The door did not budge.

Iron bars scraped against their brackets from the other side, barred.

Quinlan did not slow.

He pushed once.

The bars tore free with a sharp metallic shriek, the entire locking frame ripping out of the stone as if it had been rotten wood. The door swung inward and slammed against the wall.

The sound carried.

Inside, something shifted.

A sharp intake of breath. Several, actually. Then hurried whispers, tight and desperate.

"The enemies are here!"

"Quiet!"

"Don't move!"

"Shut up!"

Quinlan stepped inside.

Darkness swallowed the space beyond the doorway, thick and stale. His eyes burned as they shifted, a deep red glow bleeding into his pupils. The room resolved at once.

Servants.

They were huddled together near the far wall, bodies pressed close, hands over mouths. Some crouched. Some clung to each other. One dropped to their knees outright, praying. Their eyes locked onto him, widening as the red light caught their faces.

Quinlan's gaze swept over them once.

"Where is the master?" he asked.

The words echoed more than they should have.

Several servants gasped. One let out a thin, broken sound before freezing entirely. Their attention fixed on his eyes, on the glow that did not belong to any lantern or candle.

"I won't repeat myself," Quinlan decreed as fire lit in his palm.

A man near the back swallowed hard. His lips moved twice before sound came out.

"B-basement," he stammered. "He… he barred himself in the basement."

Quinlan nodded once.

"Lead the way."

No one moved.

Their bodies shook. Hands tightened into fists. One servant's knees buckled, catching himself against the wall.

But they understood: this was not a request. Thus, with heavy hearts, they moved.

A candle was lit with trembling hands. The flame wavered violently as its holder turned and began to walk. The others followed, slow and stiff, as if every step risked punishment they had learned to expect.

The stairs descended steeply.

The air grew colder. Damp stone pressed in from all sides. As they reached the bottom, the space opened into a long chamber lined with cells.

Iron bars. Thick locks. Shapes inside.

People.

Some sat against the back walls, unmoving. Others pressed forward, eyes hollow, fingers curled around the bars. Chains lay coiled at their feet. The candlelight caught old marks on their skin that no amount of scrubbing would erase.

At the far end stood a door unlike the rest.

Heavier. Reinforced. Decorative ironwork etched along its surface, polished and cared for. It did not belong among cages.

The servants stopped.

Shaking fingers lifted, pointing.

Quinlan stepped past them and placed his hand on the door.

He pushed. This time, it held. But then his muscles bulged. He put his weight and mana into it, and the reinforced lock snapped. The door flew inward and slammed against the far wall.

Inside, a desk had been overturned.

A man and a woman crouched behind it, faces pale, mouths open mid-scream. The man's hand clawed at the floor, scrambling backward. The woman clutched his arm, eyes darting wildly.

Between them and Quinlan stood numerous figures.

Warrior slaves who were ordered to protect the master with their lives.

Collars were tightly secured around their necks, and their eyes were unfocused. Weapons were raised on instinct rather than will as they charged.

Quinlan breathed out.

The air surged.

The invisible force hit them squarely, lifting them off their feet and slamming them back into the walls. Weapons clattered uselessly to the floor as they collapsed, gasping, the breath ripped from their lungs.

The room fell silent.

The master screamed.

"Guards! Help!!"

Nothing answered.

The man's scream echoed once more.

Quinlan did not react to it.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace and reached down, fingers closing around the master's collar. The man's feet left the floor as if gravity had decided it no longer applied to him.

"Hand over the slave contracts," Quinlan ordered.

"What? No! No, I-"

The slap came from the side.

The man's head snapped sideways. Blood hit the floor as teeth flew out of his gums, hitting the walls. His mouth opened and closed without sound as he sagged in Quinlan's grip.

"HEELP!!!" The woman screamed.

Her hands flew to her face as her husband's eyes rolled, unfocused.

Quinlan adjusted his hold and struck him again.

The second impact turned the man's head the other way, waking him from his daze. More teeth were scattered across the room. His body went slack, barely held upright by Quinlan's hand.

"Where are the contracts?" Quinlan asked again.

"Urgh… No… They'll kill us…" The man refused. But the woman sobbed and lurched forward, tripping over the overturned desk. Her hands fumbled with the drawers, yanking one open and rifling through it in a blind panic, ignoring her husband's words.

"H-here! Here! Just stop this!" she cried, thrusting a thick stack of parchment forward with shaking arms. "That's all of them! I swear!"

Quinlan took the papers and flipped through them once, eyes moving quickly.

"Is that all?" he asked.

She nodded frantically. "Y-yes. That's everything."

"Good," Quinlan said.

He began dragging the man behind himself.

"Follow me."

He turned and walked out.

The candlelight greeted him first, then the rows of cages. Seraphiel, Kitsara, and Felicity stood just beyond the threshold of the master's room. None of them had stepped inside, electing to stay in the area with the slave cages.

Felicity broke.

The princess had seen slavery before; she even met Quinlan when he bought multiple slaves at the Grand Auction.

But she had never seen how they were kept, how bad their health was before being prepared to be sold, at which time the abuse ended, and the slavers tried their best to make the slave appear as healthy as possible to increase their sale value.

Her hands rose to her mouth as her knees trembled. A sound escaped her that she did not seem aware of making as the girl observed the people behind the bars.

Kitsara stepped in close and rested a hand on the girl's head. Seraphiel moved to her other side, fingers settling on her hand, clutching it tight. They knew how badly this sight was weighing on the young girl's little heart.

Felicity's shoulders shook, and she averted her eyes.

Quinlan stopped behind her. He did not try to lift her mood. It was not the time for that. This was what she wanted.

So he placed two hands on her shoulders and said, "Open your eyes and look, Felicity Valorian."

The girl sobbed but obediently opened her eyes. "This is reality for millions of people. And these slaves are treated 'well,' because their owner wants to make a profit on them. Now you can probably imagine how the slaves who are deemed useless and irrelevant are treated."

"!!"

Her eyes burned as tears spilled freely.

The Valorians.

Her blood.

Her name.

The weight pressed down on her chest until it felt hard to breathe.

Then something shifted.

Felicity drew in a sharp breath and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. Her hands trembled, but she straightened. She stepped forward, away from Quinlan's hands, toward the cages.

Chains rattled softly as heads lifted.

She swallowed once and spoke.

"Rightful citizens of the Iskaris Continent. I, Third Princess of the Vraven Kingdom, Felicity Primrose Amabelle Valorian, wish to tell you something."

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