dressed in wealth and dignity, but minds painted with filth.

  Nice hips on that one. A little bruised, but the mouth with such plump lips-

  She’d be perfect for my third house.

  Could I train two at once? Or three? Worth a try.

  And as a background symphony filling any quiet was the constant screaming, murmuring, jumbled mess of those minds that no longer were sound enough to form proper thoughts.

  A ruckus stirred at the far end of the courtyard, pulling Leopold’s attention.

  Two men were dragging a girl into view, no, not dragging. Carrying. One held her by the waist, the other by the shoulders, their arms straining as she writhed and twisted between them like a fish refusing to be landed. Her bare feet kicked against the packed dirt, and her head whipped from side to side, a mess of dusty-blond hair flaring around her.

  It struck him at once, blond, like that of old bloodlines, like the sealed portraits in the imperial archive. Like his own, though hers was coarser, streaked with dirt, and far less tamed. It was an unusual sight. Especially in chains.

  The men struggled to keep their grip but still managed to nod toward Asbj?rn with the strained professionalism of men trying not to drop a prize pig in front of a noble. Asbj?rn gave them a friendly nod in return.

  The girl was forced down. Her knees hit the ground with a muted thud, and before she could spring up again, they shackled her to a thick post at the center of the yard. Her breathing was heavy and fast, her chest rising with short, furious exhales. She hissed something sharp under her breath, but the words were impossible to place, not because they were muttered, but because they weren’t Empirian. Or any language Leopold knew.

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “What about that one over there?” Leopold asked, loud enough to cut through Asbj?rn’s conversation with the merchant.

  The well-dressed man followed his gaze, and a flicker of pride lit up his face.

  “Ah, yes! Just brought her in this morning. A fine specimen. Perfect teeth. Soft palms, not the hands of working people. And that hair-” He paused mid-sentence, suddenly aware of the gleam of Leopold’s own golden locks. He swallowed. “Well. You can see for yourself.”

  “I knew you had an eye for this sort of thing, Leo.” Asbj?rn chuckled, nudging the man in good humor.

  “If you stick around for a few more minutes,” the merchant offered, “you’ll get to see the branding.”

  "Really? I haven't seen that before, what do you say, Leo?"

  Leopold didn’t reply.

  He wasn’t listening. He could hear nothing; his ears were sharp, but they were focused on the enthralling sound of the girls' unintelligible complaints.

  He could hear the girl, not her voice, but her thoughts. Or rather, the sharp, chaotic edge of them. They were there, loud and vivid in his head, but twisted in a way he’d never encountered. Not like Empirian, not like any of the old dialects. Not like anything from this world.

  Hvad fanden har de nu gang i?! Skal jeg henrettes?

  It wasn’t the sound of her mind that caught him. It was the shape of it. Fast. Fragmented. Fiercely alive.

  And foreign.

  He stepped closer, just slightly, as if drawn by some current beneath the earth.

  Whatever she was saying in her mind, he couldn’t understand a word of it. And that, more than anything, made him want to hear more.

  “Her price isn’t finalized,” Asbj?rn said, his voice smooth behind Leopold’s shoulder. “They still have to measure her.”

  Leopold blinked, realizing how close he’d come. The girl was only a few strides away now, shackled and still panting.

  “I’m sure she won’t be cheap,” Asbj?rn went on, more to himself than anyone else. “But I just can’t pass up an opportunity like her.”

  While he chattered on, the well-dressed merchant had stepped forward and retrieved a glowing Metimur stone from a polished box. He held it in front of the girl, who had been forced to kneel, her arms shackled tightly behind her back. The stone pulsed faintly in his hand - white at first, then tinged with a warm amber glow.

  After a few quiet seconds, he nodded to himself and held up three fingers.

  The two men who had carried her stepped aside. From the far end of the yard, a smaller figure emerged: bent with age, draped in a soot-stained tunic. In one hand, he carried a long iron rod, and at its end glinted a curved branding seal, a perfect, circular sigil of binding.

  The girl twisted at the sound of approaching footsteps, her wild blond hair swinging as she snapped her head toward the noise. She started shouting again, incomprehensible syllables that cracked in her throat from panic and fury.

  The old man moved methodically. No hurry. No hesitation. He checked the brand, blowing on it as if to cool it, with eyes half closed, he murmured a final prayer. The girl’s cries grew louder. Angrier. The panic was rising with every second.

  Then, without warning, he raised the rod.

  And brought it down.

  The brand struck her left shoulder blade with a hiss.

  A heart-wrenching scream parted the girl's lips, but the sound was almost instantly overwhelmed by something else. A flicker of blinding light burst from her chest, just above the heart, with gold and white light strands pulsing out, breaking into shimmering sparkles in every color that hung in the air like falling embers.

  Then silence.

  Complete, dead silence.

  Her body slackened.

  She toppled forward as if time had slowed, her shoulder still smoking, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. As she fell, her head turned, and her gaze met Leopold’s.

  He froze, watching the girl with unwavering curiosity.

  As she fell, he saw the light leave her eyes. Her irises, once the bright blue of summer sky, dulled to a pale gray.

  Her head hit the dirt with a soft, final thud. Her limbs twitched until she came to a standstill along with everything in the courtyard, the tears trickling down her face being the only thing able to move.

  And in the empty quiet of her mind, one single thought repeated like a broken prayer:

  Det er bare en dr?m, det er ikke virkeligt. Det er bare en dr?m…