The last rays of the sun had tinted the sky with gold and purple as the slave market reached its peak. Voices had amplified, each bidder eager to conclude their deals under the flickering light. Amidst this fervor, I had stood on the stage, under the scrutinizing gaze of the murmuring crowd.

The auctioneer, a man with a booming voice, had positioned himself before me, wielding his gavel confidently. "We start the bidding for this young boy at five hundred gold coins!" he had announced, his voice echoing across the crowded square.

From the start, it was clear that I was no ordinary lot. The bids soared quickly, driven by the curiosity and greed of the buyers. "One thousand coins!" shouted a man in the back. "Two thousand!" countered a woman at the front. The amounts had escalated, creating a buzz of excitement around me.

"Thirty thousand coins!" The crowd had held its breath as the bidding took an unexpected turn. The auctioneer, visibly delighted, had fueled the frenzy. "Fifty thousand! Who will offer more?"

The figures continued to climb, a relentless flow that defied all expectations. "One hundred thousand!" The tension had been palpable, each new figure eliciting murmurs and exclamations. Spectators pressed against each other, their eyes wide, torn between disbelief and thrill.

"Finally, three hundred thousand gold coins for the young boy!" The gavel had fallen with a dull thud, and a shocked silence enveloped the crowd. The achieved price was staggering, far surpassing what one might hope for even a naiad or a high elf, the most coveted and expensive creatures in the market.

Murmurs had broken out among the spectators, each commenting with surprise and admiration on the exorbitant amount. "Three hundred thousand! Like a naiad and a high elf combined!" someone had exclaimed in disbelief.

Two figures had then emerged, approaching with an assurance that contrasted with the surrounding turmoil. A portly man and a woman with an inscrutable face had come to claim their purchase. Her face appeared frozen, as if no muscle animated it even when she spoke or changed expression, giving her the appearance of wearing a flesh mask. Her pace was slow, almost ceremonial, as if she relished the moment she took possession of what they had paid a royal price for.

"What a beautiful child," the man had murmured, placing a possessive hand on my shoulder. His companion had nodded, her impassive and enigmatic face betraying no emotion as she assessed her new acquisition. "Perfect, absolutely perfect for our collection."

I had been led away from the market, a chain around my neck, the price of my sold freedom echoing in the diminishing murmurs behind me. The weight of this sum, and what it implied, bore heavily on my shoulders as I headed towards an unknown and daunting existence.

The journey to my new home had blurred into a mix of fear and curiosity. The streets, vibrant with life, had contrasted with the heavy chain that shackled my wrists and neck, a constant and biting reminder of my enslaved condition. As the imposing mansion loomed, it had inspired a mixed feeling of welcome and threat.

The mistress had led me into a sumptuous suite, adorned with luxurious tapestries and finely crafted furniture. "Here is where you will spend your nights, my jewel," she had declared with a smile that didn't reach her icy eyes. A servant, witness to this scene, had hurried to spread the news among the other slaves, fueling a sense of resentment towards me.

Yet, the reality had been far darker. Each night, instead of resting in the luxury of the suite, I had been led to the damp cellars of the mansion where the masters indulged in unspeakable tortures. The mistress, known among some slaves as "the Cold Pain," had taken sadistic pleasure in wielding her whip against my skin, while the cries of other unfortunate souls had echoed off the stone walls.

The master, a surgeon renowned for his brutal practices, had utilized his expertise to test various methods of mental torture. One particularly inebriated night, he had led me to an isolated section of the cellar. "Watch closely, cursed puppet," he had sneered as he dispersed pheromones around me. The air had quickly filled with voracious insects, their bites feeding a new type of terror within me.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Days had passed, each bringing its share of pain and disillusionment. In public, the masters had paraded me as "their jewel," a testament to their magnanimity and refined taste. This façade of privilege had only fueled the hatred and jealousy among the other slaves, who did not see the whip marks that striped my body or the tremors that had seized me after each return from the cellars.

One evening, the animosity of the other slaves had reached a critical point. An older servant, shaken by jealousy and the rumors of my supposedly luxurious nights, had confronted me with a knife in hand. "Do you think you're better than us?" he had spit, the blade dimly gleaming in the twilight.

Before he could act, a towering slave, whose mere presence commanded respect, had intervened. "He did not choose his plight, no more than we did," he had said calmly, grabbing the knife and disarming him with effortless ease.

However, the situation had quickly deteriorated when the masters had been alerted. With calculated coldness, the mistress had ordered that the giant be severely punished for his audacity, thinking he had stolen the cutlery without authorization. "We cannot allow such insubordination," she had announced as the guards took him away.

The master, observing the scene with a morbid interest, had turned to me. "As for you, my jewel," he had begun with a mocking smile, "you will share the cell with him tonight. Let's see if he will turn on you again after his punishment." He had evidently hoped that the sharing of our grievances would push him to break me further, making me more shattered.

Later, sharing a dark cell with the mysterious colossus, we had exchanged words. "Why did you help me?" I had asked, grateful but confused.

"Because sometimes," he had replied with a sigh, "protecting others is the only way to keep our humanity intact here."

His gaze had been gentle, yet I couldn't help but feel an instinctive distrust.

We had introduced ourselves. His name was Suraken Kamau. Despite his size and strength, he was only 13 years old. We had shared our stories, our fears, and our hopes.

Over the days, trapped and starving with him in the cell, Suraken's kindness had begun to penetrate my shell. I had found myself laughing at his jokes, feeling a bit less alone. It had been during these conversations that I had learned the true nature of our masters.

Suraken had explained that our masters were incredibly wealthy, and their fortune came from illegal sources. They had created a system where they rented out their slaves for various services, without taboo or limit. At the entrance of the estate, they had displayed a chart indicating the rank of each slave. The lower-ranked the slave, the less profitable they were for them. To make these slaves profitable, they had set up an organ trading business.

I had wondered why the slaves did not rebel against their masters. We were more numerous, and some of us were strong. Suraken had looked at his hands, as if they reflected the destructive power he described. "He has trained in such a way that an ordinary person, no matter how strong and brave, cannot compete with him if he does not master the Rû. His mere presence is enough to keep us in check. We are no match for him."

These revelations had made me realize the magnitude of the situation we were in. We were trapped in a system designed to exploit and destroy us. Despite everything, I had held on to hope. I had continued to hope that we would find a way to escape, to find our families, to live a normal life.

I had been shocked by this revelation. The idea that one man could possess such power had been terrifying. It had made me realize how powerless we were.

A heavy, weighty silence had settled between us. I had felt the words forming in my throat, but I couldn't speak them.

Finally, it had been Suraken who had broken the silence. "And you, Zayn?" he had asked. "How did you end up here? What's your story?"

I had taken a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. I had begun to tell him my story, from the day I had been trapped back then, to the moment I had been captured and arrived at the slave market. I had talked about my family, my home, my life before slavery. I had talked about my fear, my pain, my despair. I had talked about my desire for freedom, my hope to find my family.

When I had finished, Suraken had remained silent for a moment. Then he had taken a deep breath and started speaking. "My story is a bit different from yours, Zayn," he had begun. "I wasn't captured in the way you understand. My village had been attacked and burned. The survivors, including me, had been captured and sold as slaves."

He had paused, his gaze fixed on a distant point. "My name is Suraken Kamau," he had said in a soft but firm voice. "And here is my story..."