The wind carried the scent of salt and smoke as Oleksandr, Samorix, and Ivan approached the sprawling slave market on the Estonian coast. The faint roar of the sea mixed with the din of human activity ahead, growing louder with each step. The market rose like a fortress of commerce against the gray horizon, a vast cluster of tents, stalls, and makeshift wooden structures sprawling over the frozen ground.

"It’s a town in its own right," Samorix mutters, his one eye scanning the scene.

"Aye," Ivan replies. "Its entire economy runs on travelers and traders passing through. Anything you can imagine is bought and sold here, no questions asked."

The three men entered the bustling port town, finding themselves enveloped in chaos. The streets were packed with people of every origin imaginable. Northerners with pale skin and furs, easterners with brightly patterned robes, western merchants with wide-brimmed hats, and southern traders with dusky complexions all jostled for space in the crowded lanes.

Oleksandr’s sharp eyes swept over the market. Stalls overflowed with goods both mundane and exotic. Barrels of salted fish sat alongside piles of shimmering silks dyed in colors more vibrant than anything he’d seen. A merchant displayed alchemical ingredients, vials of glowing liquids and powders said to cure or kill depending on the price. Another hawked looted treasures—jewels pried from temples, rusted swords that had seen battle, and ancient maps promising riches in faraway lands. A group of men, evidently pirates by their swagger and scars, haggled over the price of exotic animals: a shrieking parrot with plumage like a sunset, a snarling leopard chained to a stake, and even a cage holding a strange, scaly creature Oleksandr had never seen before.

“Look there,” Ivan said, nodding toward a stall selling strange, pungent herbs. "That one’s dealing in drugs from the Far East. And there," he pointed to another stall brimming with dried fruits and honeyed pastries, "goods from the southern deserts."

As they walked further, they came upon the heart of the market: the slave pens. Rows of cages and platforms displayed men, women, and children of all races and ages. Some stood stoically, their faces hardened by despair, while others cowered in fear or sat slumped, resigned to their fate. A slaver shouted prices to a gathering crowd, his voice booming over the general clamor.

Oleksandr’s fists clenched at the sight. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Samorix gave him a sidelong glance, his weathered face unreadable.

Ivan, ever the pragmatist, spoke low. "Remember, no one can be taken here. The market is protected by the lord’s law. It’s safe—for them and for us. But once we leave this place, everything changes."

The three moved through the market, their purpose clear. Oddvarr was somewhere among this chaos. Oleksandr’s guts burned with a mix of anticipation and fury. He would find the man who had not only wronged his king but also doomed countless lives to this horrible fate. But here, in this lawless yet strangely orderly enclave, he would need to tread carefully.

As they passed a tent selling ornate weapons, Samorix chuckled grimly. "Aye, lad. This place is hell disguised as a carnival." Oleksandr didn’t reply. This was a place where the highest and the lowest brushed shoulders, bound together by commerce and greed. Slaves, stripped of dignity and identity, stood huddled in pens or chained to posts, their bodies shivering in the winter air. Some were emaciated to the bone, others young and vibrant—prized for their beauty or strength. They were commodities, nothing more.

In stark contrast, the wealthiest merchants paraded through the market on gilded chariots, their opulence dazzling. Draped in silks that shimmered like liquid gold and weighed down with jewels that caught the light in a thousand colors, they embodied excess. These people, mostly men but some women, commanded attention with their haughty laughter and imperious gazes, flanked by retinues of armed guards and exotic animals on leashes.

Between these extremes milled the masses—traders, sailors, mercenaries, pirates, vikings… and wanderers of every walk of life. The air was thick with the sharp scent of incense, the salt of the sea, and the unmistakable reek of unwashed bodies. The cries of hawkers selling everything from fine spices to looted relics mingled with the occasional crack of a slaver’s whip.

Oleksandr moved through it all, his keen eyes taking in every detail. The stark contrasts, the wealth flaunted alongside abject misery, churned his stomach. He caught sight of a young woman in chains, her head bowed low as a merchant prodded her forward with a stick, negotiating her price with a group of foreign buyers. She almost looked a bit like Savka, and it made his stomach churn.

They continued moving about, Oleksandr with his head high and his face a mask of stoic control. His towering frame and hardened expression parted the crowd as easily as a blade through flesh, yet every step through this place scraped at wounds he thought long buried. The sight of the slaves—shivering, bare, stripped of everything that made them human—hit him harder than he let on. He had been one of them once. Born into chains, alongside his twin brother. Memories flickered in his mind, unbidden: the cold floors of the slave barracks, the sting of a whip, Thekkur’s voice whispering promises of freedom in the dead of night.

But Thekkur was gone now, stolen from him by the cruelty of men. And the sight of these poor souls, their shaved heads and hollow eyes, was a brutal reminder of everything Oleksandr despised in this world.

Samorix muttered a curse under his breath, shaking his head at the spectacle around them. "This is what we fight to end, lad. This kind of evil. Makes my blood boil just lookin’ at it." Oleksandr didn’t respond immediately. He kept walking, his sharp eyes scanning the market, taking in every detail with the precision of a soldier. He had seen worse horrors in his time—fields of corpses, towns razed to the ground, men flayed alive. But this was different. This was personal.

He caught sight of a young boy, no older than ten, being dragged by a chain around his neck. The child stumbled, falling to his knees, and a slaver barked at him, yanking the chain hard enough to make the boy cry out. Oleksandr’s jaw tightened, the cords of his neck standing out like iron bands, but he forced himself to keep walking.

"Stay focused," Ivan said, sensing his rising tension. "We can’t fix this. Not here, not now."

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"I know," Oleksandr growled, his voice calm but edged with steel. Stoic as he was, the fire inside him burned hot. He despised these men, these merchants of misery, these dealers of despair, more than he could put into words. Every gilded chariot and jeweled hand that passed him was a reminder of the vast gulf between those who profited from this vile trade and those who suffered under it. He loathed it all—perhaps more than most—because he understood it better than anyone.

But he kept his face impassive, his steps steady. He would not lose himself here. There was a greater purpose ahead, and he needed to stay sharp. Oddvarr was somewhere in this den of degeneracy, and Oleksandr would find him.

The sights and sounds clawed at his mind, dragging him back to memories he’d buried deep. The cries of the young boy struck like a whip, echoing the ones he and Thekkur had uttered as children; the glint of chains caught his eye, flashing like the shackles that had once bitten into his own wrists. For a moment, the bustling crowd blurred, replaced by cold barracks and the acrid stench of unwashed bodies. His breath hitched, barely perceptible, but he forced it steady, locking the rising tide of rage and grief beneath the iron cage of his composure. He focused on each step, each detail around him, letting the present anchor him. Oddvarr. The name burned in his mind like a guiding star through the storm. Everything else could wait—this moment was about the mission, not the ghosts.

Oddvarr. Oddvarr. The name pounded in his mind as his eyes scanned.

"Ho! Oddvarr!" His mind went to a screeching halt as he heard the name spoken in the distance, just as his mind played it. Oleksandr tensed on the spot, every muscle in his body primed as his eyes darted towards the source of the voice. It was as if his inner thoughts had just been echoed by someone in the crowd. His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm matching the urgent chant in his mind. He had to know.

He pushed through the crowd, his body almost moving of its own accord, guided by some primal instinct that pushed aside all other thoughts. The sea of people parted for him, perhaps sensing his raw intensity. Closer, he could hear the voice more clearly now.

He finally got a clear view of the scene unfolding on the coastline. Longboats were beached on the shore, their hulls partially buried in the sand. Men in beards and furs worked to unload goods from the boats, a mix of both living and inanimate cargo. Some carried animals with rope leashes, while others hauled crates filled with pelts and barrels of alcohol, and of course, captives.

Then, he saw him. A massive man, completely covered in furs and leather. He was a hulking brute of a man, one of the only he's ever seen that came close to him in mass. He donned a massive beard, covered in intricate braids, held together with golden and silver beads and cuffs, marking him as a man of wealth and status. His beard was blonde near the ends, and white close to his face, symbolizing his age. Though he was clearly an elder, he still radiated virility and power, his age giving him power rather than being a setback. His eyes were sharp, and his face was weathered with scars, his hair full and long, dreadlocks pulled back in braids. He also donned weathered tattoos marking his forehead.

Oleksandr watched from a distance as Oddvarr approached the market with a friendly demeanor. His confidence was evident in his relaxed stride as he was flanked by a few armed men, who were nearly identical to him in size and bearing. Their beards were long and untidy, and they carried massive axes. It was clear that Oddvarr was well-known and familiar with the market, as evidenced by the nods and greetings he received from the people around him.

"That's him, the devil." Ivan hisses. Oleksandr nods.

"Aye..."

They watch as he enters a tent, out of sight. Oleksandr turns on his heel, darting to the outskirts of the market.

"Sasha," Samorix murmurs as they follow after him. "Where are ye off to, lad? We don't have much time."

Oleksandr's eyes dart around as he leans against a wall in the alley, and he swallows thickly. Ivan observes him closely, noticing the subtle signs of his emotions.

"I was just thinking," Oleksandr replied, his voice a few decibels lower than usual.

Ivan stepped closer to him. "What are you thinking, son?" He inquired, his eyes scanning Oleksandr's face intently. Oleksandr wipes the sweat from his forehead.

"I don't... I don't know. I don't feel good about this. I-" He turns, leaning against a wall, choking up his last meal. The sight of Oleksandr, normally the picture of stoicism and courage, doubled over and vomiting from a sudden anxiety attack, was a sight to behold. Samorix looked at Ivan in shock, his eyes widening in surprise. He had never seen Oleksandr in such a state, even in the most fearsome battles and situations they had faced together. Ivan, too, was taken aback by the display. But he quickly composed himself, a look of concern and understanding on his face. Samorix placed a comforting hand on Oleksandr's back, trying to calm his ragged breaths.

"Easy there, lad," Samorix said softly, patting Oleksandr's back as he continued to retch. "Take a breath, and tell me what's going on. What's causing ye to feel this way?" He had always seen Oleksandr as a rock, unflinching and strong no matter what stood in their way. But now, seeing him like this was deeply troubling. Oleksandr shakes his head, grabbing his water flask to take a deep drink. He takes a few breaths, calming his nerves.

"I'm sorry, I... I don’t know what came over me. I'm embarrassed." He mutters, squatting against the wall. Despite his concern, Ivan smiled kindly at Oleksandr's apology.

"Don't be embarrassed, son," he said, understanding clear in his voice. "We all have our moments of weakness."

Samorix spoke up, still unsure of how to take this. "I've never seen ye like this, Oleksandr. Yer usually as calm as a summer's day, no matter what kind of trouble we find ourselves in."

"I know." Oleksandr grumbles, wiping the sweat from his forehead again. "I've never felt this way before."

Ivan patted him on the shoulder, his face solemn. "It could be your gut telling you something isn't right," he mused, glancing at Samorix who nodded in agreement.

Samorix eyed Oleksandr closely. "Ye know I trust that Sixth sense of yers, lad. Ye’ve saved our skins more than once. If ye sense it, then I trust it, too."

"I don't know what it's trying to tell me. I already know Oddvarr's a devil."

Samorix chuckled, a dark humor in his voice. "Aye, no doubt about that. But there's something more here, I reckon. Yer gut's never steered ye wrong before."

Ivan nodded in agreement, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. "Maybe it's not just Oddvarr. Could be there's more danger here than we thought. Your gut's trying to warn you."

Oleksandr clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. "Perhaps... Perhaps I'm overlooking something," he muttered. "There's something about the situation that's setting off my instincts. But what is it?"

Ivan squats down to Oleksandr's level. "Perhaps... In the deep recesses of your mind, Oddvarr is like a representation of your pain. The demons of your past."

Oleksandr's eyes widened as Ivan spoke, the truth of the words sending a shiver down his spine. "You could be right," he admitted, his voice heavy.

Samorix grunted, a look of recognition crossing his face. "That would explain it. Ye've always been strong enough to push those demons back. But maybe facing him is bringing them all to the surface again." Oleksandr's face grows dark, and he stands again, helping Ivan up with him. He rolls his shoulders and looks between the men, his resolve returning with a fury.

"Let's get this bastard."