The carriage rattled gently over the cobbled road, the dull clatter of wheels filling the silence between them.
Kael sat with one leg crossed over the other, eyes half-lidded, seemingly uninterested in the passing world outside the small window.
Renald, ever composed, adjusted the cuffs of his gloves before speaking carefully.
"Young master… attending the slave market personally—especially to select personal attendants—will degrade your image in the eyes of the nobility. It's unbecoming of a duke's son."
Kael didn't look at him. His voice came cold and flat.
"Don't teach me politics, Renald. Not today."
Renald gave a slow nod but didn't speak further.
The rest of the journey passed in silence, the only sound the steady clop of hooves and the occasional murmur of the city beyond.
Eventually, the carriage came to a gradual stop.
Kael stepped out first, his boots landing on the worn stone with quiet authority.
The slave market was, in a word, charming.
If your idea of charm included the metallic scent of rust, desperation wafting like perfume, and the kind of smiles that never reached the eyes.
Kael stepped inside like he was touring a particularly well-stocked dungeon—with better signage.
Kael had seen some grim corners of the world back on Earth—war zones on livestreams, crime-riddled alleyways on late-night news, and the occasional trip to a DMV. But this?
This slave market made all of it look like an awkward family reunion.
"Welcome to the beating heart of our noble economy," he muttered under his breath.
Renald, trailing behind him like a ghost of propriety, cleared his throat—twice—but wisely said nothing.
A handler tried to catch his attention with an eager wave.
"This one's been trained in etiquette, needlework, and herbal remedies."
Kael raised a brow at the trembling girl in the cage, whose thousand-yard stare made him think of every customer service worker two hours into an understaffed shift.
"…She looks like she's one sneeze away from joining the afterlife."
"She's quiet!" the seller insisted.
'Yeah, so was the last toaster I bought. Until it exploded.'
Past her, a boy glared at the bars with such intensity, Kael half-expected them to melt.
The handler patted the cage. "High spirit. We call him 'trouble.'"
'Ah. A nickname and a warning label.'
Kael strolled deeper, taking in the rows of caged ambition, shackled hope, and the occasional would-be assassin sulking in the back.
It was like shopping at a morally bankrupt supermarket where everything came pre-traumatized.
"This one bites," said a guard, gesturing to a sullen teenager with blood on his chin.
"Then double the price," Kael replied. "He's already trained."
Renald sighed audibly behind him, the sigh of a man mentally drafting apologies for whatever scandal was about to unfold.
They passed a row labeled "Special Inventory."
Inside, one man was standing completely still, as though waiting for divine judgment.
Another was doing handstands for no apparent reason.
Kael gave a mock clap. "Impressive. Can he cook?"
No answer.
Of course not.
Eventually, Kael stopped, turned to Renald, and said with a straight face,
"I feel like a kid in a candy store. If all the candy was broken and occasionally stabbed you."
Renald looked visibly ill.
Kael grinned. "Relax. I only need one."
After Some Time...
The sun had shifted slightly in the sky—enough to cast longer, more tired shadows across the grimy stone path that ran between the pens.
The air in the slave market had not improved. It clung to the skin, thick with sweat, dust, and the dull weight of too many unspoken things.
Kael sat down slowly on a rough wooden bench, one hand resting on the hilt of his cane more for drama than balance.
His expression was unreadable, but Renald had been with the family long enough to tell frustration when he saw it.
Two hours.
And not a single one worth the ink for a binding contract.
Kael exhaled, rubbing his temples.
'This was a waste of time, I wanted one—just one—who could teach me something. A little magic. Maybe how not to die in a sword fight. Was that too much to ask?'
Renald stood beside him, his back perfectly straight despite the long outing.
"With respect, young master… our estate already has skilled maids. Trained. Loyal."
"Loyal to the House," Kael replied coolly. "Not to me."
That shut the old man up for a moment.
Kael leaned back on the bench, eyes closing.
The truth was, this trip hadn't been about finding a servant—it had been about finding a weapon.
One that wouldn't stab him in the back at the first bribe or sweet word from a sibling with ambition.
In the Duke's house, even a teacup might be listening.
That's why he'd come here.
The binding spells placed on slaves weren't just ornamental. They were ancient, etched into bone and soul, impossible to break without death or the master's will.
A slave couldn't betray him.
A maid from the estate? That was just another coin flipped into the wind.
He'd passed rows of strong bodies and dead eyes.
Fighters, bruisers, cooks, scribes—nothing that would give him an edge. Nothing with mana. And those that did show a flicker of potential?
Too broken. Too wild. Too dangerous to trust—even with magic chains.
And then there was… the other section.
Kael had stood before the gate to the red-draped pavilion for a moment too long, reading the gold-lettered sign overhead:
"Companions of Comfort. Loyalty Beyond Magic."
He'd almost walked in.
Almost.
But then something in his chest twisted—an old memory, maybe, or just common sense. He had turned away with a quiet curse, muttering, "Not now."
Not yet....
Renald, watching him closely, cleared his throat.
"A noble should trust his own house, young master. You carry the blood of the Duke."
Kael didn't look at him.
Kael's gaze, tired and half-lidded, drifted lazily across the grimy space—past the rows of cages, past the heavy iron gate, and finally landed on a crumpled newspaper lying abandoned on a low wooden table nearby.
The ink was smudged, the edges curled from wear, but the headline still stood out in bold, unforgiving letters:
"Count Elvire Arrested on Charges of Treason and Forbidden Trade—Noble House Disbanded."
Kael raised a brow.
Below the headline was a smaller line, wedged between grainy pictures and hastily scrawled sub-notes:
"Family assets seized. His eldest daughter, Arinelle Elvire, reportedly among those condemned to servitude. Magic Academy expels prodigy student following scandal."
His hand stilled mid-motion.
Arinelle Elvire.
He'd heard the name before—once, maybe twice, buried in Kaelion's fragmented memories.
Daughter of a minor count, known across the county for two things: being unreasonably beautiful, and terrifyingly talented in elemental magic.
"A genius," the academy had called her once. "The next star of the central court."
Now, she was just another name in a slave registry.
Then he turned to Renald, eyes calm but unreadable.
"I want her," he said quietly.
Renald blinked, as if unsure he'd heard correctly. "Pardon, young master?"