A biting wind howled through the eastern marketplace of Winterspire Citadel, carrying a chaotic mix of scents: the sharp tang of uncured animal hides, the savory smoke of roasting meat, and the metallic ring of a distant blacksmith’s hammer. Stalls lining the streets were crude affairs—little more than canvas sheets stretched over wooden poles, their wares displayed without ceremony. This had once been a sleepy trading post, a place for local farmers and hunters to exchange their goods for grain and simple necessities. But since the Emperor issued the Northlands Frontier Decree, the market had transformed. Merchants, scenting profit, had descended like wolves, forcibly molding the small market into a bustling, chaotic hub of commerce. At the market's far eastern edge, a crude wooden fence corralled a patch of frozen earth. Inside, a crowd of ragged slaves stood shivering. Most huddled together, heads bowed, as if they had long accepted their fate as human chattel. Here and there, a defiant glare sparked in the crowd. But the slave master’s whip was always quick to answer. A dozen sharp cracks through the frigid air, and any ember of rebellion was brutally extinguished. Though officially frowned upon by the Dominion, slavery flourished in the lawless north. It was an open secret; pioneer lords and smugglers alike understood the territory's most desperate need was for manpower. “Come and see! Strong backs for hire!” a merchant bellowed. “Skilled in the mine, the forest, or the field! Harder workers than any ox, and twice as cheap!” “Captives from the Frost-Folk Realm!” cried another. “Wild, but cheap! A few months of training and they’ll be as docile as lambs!” “Looking for a cleverer sort? These can read and write! They can even help with your accounts!” The hawkers’ cries were a constant drone as the merchants expertly pitched their living commodities. To them, these people were no different from livestock or sacks of grain. One merchant spotted Arthur and his escort and immediately hurried over, a greasy, flattering smile plastered on his face. “My lords! A moment of your time! You won’t find better labor in all the North, I guarantee it. Hardy, hungry, and absolutely affordable!” The official accompanying Arthur frowned. “Address your betters with respect, slaver. You stand before Baron Beaumont.” “Of course, of course!” The merchant bobbed his head, his smile widening. “My business is honest, my prices fair. These slaves here,” he gestured grandly, “are worth every copper. They can farm, chop wood, build a house… there’s nothing they can’t do!” With a sweep of his hand, he gestured for the slaves to stand tall. A few reflexively straightened their backs; most remained hunched in numb apathy. “See these lads? Strong as oxen, every one!” The slave merchant strode over to a few dark-skinned men, clapping them on the shoulder. “They look thin, I know, but that just means they eat little and work much! A crust of bread, and they’ll labor from dawn till dusk without a single complaint!” He leaned in, lowering his voice and revealing a conspiratorial grin. “And of course, if my lord has… other appetites… we have finer wares. Girls from the Southern March. Fair-skinned and thoroughly trained. Guaranteed to please.” Arthur’s brow furrowed in distaste. “I have no need of such things.” “A man of vision, I see!” The merchant switched back to his professional smile without missing a beat. “You’re right, of course. In these trying times, a strong back is worth more than a pretty face. Rest assured, my lord, these ones are not only hardworking, they’re obedient. They won’t cause you a lick of trouble!” Arthur’s gaze swept over the human cattle before him. They were a pathetic sight—dressed in rags, their skin pale and stretched tight over their bones, their faces masks of numb despair. The slave merchant boasted of their strength and capability. In reality, Arthur saw only malnourishment. Some of them could barely remain standing, their legs trembling with weakness. Still, he had to admit, for slaves, they were in better condition than most. His eyes moved slowly across the crowd, finally landing on a small, thin boy. The child was clutched in a woman’s arms, his frail body trembling like a cornered animal. But in Arthur’s eyes, this boy was far more than just another slave. Warren. The system had marked him as a target, one with the potential to become a Peak Knight. It was hard to reconcile that destiny with the timid child cowering before him, a boy who could one day become a key player in a future war. Elsewhere in the pen, another man caught his attention. He was thinner than the rest, his shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink into nothing. A curtain of greasy, gray hair hid his face, and his eyes darted about, deliberately avoiding everyone’s gaze. He looked like just another wretch on the verge of collapse, utterly unremarkable. For an ordinary person, he might seem like nothing more than a pitiable wretch close to collapse. But Arthur knew better. This was Silas, the alchemy apprentice, a fugitive who had fled north after being hunted for theft. Noticing Arthur’s focused gaze, the merchant patted his own chest. “My lord, if you purchase from me, I guarantee you won’t be disappointed!” Arthur didn’t rush. Instead, he asked, “What’s your price?” “Eight silvers for a man, my lord. Four for a woman or child,” the merchant replied with a grin. The price wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t extortionate either. The merchant was clearly wary of the Baron’s official escort. “How many do you have?” “Just over three hundred and eighty, my lord. But I can get more if you need—” “This lot will do,” Arthur said, cutting him off. He moved on to the other merchants, and by the time he was finished, he had acquired a total of five hundred souls. The cost was staggering: three hundred and eighty gold coins, nearly half his entire fortune, gone in a single morning. Next came the other necessities for founding his domain: vast quantities of grain and seed, farming tools, weapons, and armor. Prices in the Northlands were easily double what they were in the south, and his coffers shrank with alarming speed. When the last transaction was complete, a quick count of his remaining assets revealed a paltry sixty-eight gold coins. During his two days in Winterspire Citadel, Arthur did more than just procure supplies. He met a few of the other young lords who, like him, had been sent north to carve out a fiefdom. He quickly lost interest in these so-called nobles. Some spent their days and nights drowning their fears in tavern ale, hiding from reality. Others walked about with long faces, their expressions etched with despair for the future. In his presence, they would curse the Emperor’s folly and their own parents’ cruelty, whining about how they wished they could flee back south. Arthur offered them only a noncommittal smile and soon stopped seeking their company. Two days later, his contingent stood ready outside the city gates. It was a procession nearly a thousand strong. Arthur swung himself into his saddle, his eyes fixed on the distant, snow-dusted horizon. Out there lay the Red Vale Peninsula. His domain. With a single, sharp command, the great column lurched into motion, beginning its long march toward the untamed northeastern edge of the Northlands.

Chapter 7: The Price of Flesh