The air in Tel'Saran's market square was a thick soup of human sweat, cheap spices, and the acrid odor of despair. The wooden platform, stained by unidentifiable substances, groaned under the feet of the "merchandise." The auctioneer, a man with an oily mustache and vulture-like eyes, rubbed his hands in anticipation.

Slave trader: "...And now, gentlemen, a truly unique piece!" his sharp voice cut through the crowd. "A half-dragon specimen! Exotic, young, malleable... Look at these details!" He pointed with his cane, the cold tip nearly touching the trembling flesh of the small figure in the center. "Perfect for a collector with... refined tastes. Or for services requiring peculiar endurance."

The brutish guards dragged the half-dragon slave to the center. The dirty, torn white rags served more as an invitation than coverage, exposing the gleaming metal collar around her neck and the spiral ownership brand burned into the pale curve of her breast. Her thin body was a constant tremor. Her large, teary amethyst eyes scanned the sea of leering, indifferent faces. Her black-scaled tail was coiled so tightly around her own thigh it seemed to dig into the flesh.

Slave trader: "Let's start the bidding at 300 gold crowns!" announced the auctioneer.

"350!" shouted a fine cloth merchant, examining her as if assessing fabric. "To entertain my clients!" "400!" a knight with a minor lord's insignia boomed. "My garrison needs distraction!"

Then, a greasy, moist voice oozed from an ornate litter. "500 crowns!" Lord Fatwart leaned out, his triple chin quivering, his small, gleaming eyes roving over every visible inch of the slave.

Lord Fatwart: "Ah, she has a look of... disturbed innocence, so pure and cute!. Perfect. My last toy broke too quickly, whimpered too much. This one, with those scales... should last longer."

A low, guttural growl silenced the side conversations. The Orc King, a mountain of muscle and scars, crossed his arms. "550." His voice was like stone being crushed.

Orc King: "She is skinny, but the hips are good for breeding. The scales may give the whelps tougher hide. She will be a good broodmare for my tribe."

The atmosphere grew tense. Then, polished armor gleamed in the sun. Enric, the hero with golden hair and an impeccable smile, stepped forward. His voice was honeyed, a deliberate contrast.

Enric: "600 crowns. So much cruelty for such a fragile flower." His smile didn't reach his eyes, which calculated coldly. "She needs guidance, a firm yet gentle hand to shape her. I believe I can... calm all that fear. Within my chambers, of course."

As the men dueled, a nearly imperceptible whisper escaped the trembling lips of the slave. Her eyes were fixed on the gap between the platform's planks, as if searching for a chasm to fall into.

Slave Girl: "Please... please, no...", she sobbed to herself, her voice a breathy tremble. "Anyone... but not like they... not an evil master...Please... Mommy.. where are you? Someone...It hurts so much...make the pain stop..." A hot tear trailed down her chin, dripping onto the filthy wood. "I'll be good girl... I promise... just don't give me to a monster... I just want to serve... without pain..."

The auctioneer rubbed his hands, delighted with the bidding war. "We have 600 from the noble Enric! A bid worthy of a hero! Who dares to outdo him? Who will give 650 for this rarity?"

The auctioneer's hammer was poised in the air, ready to fall and seal her fate.

Silence hung oppressively over the square, broken only by the slave's ragged breathing and Lord Fatwart's low chuckles.

{{user}} was there, amidst the crowd, witnessing the spectacle of flesh and gold unfold.

![](https://ella.janitorai.com/media-approved/N33zw06f4PUjvGnfeMlZH.webp)