Mirelle pointed her finger forward.
Lugh traced the path with his eyes, following the line of her finger until his gaze landed on a building so distance away.
"That’s the bar,"
She said plainly.
He frowned.
"I’m not too sure about this."
"Oh, quit your whining,"
Sela cut in, voice half-mocking.
He splayed his arms.
"I’m only fifteen."
"Don’t worry,"
Mirelle added, her tone amused.
"They also serve fruit juice."
Under the cloak of darkness, an inconspicuous carriage rolled quietly down the winding streets of Pyrellis.
The journey had been long and wearying, but the destination was now in sight. The vehicle had officially crossed the water channel—a network of interconnected systems that ford a near-perfect circular boundary around the core area of the city.
Originally, that was where the city had ended.
The architects who first designed Pyrellis had structured it so that the water channels spanned throughout, marking both utility and limit.
Over the years, however, the city had grown and expanded. Settlents had spread out around that channel, forming a wide, sprawling ring.
And thus, Pyrellis had co to be divided into two distinct parts: the core—the original design and its structures—and the outskirts, which had long since exceeded the size of those initial plans.
Given that the core area alone was already expansive, the new additions made Pyrellis one of the largest cities in all of Ophris.
Depending on where one was headed, intercity travel could take entire days. That duration, however, had been drastically reduced with the arrival of railways and the trains that now stitched the vast landscape together.
The carriage in question bore no family emblem, no seal or crest. Yet it was unmistakably high in quality—its make fine, its materials expensive.
It ca to a stop in one of the most dilapidated areas of the outskirts: the slums.
Having made all necessary preparations in advance, Victor Aelhurst descended from the vehicle, landing with a faint thud.
He imdiately scrunched his nose at the overwhelming stench that greeted him.
Disgusted, he straightened his coat and began a slow, steady walk toward the location that had been provided to him.
For this particular visit, he had deliberately chosen not to bring any guards or servants, opting instead for a hired carriage driver with no ties to him.
His boots crunched softly against the dirt-streaked ground as he moved, taking care to avoid scattered shards of broken glass and garbage littering the street.
Eventually, he found the place.
It was a shabby house with a slanted, broken roof—bare at the top, as though a single harsh gust could send the entire structure collapsing inward. He stared at it skeptically.
Was this the place?
Suppressing his doubts, he stepped up and knocked on the door—two short raps, then one long.
A sharp, cautious voice echoed from inside.
"Who is it?"
Victor replied in a flat tone.
"A man of business."
"...Who sent you?"
"Nobody."
A long pause followed.
An eerie stillness crept into the space between them. Then the voice from inside broke character—its tone shifting.
"I’m sorry, but I need to be sure of one thing. Did nobody send you? Or were you sent by Nobody?"
Victor’s lips twitched.
What the hell was this fool talking about?
He cleared his throat and answered dryly,
"I was sent by Nobody."
Another long silence.
"...So... Nobody sent you?"
"Are you a codian, my friend?"
His patience was beginning to erode.
The voice behind the door chuckled.
"Who, ? Please. Friends are scarce in these trying tis. You know, just the other day my—"
"Open. The. Door."
Victor enunciated each word.
"Oh. Right, right."
A series of quick unlatches followed. The rusty hinges gave a long, drawn-out groan as the door creaked open.
"Welco, my good sire,"
Said the slender man standing in the doorway. He gave a mocking bow—a horrid parody of formality.
Victor frowned in open displeasure but chose not to respond. He got straight to the point.
"Where are the goods?"
"They’re in the inner rooms,"
The man said, rubbing his hands together.
Victor stepped inside and gave the place a quick scan. The interior was poorly lit, illuminated only by a single candle lting into a puddle of wax on a crooked table.
Three n sat at that table, wordless and still, playing cards with tired eyes.
He glanced toward the corner of the room. A lone woman sat there, tattoos running along her arms and neck. Her eyes followed him like a predator’s—asuring, wary.
"Humph."
Victor muttered, already regretting his decision to co here.
He barked out another command.
"Well, don’t dally. Show to them."
"Oh—uh—right this way."
The skinny man gestured, leading him toward a back room.
When they entered, the sight that greeted them was worse than Victor had expected.
Ten boys. Each around the age of fifteen. Dirty, thin, wrapped in ragged clothing. So were asleep, curled up on makeshift bedding. Others watched the two n with hollow, suspicious eyes.
The stench in here was even worse than it had been outside.
"Stupid elves..."
Victor muttered under his breath, pulling out a silk handkerchief to cover his nose.
The man beside him gave a smug smile.
"As ordered. Ten people, all aged fifteen."
Victor narrowed his eyes.
"You’re fast."
"Thank you, sir."
The man grinned wide, yellowing teeth bared.
"Your requirents for age made it difficult, but in the end—"
"That’s not what I ant,"
Victor interrupted.
The man’s grin faltered.
"...What do you an?"
Victor stared at him directly.
"Slaves?"
The air in the room turned cold.
Slavery was strictly forbidden in Ophris. Anyone caught practicing it was hunted with ruthless efficiency.
The ban had been enforced by the Church, whose Inquisition had been instruntal in stamping out the trade.
Though the practice had survived in corners, it was heavily restricted. Those who dabbled in it faced risk of complete annihilation.
Victor needed these youths for reasons tied directly to his own survival—but he wasn’t about to get implicated in anything that could draw the Church’s eye.
If the Inquisition ca knocking, there’d be nowhere to hide.
Fortunately, his suspicions were t with a dismissive chuckle.
"Don’t worry, good sir. We’re engaged in nothing of the sort."
The man stepped forward and gestured around him.
"Most of these kids are orphans. Volunteers. People who’ve got nowhere to go, no one to care for them. People who don’t even know how they’ll eat tomorrow."
He smiled proudly.
"They’re willing to take a risk... for the potential rewards."
"I’m a human trafficker, not a slaver,"
He declared, as if the distinction earned him moral credit.
Victor’s eyebrow twitched again.
He turned to leave—only for the man to suddenly step in front of him, blocking his path.
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