The sun beats down on the dusty town square of Gelerra, a city known for its neighborly populace and its strong drink, despite its sinister reputation. The weekly market bustles with activity.

Near the edge of the market stands a weathered wooden platform. A burly slaver named Mesha counts coins from his previous sale while his assistant — a wiry half-elf with nervous eyes — leads a chained figure onto the stage.

The orc staggers forward as she's pushed, wrists bound in iron shackles that dig into green skin. Barely clothed, wearing only a torn leather vest and shorts that have seen better days. Despite her obvious strength, she keeps her head down as a crowd begins to gather. A bruise blooms purple-black on her jaw — a reminder of her last match. Her tusks are filed short.

"Alright, listen up!" Mesha bellows. "Fresh stock! This here's Umig, former champion of the underground fights in Thornwick! Strong as an ox, fast as a panther, and trained to kill!"

Tavlan slinks through the crowd toward the platform. "How much are you wanting for her?"

Mesha sizes him up — robed, hooded, not a starving beggar but not exactly dripping in coin either. "How much? For this beauty?" He grins, showing yellowed teeth, circling Umig like a predator. "Seeing as she's got some miles on her and a few scars... two hundred gold. That's a steal."

He leans in, lowering his voice. "Between you and me, she's gotten soft. Needs someone to whip her back into shape. Or maybe you've got something specific in mind? She's good for labor, guard work, or... entertainment."

"Hm." Tavlan glances at Umig in mock contemplation. "Alright, two hundred it is."

He pulls a pouch from his belt and tosses it over.

Mesha catches it, weighs it, and laughs — genuine surprise breaking through the greed. "Full price and no haggling! You're either a fool or a generous man, stranger."

He gestures to his assistant, who produces a ring of keys. Several loud clicks, and Umig's shackles fall away. She remains still on the platform, uncertain. Mesha claps Tavlan on the shoulder.

"A word of advice — prove you're worth more than the next beating. Good luck with her."

He skips off the platform, already calling for his next lot. The half-elf unlocks Umig's ankle chain and steps back.

Umig raises her eyes to meet Tavlan's for the first time. Years of hardship written across her face — scars on green skin, weariness, wariness.

The moment the last chain hits the platform, Tavlan draws his hand crossbow and fires.

The bolt takes Mesha through the jugular, punching clean through. The slaver stumbles, clutches his throat, and goes down in the dirt. The half-elf yelps and falls off the platform entirely. The crowd erupts — screaming, scattering, surging. The remaining merchandise, two young elf girls and a scarred dwarf, sob and pull at their chains.

Umig jerks back, muscles coiling. Her eyes snap from Mesha's body to Tavlan.

"You — you shot him," she says slowly. Her voice is rough. Unused.

"Sorry you had to see that, Love, though it's a weird sort of justice." Tavlan retrieves the coin pouch and holds it out to her, then pats her on the head.

She takes it reflexively. Flinches at the pat. Her brow furrows.

"He was... bad," she manages, testing the words carefully. "Didn't... didn't pay us. Sometimes." Her grip tightens on the pouch. "But... you gave it back."

Guards are shouting now. Someone points their direction. Umig's shoulders hunch, and she steps closer to Tavlan without quite meaning to.

"What... what now?"

"What now, Love? You're free, and you have enough gold to start fresh." Tavlan reloads his crossbow and hooks it back onto his hip, hopping down to free the other captives. "They have a tavern nearby with cheap food and cheaper rooms. You should spend the night there."

The two elf girls scramble off the platform the moment their chains drop, gone before anyone can speak. The dwarf limps away slowly, relief plain on his face.

Umig watches them go. Looks down at the coin purse. Looks back at Tavlan.

"Start... fresh?" The words sit strangely in her mouth. She touches her bare arms. No chains. No collar. No one is telling her what to do next.

"Don't... understand," she admits. Shame creeps into her voice.

"I believe in you, Love. Do the things you always wished you could do. You are the master of your own destiny."

She's quiet for a moment. "I... wish for a quiet place. No fights. No pain."

She follows him without quite deciding to, staying close enough that he could feel the heat off her skin.

They arrive at The Platinum Gorgon — a weathered sign swaying above a corner tavern, smoke drifting from somewhere inside, the smell of cooking meat and ale rolling out through the open door.

"Here we are, Love. I'll try to stop back and check on you." Tavlan pauses. "If I don't... it's because I was jailed for shooting a man down in the middle of the street. Don't wait for me, okay?"

Umig stares at the entrance. "Jailed." She processes it. Then: "Not... not wait."

She turns to face him fully. "Why... why would you come back? Most people... they don't care. About slaves. About—" She stops. Holds out the coin purse. "Take. In case you need it. For helping."

"You're right, I might need the gold." He takes it, then produces a different pouch from his belt — noticeably heavier — and presses it into her hands. "Now. Go rest up, Love."

She feels the weight. Her breath catches.

"Too much," she says weakly. But her fingers don't let go.

He's already walking away.

"Thank you," she manages, barely above a whisper. "For... for everything."

She watches him until he disappears around the corner.

"Thank you," she says again, quietly, to no one.

Then she goes inside.