I sat curled up in the wooden cage, my knees pressed tightly to my chest. I thought I had been in this cage for three days. Through the thin cloth covering the cage, dim light filtered in—sometimes warm like the sun, sometimes cold like the moon. Back in Loran, I used to count days by those cycles. Three cycles had passed since I became aware of my surroundings here. Now, the cold moonlight was pouring down again, marking the fourth night.

  I was fed and given water twice a day—at sunrise and at dusk. A dry, hard bun and a bowl of murky water were shoved through the wooden slats. I swallowed them, even as my stomach cramped, because I knew hunger was a worse enemy than chains and cold. But…

  Why… why is it like this?

  Isn’t hell supposed to punish the wicked? Beatings, starvation, being tossed into lava… Sister Agnes used to tell stories like that, her voice trembling in the church. Yet here, I was only locked up—fed, even.

  Could it be… heaven?

  No. I could never go there. Besides, a place as beautiful as heaven wouldn’t have a wooden cage, rusty chains, or those frightening men outside.

  They were the ones who fed me. Maybe they were kind, but their faces were terrifying—more terrifying than the bun seller in Loran. They didn’t have horns, so they probably weren’t demons. They never beat me. Only at night, a few of them would pull back the cloth, stick their hands in to poke my cheek, then laugh without saying anything. I guess they were checking if I was dead. Dead cheeks are stiff and dry, after all.

  Sometimes, I copied them—poking my own cheek just to make sure I was still alive, even though I knew a dead person couldn’t poke themselves anyway.

  The cart stopped suddenly, hard enough to nearly throw me over. The sound of hooves went silent, replaced by chaotic noise—shouts, clanging metal, and a rotten stench, like leftover food in a trash bin. I scooted closer, pressing my face to a gap between the wooden slats, trying to see outside. Red torchlight flickered through, harsher than Loran’s sickly yellow street lamps.

  This time, there were more torches than before, meaning more people were outside.

  The cage door creaked open, torchlight stabbing into my face. I flinched, curling up, one hand shielding my eyes. It was the first time the door had been opened, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the blinding torch. Then a hand grabbed the chain around my wrist and tugged—not as roughly as I expected. They were trying to pull me out.

  “Get out!” someone barked, making me jump.

  I blinked, slowly rising, inching toward the torchlight. My eyes adjusted. The man holding the torch was huge, his face crisscrossed with scars, wearing a filthy leather coat no better than my rags. Behind him stood another man, shorter and fatter, dressed in finer clothes, stroking his beard as he stared at me.

  “Careful with her!” another voice snapped—high-pitched but commanding. Another man stepped forward, dressed like the torchbearer but draped in a tattered silk cloak, bulging eyes glinting in the torchlight. He was probably their leader. Back in Loran, homeless groups always had a leader, someone who decided how to scavenge. I never joined one—nobody wanted a useless leech who couldn’t fight.

  “Don’t damage my merchandise! This girl is worth a fortune. Platinum hair, fair skin—Lord Valthor won’t pay for a scratched product!”

  I had just stepped out of the cage before I tripped and fell face-first into the dirt.

  It hurt. It was cold. Gravel bit into my skin. But that didn’t matter. I had just heard it—merchandise? They were selling me? No… this wasn’t hell after all. This place… was like Loran.

  “You idiot! She fell! My money just got scratched! Cut off that bastard’s hand for me!”

  Someone hauled me up, brushing the hair from my face. It was the leader. He examined me with worry before sighing in relief. Meanwhile, the man who had pulled me out was dragged to a tree. Another man approached, holding a long, thin sword.

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  “Mmm…”

  I turned my face away. I had seen something I shouldn’t. The man screamed, and without hesitation, the sword fell. His arm was gone. I saw no more than that.

  “Hey, kid, did you just say something? Oh, what a voice…” the bearded noble approached, still stroking his beard.

  “This little one will fetch a high price. At least ten thousand Run from Lord Valthor!”

  Ten thousand Run? Who is Lord Valthor?

  “Then it’s settled. We take half, you take half,” the leader said.

  The noble nodded and gestured to his men. They grabbed me and started dragging me away.

  The crowd of rough men didn’t touch me again. I lowered my head, my hair falling to hide my face. I didn’t want them to see my eyes. I didn’t want them to look at me like an animal at the market. Sister Agnes once told me my hair was beautiful, like starlight. I had wanted people in Loran to think that too—to stop seeing it as the mark of a witch. Here, in this strange place, that had come true. From the moment they saw my hair, no one called me a witch. They saw me as something else—

  …a product.

  I see… whether as a witch or a beautiful rarity, I would never be human.

  They led me through a crowded street, nothing like Loran. Towering black stone buildings loomed with spiked rooftops like a monster’s teeth. People swarmed, heads down, walking fast, afraid to meet the eyes of the traffickers. Behind me, raspy laughter and whispers of “rare goods” echoed.

  “Hey kid, know how much ten thousand Run is? Enough to eat three giant premium dragon steaks every day for over eight years!”

  Dragon meat? Dragons are real here!? But… they eat them?

  To me, dragons were adorable—at least in the comics I scavenged from trash. They protected people from monsters, brought rain for drinking water… Eating dragon meat for eight years sounded worse than eating spoiled food. Hopefully, they wouldn’t force me to eat a dragon. Maybe it was just an example to show how much ten thousand Run was worth.

  Lost in thought, I didn’t notice we’d arrived at a massive building. It was a huge stone structure with doors carved in coiling snake patterns, eyes gleaming red under the torches. Inside, a muffled din roared. Two of the noble’s guards pushed me through the door. I stepped onto the icy stone floor and shivered. It wasn’t sharp like the gravel outside, but so much colder. It almost felt like being back in Loran.

  Inside was a vast hall, packed with spectators on high balconies. Men and women in opulent robes all looked down at the stage. A small girl with long black hair stood there.

  “I bid eight hundred Run!” “One thousand Run!” “Two thousand Run!”… Those were the words I heard from the balconies. This was… a place where people were sold? Sister Agnes had once mentioned it in a lesson—this was the pastime of nobles.

  “Sold to Lord Helan for three thousand Run! The little Elf girl is now his!” a young man in a black vest declared, banging a gavel against a bell. The girl was led offstage.

  The noble who brought me whispered something to the man in the vest. Then they pulled me up to the stage, where the black-haired girl had just stood.

  “And next, as you can see, a human girl with the rarest platinum hair! Starting bid: five thousand Run!”

  Five thousand? The girl before was only worth two. Platinum hair… really was that prized here. I should have been happy, but instead…

  They all stared, whispering. A plump man with gold rings laughed, “Platinum! This girl is worth a whole gold mine!” The crowd grew louder, laughter slicing into my ears.

  “I’ll pay six thousand Run! No—eight thousand!”

  Eight thousand Run? What would they even buy me for? I was useless—always had been.

  I lowered my head, hair hiding my face. I wanted to disappear, to escape their eyes. I remembered the small room in the church, where Sister Agnes told tales of knights who saved people. But here, there were no knights—only wolves in human skin, and I was their prey.

  “Head up!” the man in the vest hissed, but he didn’t strike me. He tugged the chain just enough to straighten me. I bit my lip and forced myself to look up. The crowd kept laughing, whispering. I didn’t understand why they wanted me, why my hair made them stare like that. I only wanted to live—just to survive as I had in Loran, stealing and hiding.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed my chest like a needle. I gasped, clutching it—but the pain faded as quickly as it came. No one noticed. The man in the vest was still speaking to the crowd. I blinked, confused. Something inside me stirred—a strange breath, a foreign presence. I didn’t know what it was, but it made my heart race.

  Then, a man rose from the balcony. His black cloak shimmered with golden threads, his eyes sharp as blades. He smiled, and his smile made my skin crawl.

  “I want the girl. Is twenty thousand Run enough?” His voice was deep and cold, echoing through the hall. “Platinum hair. Perfect for my collection, Lord Valthor.”

  That man… was Lord Valthor?

  “Twenty thousand Run, once. Twenty thousand Run, twice. Twenty thousand Run, sold! The once-in-a-thousand-years platinum-haired girl now belongs to Lord Valthor!”

  The hall fell silent. The man in the vest bowed and grinned obsequiously, pulling my chain toward a stone door at the back of the hall. I walked, trembling, as the faint pain in my chest returned—softer this time, like a whisper I couldn’t hear. I didn’t know where I was being taken, but I knew there would be no savior waiting there.

  Sister Agnes once said the gods would hear my prayers—but where were they when I prayed in front of the burning church, when the bun seller beat me? I used to blame them, but now I understood: those who can’t save themselves and only wait for someone else’s hand… are not worthy of salvation.