The floor was a sheet of ice against my skin. My stomach hadn't known a meal in days, leaving only the rhythmic, hollow ache to match the steady drip-drip of the ceiling.
"You bags of filth! Look alive," a voice boomed. A man entered, his girth preceding him like a fleshy shield. Clad in well-tailored silks and a groomed mustache, he looked every bit the mediocre Renaissance provincial—fat on the labor of the dying.
Rough hands seized my arm, hauling me up alongside the other husks. Before the fog could clear from my mind, buckets of freezing water slammed into us.
"Filth is filth, no matter the rinse," the Merchant spat, ignoring our shivering. "A buyer from the Council is here. Dress them in the 'Angels.' Move!"
They forced us into one-piece white garments and oversized, archaic witch's hats. The fabric was heavy with semi-transparent crystals that caught the torchlight, shimmering with a sickening, artificial warmth against the damp stone.
"Honorable Alice Quartz," the Merchant's voice turned to honey. "Welcome to my humble establishment. The finest stock, as requested."
Alice Quartz didn't look at him. Her eyes, gray and lethal, scanned us like meat. "The finest? We shall see. Alexander, the meter."
An ancient butler stepped forward, wielding a brass device inlaid with multi-colored crystals. Without a word, he pricked the finger of the red-haired girl beside me. Her blood hissed as it hit the intake chamber. The machine began a rhythmic, mechanical clicking.
"Mana 500. Scale +200," Alice droned. "Ancient languages?"
"A... a little of the Virtue tongue," the girl whispered.
"Passable. Load her."
Then, it was the boy with the matted hair. Alice sneered. "His values are abysmal. Why is this trash in my sight?"
"My Lady, please!" the Merchant squeaked. "He is a savant—four branches of the Varlık tongue!"
"Logic, Merchant. He could speak seven; without the conduit of mana, he is a paper weight."
She moved to me. Her hands were colder than the water. She sliced my finger, letting the crimson droplets fall.
"Mana: 1000. Scale: -650."
I stared at the device. I didn't know the metrics, but the air in the room shifted. It felt... heavy.
"How many tongues, little raven?" Alice whispered, tilting my chin up. Her eyes searched mine, looking past the grime.
"Three... of the Sin tongue," I croaked.
She paused. "Yellow eyes. Black hair. Alexander, the Arthuria Talisman."
The butler produced an ornate necklace—a golden handguard shaped like wings. He pressed it into my palm. The moment metal met flesh, it didn't just glow; it screamed. It burned like white-hot iron, the scent of my own searing skin filling my lungs. I didn't drop it. Pain was an old friend; I simply watched the light consume the shadows of the cell until the gold reached its limit and shattered into dust.
The Merchant hit the floor in a dead prostration. Alexander went ghost-white. But Alice? Alice laughed—a sharp, jagged sound.
"Devoted to the Everlight with those eyes? And these values?" She looked at my charred palm. "Does it not hurt, Little Raven?"
"It hurts," I said, my voice flat. "But it's just pain."
The Merchant, recovering his cowardice, lunged forward and struck me across the face. "Watch your tongue, you cursed blood-mutt!"
"Enough," Alice snapped. She tossed a rainbow-colored shard at the Merchant's feet. "This covers the bill and the silence. Alexander, bring him. This one is worth the research."