The city of Dyerich was almost dead. Feroy moved through it, his boots clicking softly against the stone streets as his retinue followed behind him. Everywhere he looked, he was rewarded with thick silence. But despite the stillness, the tension was there. He felt it and he was sure that others did, too.

“Knight Feroy, I’ve told you, you aren’t going to find any slaves here. And you have brought too many men into the city. Look around, it will scare the citizens, especially because the fief war just ended.”

Feroy looked at the source of the voice. Kailak, Baron Kairnso’s brother. The current regent of the city who’d been appointed by his brother just recently.

“Knight Feroy?” His voice was annoying, louder than necessary, cutting through the calm.

Feroy’s eyes briefly went to the two young men that flanked him. They looked more nervous than the man they were here to protect and he could tell that they were hastily conscripted, no doubt, a response to the increasing tension in the wake of the recent conflict. They were far too green to be of much use, but Kailak had insisted they accompany him for protection.

He turned his sharp gaze back to the regent. Kailak flinched under the weight of Feroy’s stare.

“I told you to clean them up yourself if you don’t want us here,” Feroy replied. “Lord Arzan has given orders to clean his cities of these vermin. They ran away from Veyrin once the fief war ended, but we found enough clues that they have a base here.”

Kailak frowned at the words, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Are you accusing me of letting slavers infest this city?” His voice grew sharper, his eyes narrowing with defensive pride. “Slavery has been banned since the Act of Abolishing. Forty years, Knight Feroy. It had been forty years since then. That’s no small amount of time.”

Feroy paused, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with a careful calm. “I’m not accusing you, regent.” His eyes bore into Kailak’s with a touch of disdain. “But your brother wasn’t exactly the most just man. Even you should know that. So let me just act with my men.”

The regent’s face darkened, but Feroy didn’t relent.

“You’re doing enough good by giving us permission to search,” Feroy continued. “You don’t have to make it hard for you.”

Kailak’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I gave you permission to search,” he said in a tight voice, “but I didn’t expect you to bring so many men.”

Feroy didn’t so much as blink. “The slave network is big from what we’ve uncovered. We need as many men as we can. I would’ve asked yours to support but after the fief war… Well, not many of them remain.”

Kailak gritted his teeth but didn’t argue. Feroy knew why. It was the only reason they had gotten permission so easily—Dyerich simply had nothing to defend itself with. The city couldn’t afford to offend the man who now ruled most of the Sylvan Enclave.

Even if the king had remained silent on the fief war, and rumours of the Assembly of Judgment swirled in the shadows, for now, Lord Arzan was indisputable in the region.

As they moved deeper into the city, one of Feroy’s men finally broke the silence.

“We’re here.”

Feroy turned his gaze forward. The building stood at the very edge of the city’s poor district, a two-story structure crammed between crumbling brickwork and narrow alleys. The lower half was built from dark stone. He could tell that the stained surface was due to years of neglect. The upper floor leaned slightly over the street, wooden beams jutting out to hold its frame. The windows were small, thickly shuttered and the only sign of recent use was the worn path that led to the door.

As he had requested, most of the common people had already been cleared from the area, and according to the Watcher’s scout assigned to this mission, people had spotted figures slipping in and out of the building in the last few days—but none had escaped since last night.

Feroy let his gaze sweep over the structure one last time before giving his orders.

“Three will move through the back entrance,” he said. “Two stay outside. Keep an eye on everything. The rest are with me through the front. Got it?”

The men nodded in unison. Feroy turned to Kailak and his guards. “Do you want to come with me?”

Kailak’s lips curled upwards. “Sure. I’d like to see your face when you don’t find anything.”

“Sure,” Feroy said, motioning for his men to move forward. And I’d like to see your face when we do, he thought to himself and focused on the task at hand.

One of the shorter men stepped up first, a man with nimble fingers and a quiet presence. He reached for the door, drawing a small set of lockpicks from his belt. A soft click echoed in the silence as it unlocked, he pushed the door open just enough for them to slip inside.

The air within was stale, thick with the scent of damp wood and unwashed stone, and there was another murky smell; one that he couldn’t point out.

“Light,” Feroy muttered.

At his command, a Mage named Iskiel lifted a hand, summoning a soft, glowing orb of light that floated above them. The yellow light illuminated the space as the group spread out, moving carefully.

Kailak walked a few paces behind, his guards flanking him. More than once, Feroy caught the regent’s expression tightening, his mouth parting as if to speak—only for him to snap it shut again.

And for his luck, Feroy wasn’t interested in knowing whatever was on his mind. He was here for a mission, and he didn’t need any more distractions.

The search continued.

Feroy tried to look through every nook and cranny, desperate to find something that would lead to the slaves.

Weapons were strewn about haphazardly—daggers, rusted swords, even a crossbow left resting against a crate. A plate of half-eaten jerky sat abandoned on a table as if someone had left in a hurry. But for all the signs of occupation, there were no men to be found.

It was all empty of life.

He walked closer to take a good look at one of the crates when a voice called out from deeper inside.

“Knight Feroy! I found something.”

He moved quickly with a few others, stepping into a side room that had remained shrouded in the darkness until now. Iskiel’s light showed what was inside. And the sight before them was damning.

Cages. Fuck, what a fucking inhumane thing! May hell bestow upon all of them, Feroy cursed under his breath over and over. No one should go through a living misery like this.

Lining the walls were row upon row of iron cages, their bars caked in filth, the floor beneath them littered with straw and dried stains that needed no explanation. Shackles dangled from the bars, some still locked shut, others hanging loose, as if their occupants had only recently been freed. Torn scraps of fabric lay scattered across the ground—one, in particular, catching Feroy’s eye. He crouched, looking at the strip of cloth that had once belonged to a dress.

A woman’s dress.

It was disgusting to say the least, and his heart clenched for the poor… girls.

Slowly, he stood, turning and looked at Kailak. “Are you still going to say slavers aren’t here?” His jaw ticked at the mention. “These… cages, are made for humans—more specifically, they’re too fucking small for most men, so, for women. Whoever was here, was selling sex slaves.” He cursed again. “Bastards.”

Kailak’s face had gone pale. His mouth opened, but the words barely came, a weak murmur escaping him instead. “I… I didn’t know about this.”

Feroy let out a breath, shaking his head. “I believe you… But your brother did.”

“I don’t see anyone here,” one of the men muttered, scanning the empty cages and scattered remnants of occupation. “Did they escape?”

“Keep looking. We’ve been watching them—they haven’t left the building. There must be a hidden entrance somewhere.”

At his order, the search continued, boots shuffling against the grimy floor as men overturned crates, tapped against walls, and checked beneath tables and furniture for anything out of place. He turned the tables and threw them at the walls, desperate to find any secret entrance to where they were.

“Nothing’s in here,” someone from behind said.

No, they couldn’t give up. Not when he knew they were close enough to find the girls.

“Search farther. Iskiel, provide light till—”

“I think I found something!”

A shout came from the basement.

At once, they all descended the creaking wooden steps two at a time. The air grew heavier with every step-down, thick with the scent of damp rot and something far fouler.

As they reached the bottom, the man who had called out was standing near the centre of the room, pointing downward. There, hidden beneath a ragged carpet, was a hole in the ground. The edges of the stone had been roughly carved, leading down into utter darkness.

So, that was where the smell was coming from.

“They ran through the sewers,” Feroy muttered, feeling like a long search was ahead of them.

The man nodded. “Should we go in?”

Feroy exhaled, considering. “Yes. But not everyone.” He turned to Kailak. “I’ll send some of my men with you. Do you know every sewer exit in the city, particularly the ones that lead outside?”

Kailak hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yes. We have records of them.”

“Good. A few of my men will go with you and your guards to check those exits,” Feroy instructed. “Meanwhile, I’ll head down and see if any of them are still hiding below.”

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He expected Kailak to argue, to snap back at his casual commands. But instead, the regent simply nodded. “Okay.”

Maybe he truly hadn’t known about the slavers and felt guilty. Or maybe he was simply trying to stay on good terms with Lord Arzan. Either way, Feroy wasn’t going to question it—not when it worked in his favour.

As Kailak left with his assigned men, Feroy turned to the others. “I’ll take the lead. Iskiel and the rest of you, follow after me.”

They nodded. Without hesitation, Feroy stepped forward and leapt down into the darkness.

As Feroy landed, the stench hit him like a solid wall. The foul mix of rot, filth, and stagnant water was nearly unbearable, clawing at his throat and making his stomach churn. Without hesitation, he reached for his sleeve, tearing off a strip of fabric and pressing it to his mouth and nose.

Behind him, the others descended one by one, each immediately recoiling as the same putrid assault struck them. A few muttered curses, others coughed sharply, but none faltered for long. They were soldiers, hardened by war and battle, and they had learned to endure far worse.

Iskiel raised a hand, murmuring a quick incantation. A soft, glowing orb of light formed in the air, illuminating the damp, narrow tunnel ahead. They saw their shadows dancing on the moss-ridden walls.

“Let’s go,” Feroy ordered; his voice muffled by the cloth over his mouth. “They might have left some clues behind.”

Soon, they pushed forward. Slippery patches of grime made footing risky, and the narrow stream of sludge running along the centre of the tunnel only made things worse. Despite the filth, they kept to the walls, their eyes scanning every inch of their surroundings.

“Are there gonna be beasts down here?” one of the men muttered, warily glancing around.

“Some overgrown rats, maybe. But nothing else. If there were, the slavers wouldn’t have chosen this route. They’re cowards. They only know how to run.”

The group nodded in agreement and pressed on, their movements quick but careful. Time dragged on as they walked, the tunnel stretching longer than Feroy had expected. Just how far did these sewers extend?

Then, he saw it.

“Stop,” Feroy ordered sharply, raising a hand.

At an intersection ahead, right within the damp stone walls, was a door. Heavy, wooden, and reinforced with iron bands, it looked old but sturdy—far too wanton to be a simple maintenance entry.

Iskiel stepped forward, studying it under the glow of his spell. “Do you think it’s some kind of emergency room?”

Feroy exhaled through his nose, gaze unwavering on the door. “Probably built to hide during attacks, sieges, and the like. Knight Killian mentioned they’re making something similar in Veralt as an emergency measure for civilians.”

He took a step forward, resting a hand on the hilt of his spear. “I’ll take charge.”

And with that, he moved toward the door.

Feroy gripped the shaft and gave the door a firm push, only to find it locked from the inside. His eyes narrowed as he turned back to his men.

“There’s a good chance they’re inside,” he muttered. Then, louder, “Get ready.”

Without hesitation, he channelled power into his spear, its edges glowing faintly with a burning aura. With a single mighty slash, the weapon cleaved through the wooden gate. The door shattered instantly, sending splinters and debris flying.

What lay inside confirmed everything.

A dozen men stood, weapons already drawn, their faces rough and unkempt with thick beards and sharp, animalistic eyes. They had expected trouble. And Feroy would give enough of that. Because what was behind them, boiled his blood.

Behind them, bound in heavy chains, were women—no, girls—filthy, bruised, and huddled together in fear. The air in the room was thick with sweat, damp wood, and something darker—something vile.

Feroy’s eyes flared with fury.

“Get ready for a fight!” a throaty yell escaped his lips. Then, glancing at the Mage behind him, he added sharply, “Iskiel, no wide spells! We can’t risk hurting the innocents!”

Without another word, he surged forward.

Fire erupted around his spear, a searing heat that crackled in the air. The slavers froze for a split second, their eyes widening in shock at the sudden blaze.

Feroy didn’t give them time to recover.

He lunged, his spear a blur.

From the back of the room, two arrows whistled toward him. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he deflected them midair, the metal tips glancing harmlessly off his weapon. His momentum never faltered—his spear arced downward in a savage strike, cleaving through the first man in his path. Blood sprayed across the room as the slaver’s head rolled to the floor.

The next man managed to block.

Feroy’s eyes flickered to the enemy’s blade—just in time to catch the glint of something green along its edge.

“Poison!” he shouted to his men. “Watch their weapons!”

He shifted immediately, his strikes turning precise, avoiding attacks. No reckless movements, no unnecessary risks. He let his fire do the work—every swing of his spear forced the slavers back, the searing heat making them falter, their grips loosening as flames licked at their weapons.

One by one, they stumbled, their flesh burning just enough for pain to override their will to fight.

Meanwhile, behind him, Iskiel unleashed elemental attacks. Small bursts of wind sent slavers tumbling, warm gusts swirled around them, knocking them off balance and making them hesitate in fear.

The strategy was working—pushing them back, keeping them off balance, ensuring they never regained control.

All the while, Feroy was going full offensive with his spear. He continued to attack, bleeding them to death. He slashed and thrashed, finding any joint possible, digging deeper until he knew they could no longer stand.

Like that, only one was left and he surged forward and pierced his spear through the man’s throat. It happened too quickly for the slaver to defend, and he fell with a gurgled cry.

He barely spared the body a glance before casting his gaze around the bloodstained room. The scent of sweat, rust, and death still clung to the air, but the fight was over.

Feroy finally turned toward the captives.

Huddled together in chains, the young women trembled. Some cried and some flinched at every movement, their wide, fearful eyes darting between the bodies and the armed men standing before them. He couldn’t even properly identify their facial features with all the dirt that they were covered in.

Their cries filled his ears and he waited for a second, and another until his adrenaline calmed. He couldn’t scare the women more than they already were. But seeing the state they were in, barely any clothes left on their bodies, soot covering their bodies—he wished he could bring the bastards back to life just to kill them all over again, slower.

He exhaled loudly through his nose, forcing his breath to calm down and voice into something gentler.

“It’s over,” he said. He took a step towards them. He felt his breath caught in his throat at the tremor of his own voice. “You’re safe now. We will get you back to your families soon.”

The words did little to ease their terror, but at least some of the shaking stopped. A girl who was in the corner couldn’t stop her hiccups, and Feroy knew she needed time.

He turned back to his men. “Is anyone injured?”

Two raised their hands.

One had taken a deep gash to the leg, while the other clutched his hand, blood seeping through his fingers where a poisoned blade had cut through.

Feroy’s eyes narrowed. “Get them potions and take them out of the sewers first,” he ordered. “They’ll need proper treatment for the poison. Have them keep drinking the potion every five minutes until we’re sure it’s flushed out.”

A few of his men nodded and quickly moved to help the injured, supporting them as they began the slow trek back up.

With that handled, Feroy turned back to the girls. He knelt, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a handful of healing potions. He uncorked one and extended it toward them.

“Drink this,” he said. “It’ll help with your injuries. Soon, you’ll be out of here.”

The girls hesitated. Fear still lingered in their eyes, their hands twitching as though expecting another cruel trick. But after a long, uncertain moment, one girl with dirt-covered-blonde hair slowly reached out, taking the potion from him.

She hesitated only a second before drinking.

Then, voice hoarse, she asked, “Who are you?”

Feroy gave her a small, reassuring nod. “Knight Feroy,” he said. “I came to save you all—by the order of my lord, Count Arzan.”

***

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