Bought & Bound

White Crest gleams below, just as I imagined it.

Pale stone buildings cluster the bay around a towering palace of blue glass and white marble that catches the sun and flings it back into my eyes. Blue banners snap from the outer walls. Beyond them, the Friesian Sea spreads wide and green, crowded with white-sailed ships that drift in and out of the harbor. The breeze carries salt and tar and something thrilling beneath it. Gold.

I stand there grinning when the prickle of unseen eyes runs along the back of my neck. But when I turn, the hill behind me is empty. There is only wind-bent grass beneath a weeping tree and the simmering afternoon heat. My gaze lingers a moment longer, sensing the vague shape of magic dissipating on the breeze. Then it is gone.

I shake it off and look forward.

This is it. A city worthy of me. Swollen with nobles eager to spend their coin on magic. I’d make up for every hungry year of my life.

I smooth the shaved strip above my left ear, where the mark sits under my skin. Even now, I can hear Grand Master Alacar’s dry, reluctant voice rolling through the ceremony hall.

“With this symbol of Sumari, I send you out into the world a mage, Mina Gravesguard.” He’d looked at me then, wariness in his ancient face. “You have survived what few would choose. May the Gods have mercy on us.”

Mercy was for people with weak hearts and weaker wills. I’d survived the Tower and worse. I’d bled for this mark. Earned the right to be seen and known. Maybe even feared. Just a little.

Money, fame, influence.

All the things no one ever handed an orphan unless she was clever enough to take them.

“Oy! Move!”

I jump off the road as a cart thunders past, wheels rattling over the deep ruts. Mud sprays my pants and boots. The driver twists in his seat to give me a rude gesture with his big hand, his broad red face already sour with temper.

I stare after him, considering a petty hex. Something small, like a broken axle. Maybe a plague of fleas.

But no. I only just arrived, and ruining a merchant before I’ve even introduced myself lacks finesse. I follow instead.

The tarp covering the back of the cart lifts in the wind, revealing bolts of expensive fabric. A well-off trader, then. Very good.

The man sings as he snaps the reins, something obscene and tuneless about a red-haired whore with a wooden leg. Every few lines, he chuckles and jabs an elbow toward the boy beside him. The boy only shrinks farther into himself.

I recognize the bony limbs and wary eyes of an overworked child. Then he turns, revealing two small horns beneath his hairline and oversized brown eyes. He is not human.

An Animus? What is a non-mage doing with one?

Another cart rolls past from the direction of the city, heavier and slower. Iron bars enclose the back. Children huddle inside.

My step falters. More Animus. A few appear nearly human at first glance, save for slit pupils or oddly pointed teeth. Others have full animal heads or feathered crests. None of them look well or safe.

The men driving the cart don’t look like mages any more than the rude merchant.

A knot forms in my stomach, the kind that signals trouble.

These aren’t typical familiars fashioned by mages for convenience or companionship. There should be no such thing as an Animus child. At least, that is what the Tower taught.

I try to recall the specifics of Familiar Studies. The entire concept had unsettled me. Creating a living creature to bind to your own? The Masters called the familiar bond a sacred partnership. Enslavement had always seemed more accurate. I’d done the minimum required to pass the discipline and moved on. The possibility that the Tower deliberately omitted the truth bothers me more than what I've just seen. I remind myself I didn’t come to play the heroine.

Unless someone is going to pay me to, of course.

The cart disappears over the hill. I watch the dust settle back over the road with unease. Then the merchant’s horse screams.

I spin toward the sound. The cart jolts to a stop as the horse crashes to its knees. The animal thrashes in the shafts before collapsing fully on its side. One front leg twists at an angle no leg should bend. White bone flashes through torn flesh. I suck in a breath.

Well. An opportunity, presenting itself with brutal convenience.

The merchant tears off his hat and swears as he jumps down. “Damn the Gods! And damn this shite road!”

Beside him, the boy takes a careful step back, keeping well beyond striking distance. I notice a thin metal collar circling his neck under his shirt.

How odd.

“Perhaps I can help?” I call, striding to the rescue.

The man wheels toward me, and takes in my purple coat, my yellow vest, my travel pack.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” He looks me up and down. “A clown? I don’t need jokes, girl. I need a pistol.”

“I am Mina Gravesguard,” I say, forcing a gracious little incline of my head. “And I am a mage.”

His expression doesn’t shift into awe as it should. Or respect. If anything, he looks more annoyed. The boy scratches at one of his horns, studying me with considerably more intelligence than his master. My smile turns more genuine.

“Is that so? Well, piss off.” The merchant spits.

He turns away and seizes the boy roughly by the arm. “Thomas. Go to the shop. Get my flintlock. Then fetch Otto from the livery and tell him I need a horse and men.” He shoves a ring of keys into the boy’s hand. “Hurry.”

The boy runs, knobby legs moving with surprising grace over the pitted road. I watch him go, irritation thinning into curiosity.

Is he part deer, perhaps? Or more exotic, like a gazelle?

I turn back to the horse. Its sides heave, foam flecking its mouth. Pain rolls off it so thick I can taste copper. I drop my pack with a sigh.

There are better ways to introduce myself to White Crest than kneeling in the dirt beside a panicking merchant’s horse, but I hate waste. A good horse is valuable.

I pull what ingredients I need from my pack. No sense exerting too much of my energy on this.

The merchant hovers, suspicious now instead of furious. “What do you think you’re doing there?”

“Saving you money.”

Before he can respond, I lift one hand over the horse’s head and whisper a sedating spell. The old words slide under my breath, and the horse sags. Its wild eyes dull.

I kneel and bind an ox bone chip and herbs over the break. The merchant looms over my shoulder. Let him be amazed and tell everyone he meets today.

I close my hands over the ruined leg and draw the magic up properly this time. It answers, filling my veins with warm light, eager and alive. The world sharpens around me. Insects hum in the grass, and gulls cry overhead. The merchant’s pulse beats loud enough to count.

I breathe in, molding the spell, and speak the language of magic, the words rich and lyrical on my tongue.

Heat flashes through my fingers. The horse jerks once beneath my hands as the materials melt into flesh and bone. Behind me the merchant lets out a broken curse.

When the heat fades, I smooth my hand over the horse’s leg and rise to my feet. I draw the stunned merchant back a step and cluck my tongue. The horse stumbles upright a second later, snorting in confusion. The merchant gapes.

“You—” He swallows. “You are a mage.”

It sounds like an accusation.

“Yes. I did mention that.”

His gaze snags on the mark above my ear. Fear flickers across his face.

Ah. This is much better.

I snap my fingers, and a calling card appears between them in a puff of white smoke. He takes it reluctantly.

“At your service, Mr...?”

“Javek. Hans Javek,” he says dryly.

“Should you require my talents again, Mr. Javek, burn the card, and I’ll come.” I bend to collect my pack. “Can you recommend an inn?”

Javek flinches as if I’ve demanded his purse.

“Take it.” He thrusts the card back at me and glances around warily. “I’ll give you this warning. Leave. The city is no friend to your kind.”

My smile thins. That is not the response I expected from a man whose livelihood I just saved.

Javek trudges back toward his horse.

I let the card vanish between my fingers.

The road funnels into the city through a grand stone gate flanked by guards in polished armor, their expressions already hostile. Their gazes follow me closely, scrutinizing my coat, my boots, the shaved strip above my ear. I tip an imaginary hat as I pass between them, pretending I haven’t noticed.

The moment my boots touch cobblestone on the other side, a sensation soft as spider silk brushes over my skin. I halt and turn, tracing the arch behind me. At first glance, it is nothing more than carved decorative stonework. But the symbols are there. Fine enough to vanish unless you know how to look. A whispered alert cast into the bones of the city: a mage is here.

Not as cheerful as a shopkeeper’s bell. I expected attention, even wariness. Not a quiet, hidden tripwire that announces me as I enter. I turn away before I stare too long, refusing to give whoever might be watching the satisfaction.

“You’re not from around here.”

Three small faces stare up at me. Two human children. A boy and a girl with sun-warmed skin and freckles dusted across their noses. The third isn't human.

The Animus child watches me with wide, pink eyes. His hair is white-blonde, soft and fine, framing a face that blurs the line between boy and rabbit. Patches of fur soften his cheeks. Long ears drape past his shoulders, twitching with each sound around us. When he shifts, I catch the flick of a small round tail poking from his ill-fitting pants.

“Very perceptive.” I give them a rehearsed smile.

The boy and girl are clearly siblings, with the same stubborn set to their mouths. I tilt my head toward the third child.

“What’s your name?” I ask him directly.

The Animus boy’s ears twitch. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even open his mouth. Before I can press, the human boy shrugs.

“That’s Clover.”

His tone is dismissive, as if the name matters less because it belongs to an Animus. My gaze returns to Clover. No bond mark shimmers at his skin, connecting mage and familiar.

My attention drifts past them into the street beyond. Vendors shout, carts rattle past, and laughter tangles with arguments above the distant crash of waves against stone. Color flashes everywhere, off painted signs and bright fabrics. The air is thick with the scent of sweetmeats frying in oil and crisp sea salt carried in from the bay. It should feel like opportunity.

Animus are everywhere, carrying crates and sweeping shop floors. They walk with heads lowered, half a step behind well-dressed humans. All wear those same dull metal collars locked around their throats.

I look back at the children.

“Does he… belong to you?” The word tastes wrong even as I say it.

The girl nods eagerly and reaches up to rub one of Clover’s ears. “Got him for my birthday. Daddy says he can go to the Beast Tournaments when he grows up.”

I hum softly, masking my discomfort. Then I frown. “The what?”

All three stare at me with wide eyes.

“The Beast Tournaments,” the boy says. “Everyone knows about them. It’s where fighters go. Big, strong ones. Sometimes small, fast ones. People bet on them and win loads of money.”

Clover’s ears lower, just slightly.

“So people make money,” I say carefully, “by betting on fights between Animus— I mean, beasts.”

The siblings nod. Clover just watches me with an unsettling awareness. I straighten, smoothing the mark above my ear. Did the Tower know what was happening here? Animus being used as gladiators?

Somewhere deeper in the city, a roar rises. My instincts say walk away. I came here for gold and recognition, not to dismantle a system I barely understand. I can ignore it. Easily. I ignored worse to survive the Tower.

Hadn’t I?

“Well.” I step back and nod curtly. “You’ve been very informative.”

The boy grins proudly. The girl waves. I turn away and follow the noise, letting the current of people carry me toward the source.

The streets change the farther I go. Less polished boutiques and restaurants, more brothels and gambling houses. More trash and drunks in the gutters. The stench of sour desperation and piss reminds me of the city I’d crossed thousands of miles to escape. I feel the greedy eyes of rats peering from shadowed alleys. I shiver and shove back on the memories.

Deep red banners stretch between buildings, emblazoned with gold lettering and painted beasts frozen mid-snarl.

THE BEAST TOURNAMENTS

CHAMPIONS WILL RISE

My lips press thin.

Charming.

More Animus, in chains and carts. A fox Animus drops to his knees, shrieking in agony, though no one has touched him. Those passing don’t even slow. The collar around his neck glows faintly.

“Make way!”

The shout knifes through the noise, turning heads and parting the press of bodies by force alone.

Two handlers come through dragging a heavy body in chains. Claws grind against packed dirt. Iron links clatter and spark as they skip over stone.

I catch only pieces of him through the crowd. A flash of dark gold fur, the broad line of a shoulder, the gleam of teeth. The sight strikes through me like the shape of a dream I’d forgotten.

Then they are through the open gate ahead, swallowed by the gathered bodies and gone from view.

My steps slow. I can still leave. Find an inn, wash the months of road dust off my skin and eat a decent meal. Start building my reputation the way I intended. That is the sort of plan a sensible person sticks to.

Instead, I follow him.

The gates open into a wide, enclosed yard, and the heat of packed bodies hits me before I fully take in the scene. People press shoulder to shoulder, breath and sweat and excitement baking together beneath the unforgiving sun. Voices roll over each other in waves. A man chewing tobacco spits on the ground in front of my feet.

At the far end stands a raised wooden platform framed by thick iron posts. The wood is stained dark with use.

An auction yard. Cages of Animus line the perimeter in cramped rows that continue on behind barriers.

Some of them pace in circles, wearing narrow paths into the straw under their feet, chains dragging. Some stand utterly still, eyes flat with a resignation that makes my stomach turn. Others curl into themselves so tightly at the back of their cages they barely look alive. My hands clench, nails biting crescents into my palms.

“Next lot!” A voice rings out over the clamor.

Chains rattle. The crowd surges forward with a single eager motion, carrying me with them. And then they bring him out.

He fights.

Gods, he fights.

He’s thrust onto the platform in a blur of spotted fury—broad through the shoulders, long through the limbs, and hard with lean muscle beneath sleek fur. A leopard Animus. Too feral to be handsome in any ordinary way. Too striking not to be.

His eyes burn.

Bright gold, furious and so alive, they make every other face in the yard look dull and dead by comparison.

Four men haul on the chains fastened to his collar and wrists. He isn’t thrashing blindly. Even half-starved and bleeding, he watches the men holding his chains, measuring their footing and the distance between them. When one steps too close, the leopard pivots and uses the chain itself to drag him off balance. The handler goes down with a startled shout, boots skidding out from under him.

This is not an animal panicking in a trap. This is a man calculating strategy.

Another handler swings a reinforced rod towards the leopard’s ribs. He twists and takes the strike on his shoulder.

Once.

Twice.

The crack of it echoes through the yard. My body draws taut.

The Animus snarls, a low, vicious sound that scrapes its claws down my spine and leaves every hair on my body standing. He wrenches back, nearly tears free. The handlers throw themselves backward in unison. The chains snap with the sound of a whip crack, and the force drags him down mid-lunge, one knee slamming into the platform. I feel the impact in my heels.

“Strong one!” the auctioneer cries with a jeweler’s delight over a rare stone. “Exceptional potential! A natural fighter—just look at him! He’ll need breaking, of course—”

The rod comes down again.

“But with the right owner, he’ll become a champion,” the auctioneer finishes smoothly, adjusting his cuffs as if discussing horseflesh instead of a living being.

Laughter rolls through the crowd. The leopard shudders. I glare at the man with the club, my magic coiling with the urge to stop his heart. A simple, untraceable spell. No one would know. But it would solve nothing.

Bids begin almost at once, numbers flying back and forth with cheerful greed.

The leopard’s gaze passes over the crowd and stops on me. His flattened ears press forward, as if I’m also a figure from a dream he can’t remember.

As our eyes meet, I don’t seem to remember how to breathe. Recognition hooks under my ribs.

A darkness in me awakens. The part of me that remembers hunger and pain and being found useful only so long as I could serve.

Looking at the leopard on the stage, bloody, furious, and unbroken despite everything, I feel no pity.

That kind of fire doesn’t belong in chains.

Before I can change my mind, I push through the crowd.