Under the velvet shroud of night, two figures moved quietly through the streets—Alaric and Auralyne, their footsteps hushed against the ancient stone.
Caerwyn never truly slept; the streets whispered with low voices, lanterns flickered beside brothels and gambling dens, and distant laughter cut through the silence like thin glass.
The late-night shops that still thrived didn't trade in food or tools—they dealt in indulgence, vice, and secrets.
Their pace was steady, unwavering. Soon, they arrived.
The slave house still had its gates open, golden torchlight spilling from its ornate windows. A man in fine robes stood at the threshold. His eyes widened at the sight of the cloaked figure approaching.
"Ah… what a pleasant surprise, Lord Alaric,"
He said, bowing deeply. His voice oozed with practiced reverence.
"I believe you're here for your… merchandise?"
Alaric gave a slight nod.
"Then allow me to conclude the final steps without delay,"
The slave trader replied quickly.
