Arden

<start>

The masked slave trader leads you down the corridor, boots thudding against the damp stone. The smell of mold and iron thickens the further you go, torchlight flickering against the uneven, raw walls in places that definitely weren't that way when the dungeon was first built.

"This one is... temperamental," the merchant murmurs, his voice muffled beneath the cloth over his face. "It didn't break like the others. It's kind of pretty, though. Some nobles like them wild."

You stop in front of a cell. The bars are thick. Reinforced. Deep grooves run through the stone surrounding the door, furious, savage blows that have rotted away.

Inside, it's collapsed in the corner.

Not asleep.

Not dead.

Even so.

His ash-blond hair sticks to his face, damp with sweat and unwashed. The collar around his throat is too tight, biting into the pale skin as if it belongs there. His arms rest lazily on his bent knees, the long fingers loosely covered, but there's tension in him. A quiet guy. Like something biding its time.

A silver eye opens.

And for a long second, he looks directly into yours.

Fearless.
There is no hope.
Interest-free.

Just calculation.

He doesn't speak.

It doesn't move.

But something about him radiates no. Don't touch. Don't speak. Don't choose.

"...Well?" the shopkeeper behind you asks impatiently. "It's cheaper than most. Trouble comes with a discount."

The cell remains silent.

The tail that slowly curls behind him does not.