The Kingdom of Vandor stood as a monolith of zealous devotion, its very foundations steeped in the unyielding creed of the Holy Sun Church. Unlike its more tolerant counterpart, which thrived at a crossroads of trade and fleeting diplomacy, Vandor was a land where faith was law, and heresy was met with fire and steel.

From the mighty king draped in gilded vestments to the lowest beggar scrounging for scraps in the alleyways, all were fervent followers of Uriel, the Ever-Burning. And in their devotion, there was no room for doubt, no space for compassion, and certainly no tolerance for those they deemed impure.

For centuries, the Holy Sun Church had cultivated this devotion, weaving a narrative of divine purpose into the very fabric of Vandorian society. To question the teachings of Uriel was heresy. To harbor sympathy for non-humans was treason. To stand against the church was to stand against humanity itself.

It was this unshakable belief that led to the grand spectacle of purges such as the one in the city square.

The flames still danced hungrily atop the pyres, devouring flesh and bone alike. The air was thick with the stench of burning bodies, acrid smoke curling into the sky as a grim offering to their goddess. The crowd, once frenzied with chants and cheers, began to settle, their hunger for justice—no, for blood—momentarily sated.

The High Inquisitor lowered his staff, the golden wings gleaming in the light of the midday sun. His sharp gaze swept over the gathered faithful, his lips curling in satisfaction at the sheer devotion painted across their faces.

“This is righteousness,” he proclaimed, voice ringing with authority. “This is the will of the Ever-Burning!”

A resounding chorus of “Praise be to Uriel!” erupted from the crowd.

The High Inquisitor turned his back on the charred bodies. His duty here was complete. More heathens would be found, more heretics purged, more flames lit in the name of divine justice.

But among the faithful, in the throng of zealots who had cheered for death, one figure stood silent.

The woman in the dark robe remained motionless, her golden eyes fixed on the smoldering remains. Her fingers, hidden beneath the folds of her robe, trembled—not with fear, but with rage. Yet deeper still, buried beneath that rage, something else stirred.

Hope.

Liliana lowered her gaze, her hand brushing against the hidden crimson tattoo upon her womb. A sacred mark, but not of Uriel. No, this mark belonged to another. To something better, something far beyond the reach of Vandor’s burning light.

A silent prayer slipped from her lips, too soft for even the closest zealot to hear.

“May your souls find peace in the eternal womb of the Mother.”

Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

….

Thirty minutes later, Liliana was standing in front of a wide building made from wood and brick. Her hood pulled low over her face, and she glanced at the collar logo above the entrance before taking out a golden mask from her spatial ring. It was a simple thing made from golden metal that perfectly covered her eyes and forehead. 

When Liliana put it on, her facial features were completely hidden behind the golden mask. To make it even more difficult for others to see her, she used her light magic to create something like a mirrored shield that reflected light, making her appear as a blurred and vague figure.

With a new face and fresh clothes to keep unwanted attention and pervs away from her, Liliana entered the large building that was the top slave market in the whole Kingdom of Vandor. 

As soon as she passed through the main gate of the building, her eyes immediately landed on a massive row of naked and exposed figures—humans and beast-kin alike, men and women, young and adult ones, with many different attributes—arranged to their sides and placed for display, like they were nothing more than items and objects of use and business.

From her side, in each cell, several slave buyers wearing different sorts of cloaks, fancy noble clothes, or robes with varied colors of light or dark, were accompanied by slave dealers, talking, staring, or poking at the naked slaves until the seller was satisfied and the buyer could touch some of the slaves before continuing their discussion.

In front of her was another line of people, but unlike the slaves, these were the slavers or the sellers themselves. Humans, of course—they liked to come here to sell their catches of demi-humans like cats, dogs, deer, boar, or any other magical creature like elves, all for some extra cash.

From their expressions, buying and selling demi-humans was a daily practice.

The sounds of rattling chains, of people crying and pleading for freedom, of bargains being struck, filled the air. The smell of sweat, piss, and blood lingered on every breath.

The Vandorians viewed other races and heretics as mere cattle and pets for their entertainment and hard work, and Liliana was no different—but in the opposite way.

The Golden Mask made her invisible. Not in truth—no, Liliana’s body still occupied space, her footsteps still echoed faintly on the polished stone floor—but to the eyes of the slavers and buyers, she was nothing more than a shimmering blur, a trick of the light. The mirrored refraction of her magic bent perception around her, turning her into little more than a passing shadow.

It was a necessary deception.

Liliana moved through the market with measured steps, her golden mask concealing the simmering fury in her eyes. The blurred aura cast by her light magic ensured she remained an indistinct figure amidst the sea of merchants, nobles, and slavers. No one spared her more than a passing glance. In a place like this, anonymity was a currency as valuable as gold.

Her fingers itched at her sides as she passed rows of caged souls, their eyes hollow, their spirits crushed beneath Vandor’s unyielding rule. A young elven girl clung to the bars of her cage, her once-silver hair now matted with filth. Her gaze met Liliana’s for the briefest moment—an ember of defiance buried beneath layers of pain. Liliana forced herself to look away. Not yet.

As a follower of the new goddess Morgana, Liliana had the urge to help the other races, the true creation of the goddess, yet she wouldn’t risk her life doing so. And more importantly, she wouldn’t risk saving those who didn’t worship the goddess.

Although Lilith created all of the races other than humans, after thousands of years, very few still remembered her or followed her anymore. Liliana was a special case—she was a human who chose to switch faith after a certain incident.

She approached one of the slavers, a rotund man draped in luxurious furs, his fingers heavy with golden rings. He was engaged in negotiations with a noblewoman, a sharp-featured lady with ice-blue eyes who appraised the slaves as if selecting fine jewelry. Liliana did not need to hear the words exchanged to know their nature.

“—breed her with one of the stronger males. If she doesn’t survive the first pregnancy, then she was weak anyway,” the noblewoman mused, idly twirling the chain of a sobbing fox-kin girl.

Liliana clenched her fists beneath her robes. The bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. This was not the time for recklessness. Instead, she stepped forward, speaking in a low, controlled voice.

“I have a special order.”

The slaver turned, his beady eyes narrowing at the masked figure before him. “Special orders come at a high price, stranger.”

“I am prepared to pay.”

He studied her for a moment before motioning for her to follow. Liliana fell into step beside him, navigating through the wretched corridors of human cruelty until they reached a dimly lit chamber at the back of the market. The air here was thick with something more than despair—something darker. Here, the most prized and dangerous ‘merchandise’ was kept away from prying eyes.

The slaver gestured towards a heavy iron door. “This is where we keep the rarest stock. I assume you’re looking for something… unique?”

Liliana nodded. “I’m looking for twins, a man and woman, untouched and preferably humans.”

The slaver’s grin widened, his yellowed teeth glinting in the dim torchlight. “Twins, you say? Human, untouched—preferably?” He chuckled, a wet, guttural sound. “A rare request. Most buyers prefer beast-kin for their… exotic qualities. But humans? Unspoiled?” His beady eyes gleamed with greed. “That’s a delicacy.”

Liliana remained still beneath her golden mask, her voice steady. “I have my reasons.”

The slaver licked his lips. “Of course, of course. And I may have just the pair for you.” He motioned to a guard, whispering something before turning back to her. “But such special merchandise comes at a special price.”

Liliana didn’t flinch. “Name it.”

The slaver’s grin turned predatory. “Fifty thousand gold. Each.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then—

Liliana reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a small, ornate chest. She placed it on the table between them and flipped the lid open.

The slaver’s breath hitched.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, were two flawless soul stones—rare, pulsating gems that glowed with an eerie inner light. Each was worth triple his asking price. His fingers twitched toward them.

Bam!

“After I inspect the merchandise.” Liliana snapped the chest shut.

“Ahem.” The slaver swallowed hard, then nodded eagerly. “Right this way, esteemed buyer.”

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