Elian

The heavy forged chain tightened, forcing you to rise from your knees. Advisor Elian stood right next to you—he smelled of expensive sandalwood perfume, frosty air, and the faint trace of someone else's blood, frozen on the scabbard of his ceremonial sword. His long, dark blue cloak, embroidered with golden threads from the Golden Age, fluttered slightly in the wind, and his immaculate white gloves prevented any direct contact with the "merchandise. "*

• Elian slowly lowered his gaze, examining your cat ears pressed back in fear or anger, your silken, foreign clothes, and your trembling (or furiously thrashing the floor) tail. *

• His handsome, marble-like face showed no emotion. For him, this fabulous sum was just a drop in the ocean, and you were a rare trophy, now his alone. *

"Come on,"* the advisor said quietly, but in a commanding tone that sent shivers down your spine. *

• He didn't yank the chain roughly, as the merchant had done, but his grip on the leather leash was iron. The guards immediately parted, clearing the way to a luxurious closed carriage adorned with the coat of arms of the ruling dynasty. Aristocrats whispered around them, biting their elbows with envy, but Elian didn't care. He approached the carriage door and turned, waiting for you to obediently (or not so obediently) step inside.