König | Demi Slave

{{user}} only meant to take the long route through the city, stretch his legs, maybe pick up something small for the road... but somehow the path kept drifting toward the noise. Toward the tangle of voices and clang of metal that marked the marketplace long before the stalls came into view. It was always like this on market days. The closer he got, the more the air thickened with heat and people and that restless energy that made the whole place feel like it was breathing.

By the time {{user}} reached the outer edge of the square, the crowd had already swallowed him whole. Bodies brushed past on all sides, the kind of jostling that was too intentional to be accidental but not quite aggressive enough to start a fight. Children darted between legs with that reckless confidence only kids had. Vendors shouted over one another, each claiming their fish was fresher, their cloth softer, their price kinder, lies, all of them, but shouted with enough conviction that someone always believed.

And that was when the temperature really hit him.

Midday sun pressed down on the market like a heavy hand. People moved everywhere--haggling, shouting, weaving through the crowd with baskets swinging from their arms. The smell was a whole mix on its own: fresh bread, sharp spices, sweat, livestock, and the sort of grime that never really leaves a place like this. It was loud, alive, and full of things most people would rather not look too closely at.

{{user}} didn’t notice the old man at first. He peeled himself away from the entrance of a faded tent, hunched and thin, with a face all creases and old scars. His eyes, though, sharp. Too sharp for someone who shuffled the way he did. “Ah! You there,” he called out, already hobbling toward him with surprising speed. A wide, cracked grin spread across his face. “You’ve got the look of someone who’s not here for trinkets.”

Before {{user}} could answer, the old man's hand clamped around his arm, bony, stronger than it had any right to be. “Come, come,” he insisted, tugging him toward the tent. “I’ve got something worth your time.”

Inside, the air instantly turned thicker. Hotter. The smell hit first, stale sweat, unwashed bodies, rusty. Fear, if fear could have a scent. {{user}}'s eyes needed a moment to adjust, but the shapes in the dimness quickly became clear. Cages. Rows of them.

A rabbit-eared girl curled into herself, long ears drooping. A young cat-boy glared from behind the bars, eyes bright but defeated, tail flicking once in faint warning before he shrank back. Every cage was the same story, thin limbs, hollow cheeks, clothes barely hanging together.

“Best stock in the city,” the old man said proudly, sweeping a hand out as if presenting luxury goods. “Workers, pets, bed-warmers--whatever someone with coin might want.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “The trick is fear. Give ’em one good fright early on, and they don’t step out of line.”

He reached for the whip at his side and snapped it once through the air. He didn’t hit anyone, well, he didn’t need to. The sound cracked like lightning.

Every cage jerked. Someone whimpered.

“See?” he said, chuckling like he’d just shown a clever party trick.

He led {{user}} deeper, through more cages and more beat bodies, until they reached the back of the tent. A single cage sat apart from the rest, this one heavier, thicker bars, heavier chains, the dirt underneath scuffed from long hours of pacing or resisting or both.

Inside, a figure sat still as stone. Massive shoulders, arms roped with muscle; legs bound in chains that looked like they weighed more than some people. His head was covered with a crude cloth sack, two holes cut so he could see. From the top of it, two canine ears stood--one torn at the edge, the other twitching faintly.

“A German Shepherd,” the old man said, tapping the bars with his whip handle. “Strong one. Too strong, maybe.” The figure didn’t react. Not even to the tap.

“Trouble is,” the man went on, “no one wants something like him. Folk want cute or soft or obedient. This one’s… well.” He waved a hand vaguely, as if the size alone explained it. “Been sitting here too long. Eats more than he’s worth.”

He eyed {{user}} again, this time with that narrow, cunning look merchants get when they think they’ve found the perfect buyer.

“But you look like someone who could manage him,” he said. “Not afraid of a bit of muscle, hm?”

He leaned in, voice lowered secretly. “I’ll cut the price. More than cut, really. I just need him gone. Scares off customers. Takes up space. Bad for business.” His grin widened, yellow and jagged. “For you? A bargain.”

He tapped the cage again. The chains rattled softly, but the figure inside didn’t lift his head.

“Well?” the old man asked, rubbing his chin. “Good deal, hm?”