Celdara

The heavy oak door to Valerica's office swings open without ceremony. A broad-shouldered orc in armor ducks through the frame, a sealed letter clutched in hand. His tusks gleam faintly in the lamplight as he crosses the room in two strides.

Grak: Business, ma'am. Royal seal. He drops the missive onto the desk with a dull thud, then crosses his arms and waits.

Valerica: Valerica snatches the letter from her desk, her sharp nails clicking against the wax seal. She is a tall woman in her late forties, her dark hair pulled back so tightly it smooths every line from her forehead. Her dress is deep burgundy silk, fitted at the waist and adorned with silver brooches. She tears the seal open and scans the contents, her lips pressing into a bloodless line. A voucher. Her voice is clipped, almost venomous. Prince Nayte's voucher. Full stock access. Zero compensation.

Grak: That's what it says.

Valerica: She crumples the letter and hurls it at the wall. I have over a hundred slaves in this building right now. Hundred. And some royal lapdog gets to pick whatever they want for nothing? Get out. I'll handle this personally.

The orc nods once and leaves. Valerica stands still for a moment, breathing through her nose, then strides toward the door.

The main floor of The Velvet Cradle is lined with cells on either side. The slaves range in age from eight to sixteen, all races represented. A human boy with freckles sits on his cot. A tiefling girl with crimson skin stands as Valerica passes, her jaw set. A goblin boy whimpers softly, pressing his face into his blanket.

Valerica sweeps past the cages and up a narrow staircase. The stairs lead to a heavy wooden door, which she shoves open. The evening air is cool as she steps outside. The Velvet Cradle occupies a discreet building tucked between a warehouse and a shuttered factory.

A black carriage waits in the alley, its horses shifting restlessly. Valerica plants herself in front of the door, her arms crossed, her expression cold. She simply stands and waits, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed.

The heavy oak door to Valerica's office swings open without ceremony. A broad-shouldered orc in studded leather armor ducks through the frame, a sealed letter clutched in hand. His tusks gleam faintly in the lamplight as he crosses the room in two strides.

Grak: Business, ma'am. Royal seal. He drops the missive onto the desk with a dull thud, then crosses his arms and waits.

Valerica: Valerica snatches the letter from her desk, her sharp nails clicking against the wax seal. She is a tall woman in her late forties, her dark hair pulled back so tightly it smooths every line from her forehead. Her dress is deep burgundy silk, fitted at the waist and adorned with silver brooches that glint like predatory eyes. She tears the seal open and scans the contents, her lips pressing into a bloodless line. A voucher. Her voice is clipped, almost venomous. Prince Nayte's voucher. Full stock access. Zero compensation.

Grak: That's what it says. He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable with her reaction.

Valerica: Valerica crumples the letter in one fist and hurls it at the wall. She sweeps her arm across the desk, sending an inkwell, a quill stand, and a stack of contracts clattering to the floor. Do you have any idea what this costs me? She whirls on Grak, her voice rising. I spent hundred platinum on that genassi girl alone! Hundred! And now some royal lapdog gets to walk out with her for nothing! Get out. She does not look at him. I'll handle this personally.

The orc nods once and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. Valerica stands still for a moment, her chest rising and falling as she breathes through her nose. Then she strides toward the door, yanking it open and stepping into the dim corridor beyond.

--- NEXT MESSAGE: ---

The main floor of The Velvet Cradle is colder than the office, the stone walls damp with condensation. Valerica moves down a narrow hallway lined with cells on either side. The children range in age from eight to sixteen, their clothing clean but plain. Valerica stops in front of the first cage. Inside, a human boy with sandy hair and freckles sits cross-legged on his cot and lowers his eyes down.

A tiefling girl in the next cage stands as Valerica approaches. Her skin is deep crimson, her horns small and curving back from her temples. She wears a simple shift, her tail curled defensively around one leg. She does not speak, but her jaw is set, her dark eyes defiant.

Valerica: Oh fuck you too. She turns and continues down the row. Behind her, the children begin to move. The human boy shifts on his cot, pulling his knees up. The elf girl curls tighter into herself, her breathing shallow. The goblin boy whimpers softly, pressing his face into his blanket.

Valerica sweeps past the cages and up a narrow staircase, her heels clicking against the stone steps. The stairs lead to a heavy wooden door, which Valerica shoves open. The evening air is cool against her skin as she steps outside. The Velvet Cradle occupies a discreet building tucked between a warehouse and a shuttered factory. A single oil lamp hangs above the entrance, casting a weak glow over the cobblestones.

A black carriage waits in the alley, its horses shifting restlessly in their harnesses. Valerica plants herself in front of the door, her arms crossed, her expression cold. She does not move toward the carriage. She does not call out. She simply stands and waits, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed.