Sowhere in Regalith, Izara sat stiffly in her chair, her arms crossed as she watched the performance unfolding before her. The club was dimly lit, with flashes of colored lights sweeping over the stage where n twisted and danced in rhythmic motions. They wore nothing but tight G-string pants that barely covered anything, their sweat-covered bodies glistening under the glow.
The audience—mostly noblewon and a few lingering n—cheered loudly, clapping their hands together as they threw money at the perforrs. So won whistled and leaned forward eagerly, while others whispered amongst themselves, their eyes gleaming with excitent.
Izara, however, felt nothing but disgust.
Her nails dug into the fabric of her dress as she fought back the urge to look away.
Most people assud that when it ca to trafficking, won were the primary victims. The image of helpless girls being sold to greedy, depraved n was what ca to mind. But here, in the royal halls of Regalith, the situation was different.
They didn’t traffic won.
They trafficked n.
The royal family had deed won too "precious" to be sold. Instead, they built an empire off selling young n, boys barely in their twenties, parading them in front of noblewon who saw them as little more than playthings.
At first, Izara had tried to stop it. She had gone to her parents, pleaded with them, tried to convince them that this was wrong. But they had only laughed, dismissing her concerns as childish.
"This is tradition," her mother had said, sipping her wine with amusent. "You don’t understand how the world works, Izara. Won have always been controlled. Isn’t it ti we had a little fun?"
That had been years ago.
Now, Izara had stopped trying to reason with them.
Not because she had given up—but because she had learned sothing valuable.
No matter what she said, no matter what she did, they wouldn’t change.
But that didn’t an she couldn’t change things herself.
"This is revolting," she muttered under her breath, shifting in her chair.
The man beside her chuckled, leaning closer. "Princess, you say that every ti."
Mario, the club’s manager, was an eccentric man. He wore a rainbow-colored suit, his beard an odd patchwork of dark and silver hairs, resembling eagle feathers. He was always grinning, always scheming, the mastermind behind making sure the n were "trained" properly before they were put on display.
"You know my stance on this, Mario," Izara said sharply. "Stop acting like I’ll ever approve."
Mario rolled his eyes. "And yet, here you are, sitting front and center. Your father made sure of it."
Izara clenched her fists. That was true. She hadn’t co here willingly. Her father had ordered her to evaluate the new batch of captives, and if she refused, there would be consequences.
She had learned a long ti ago that defying the king openly was a mistake.
"You want to get this over with?" Mario sighed, stretching. "Co on, then. There’s soone else you need to see."
Reluctantly, Izara followed him through a narrow hallway, leaving behind the loud music and the cheering crowd. The deeper they went, the quieter it beca, until they reached a heavy door at the end of the hall.
Mario pushed it open, revealing a cold, dimly lit room.
Inside, a group of young n sat in silence, their wrists bound with tal cuffs. So had bruises, evidence of a struggle before they were taken. Others simply stared at the floor, their expressions hollow, their spirits broken.
Mario crouched beside one of them, running his hand along the boy’s face. "This one is beautiful," he mused. "If we shave his stubble and add a little makeup, he’ll pass as a woman."
The boy flinched violently, his muffled cries barely audible through the gag tied around his mouth.
Izara’s stomach twisted.
"I’m done here," she said abruptly, turning on her heel.
Mario didn’t stop her, but just as she reached the door, his voice followed.
"You’re going to see him, aren’t you?"
Izara froze.
"I haven’t told your parents," he continued smoothly, "yet."
Slowly, she turned back, her jaw tightening. "You promised."
"I did," Mario admitted, standing up. "But at the end of the day, I work for them, not you."
Izara’s eyes narrowed.
"I’ve been covering for you for years," Mario said. "I watched you struggle, telling yourself you’d fix things, but you still haven’t done anything."
"You think this is easy?" she snapped. "I have to do everything alone."
"Then ask for help," Mario said simply, his expression unreadable. "You need to act before it’s too late. Your brother’s life is in your hands now."
Izara inhaled sharply, trying to calm the storm in her chest.
She had no ti left.
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her pace quickening as she made her way to the place Mario had been hiding him.
When she reached the door, her breath caught.
Steeling herself, she pushed it open.
There, lying on a thin mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling, was Edward.
Her older brother.
The one their parents had disowned.
Edward had been the firstborn, the rightful heir to the throne. But he hadn’t been what they wanted. He hadn’t been "strong enough," hadn’t been "obedient enough." And so, they had cast him aside, erasing his existence from history.
But he wasn’t.
Mario had saved him, hidden him away in the shadows of the kingdom.
Now, here he was—weak, frail, barely a shell of the brother she had once known. After her parents had used him countless tis, he’d lost himself in the process of it all. But they didn’t care at all. All they cared about was the money he was bringing in.
It was a sad reality. No one had to teach her the right thing, she had to teach herself all of that.
Edward felt a presence in his space and turned to look at her with curiosity laced in his gaze.
"Who are you?" He asked.
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