I despise the ground he stands on, the air he breathes. His form warps in his black suit as he takes the auctioneers booth. Dark tendrils along each limb are smothered as fine brown fur grows out. The weathered man becomes the Voice once again. The satyrs howl in disgust while the crowd laughs with hysteria. For a devil walks among their ranks, and they call him Kai-Son.

I cradle the Sextant in my hand. Its weight is a comfort among these psychos. With just a small adjustment, I could be home again. I’d tested it briefly after Harper left me. Its magic showed me a world of great crustaceans living on the backs of a walking mushroom. A land of crystals where light forms into solid shapes, these beings swarm with the precise efficiency of a functioning hive.

And I saw home. A field of wheat being harvested by a farmer. A bee flew through the window the device had created. It's still there now, trapped in that room of maps. Lost and alone, just like I was when I first arrived.

I touch the scar on my palm as the elites of man shout with glee at the Voice’s speech. He talks of infiltrating the tribe, killing their leader and taking them by the horns. He mocks their culture and simple lives, saying they wish to be slaves for it gives them purpose. The brand is smooth amongst the calluses on my hand, my sword grip strong, and ready. For I am also a slave to Yorks, a follower of Mother and the leader of the tribe.

A cheer goes up with the finality of his tale. How he cut down their prophet and cast them all in chains.

“...and here we are today. With this priceless stock ready for purchase. These slaves are strong and ready for work, whether in the workhouses or the brothels. Not fully mature, their horns will be ready for harvest by summer's end. The bukke alone will cover their asking price. But that is not the only thing. This breed was born and raised within the green infection zone.

Breathing it every day. Look at their eyes, you can see it's taken hold. Touching every inch of their being, their blood practically runs green. What we can learn by digging deep into their tissue could change society. A sentient species with no spirit, a riddle only a powerful House could uncover.” He grips the crowd.

The hush flooding over all of them as the pitch continues. They are wondering why he must sell so hard, when the satyrs were always meant for the Yorks. A deal closed weeks ago before the auction was even organised. I see the Houses and Guilds begin to whisper amongst themselves, and excitement builds. They want a Satyr, they want the esteem and wealth it brings. I squeeze my brand as my fist clenches in rage.

“This is why!” He continues. “The Blackroots have decided to sell the slaves - individually! Starting with number one!” He points to a small girl hanging behind him. Tears creep from her eyes as a hundred faces turn to her with greed. Screaming numbers and making demands.

I note Piia’s defeat, her fire barely an ember. After all she’s been through, to see her family separated down a hundred pathways of abuse. What is left to hold onto? I have to be that hope.

I adjust the Yorton mask that hides my anger, before standing up. “The Navigator.” I offer the Sextant, but my voice is small among the rabble.

Climbing my chair, I pull the beaded halo from my inventory and swing it. The creatures within screech with fury. It cuts through the air as elites' hearts suddenly pound with adrenaline, their ears sting at the high-pitched noise.

All eyes on me.

The Voice, having shifted back into a man, snarls at me with weathered lips. “A York demanding attention. Now you have it, what do you offer for this young slave child?”

“The Navigator.” I show it again to produce gasps. Its value is known. “But for the whole tribe, as was our deal.”

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

“That offer has been rejected already, folly com-”

“The Yorks have it in writing, signed for by your Lady.” I point to the giant of a woman and wave a parchment marked with lies in the air.

“What madness you speak?” The Lady tries to dismiss me and get the auction going again.

“Madness?.” I point at Kai. “This outlaw is allowed back into a position of honour within your House. After killing your own leader and husband, you welcome him home and name him Son.”

The gavel slams down, shattering its handle. “Quiet!” Kai-Son yells.

“He will cut you down where you sleep and take your rotten crown, for this is the natural cycle in this world. You think his gift will bring you higher, but you're all hungry daemons. Eating each other while the tree burns.” I scream while tearing the false paper to pieces. “We were the fools to think mad criminals could uphold a simple deal!”

Kai’s arm morphs into a large pincer as he smashes the auction booth away. Tarak-Son rushes forward onto the stage and grabs the man, quickly whispering into his ear. Quelling the rage in a moment.

The Lady nods to her Sons with approval before hushing the bumbling crowd.

Kai-Son addresses me. “Your words are folly. Our House's past is but a shadow of your own. Where we have sinned, you have slaughtered. What you have poisoned, we intend to heal. For Order is our way, while you still scheme in the darkness with Omnia at your ear.”

I reach for my mask. “Yet your warriors war in the streets and destroy the very city you call home. We know of the bukkehorn you corrupt, the murders you commit. The deals you can’t honour. It's the Blackroot scum that lead chaos into our lives. For your roots are tainted and your voice false.” I reveal my face. A small gasp escapes Piia’s lips but it’s drowned out but the Son's outbursts.

“You!” They say in unison as they charge me.

The crowd tries to part, but many are trampled as they come barreling through.

I’ve done it exactly as Harper intended, openly mocking them into action. Ridiculing them with crimes they’re both guilty of and not. But as they rush to strike me down, the onlookers will only see one truth, one which will hold up in court. I am supposed to break away at this point, their weapons are out and their intent known. But I’ve been waiting a long time to get my own justice.

Placing my halo, I advance. Riptail and my tendril whip out, I lash at them. Tarak catches the whip with an obsidian blade. Kai grabs an elite in green, using the young boy as a shield. He takes the brunt of my sword across the face, tearing him from ear to chin. Slashing and hacking without remorse, the tendril pulses with stolen life.

I ignore the cries of the bystanders who struggle to get out of the way. Several disappear in a puff of smoke, others simply leap to the sides. Kai holds the mangled boy and pushes forward. I try to keep a distance when a solid wall of dark crystals appears behind me.

“Little shepherd. Nowhere to hide this time.” Kai mocks me.

A giant scorpion tail grows from his back. I leap to my side as it strikes.

But another wall forms in an instant. The stinger digs deep. Biting into my stomach as a pain infects me. I drop my weapons. My vision swims as he twists and lifts me high. My blood streams down the thick tail to drop across his smile. “You’re no York. Just a pawn.”

I try to cry, but my diaphragm is fucked. A silent moan pushes the last breaths from me. I don’t want to see him in these last moments. I search for her amongst the tribe. But I can barely see, just blurry shapes hang all around.

Piia. I try to call out.

I look towards where she hung before and mouth to her - ‘this may hurt’.

My arm raises in the air when a woman calls out.

“Unhand that York!” Harper commands.

Tarak-Son's face is contorted with anger at the challenge. After his long hunt and failed attack against me, he can’t lose me, he won’t. “He’s ours!” He screams.

I hear metal rasp as blades are drawn, a cool air fills the dome.

“Trials of justice are our duty, Blackroot. Your House has committed multiple treasons against Order tonight. The Yorks find you guilty, only exile or death can repay these sins.”

“You dare?” Shrieks the Lady.

Her own form twisting like large gnarled roots, she grows within the dome, passing lines of Satyrs as she reaches high.

The cold mist thickens as the tension builds.

“Death then,” Harper states.