Chapter 1. The market

Have you ever been to a market before? Not just a supermarket in you neighbouring mall. But to a real bazaar.

It is a kaleidoscope of life—an explosion of color, sound, and scent that seems to pulse with its own heartbeat.

The sun hung low in the turquoise sky, casting a golden hue over the bustling streets of the bazaar. The air was alive with the hum of voices—sharp bargaining, animated laughter, the occasional cry of a vendor calling out their wares. The accents blended into a rhythmic melody, the kind that make your heart race and senses tingle.

The vibrant stalls stretched as far as the eye could see, their canopies in every shade of saffron, jade, and crimson, fluttering like butterfly wings in the warm breeze. The sunlight hit them at just the right angle, scattering dappled patterns on the cobblestones below.

A merchant with a cart piled high with spices passed beneath her, the trail of his wares wafting upwards—a heady mix of turmeric, cardamom, and cinnamon. The scent mingled with the sweetness of ripe figs from a fruit stand and the smoky char of kebabs grilling over open flames. She inhaled deeply, the aromas momentarily cutting through the knot of fear and frustration in her chest.

She slowly turned to the other side as her gaze shifted to the crowd directly in front of the wagon. People moved with purpose, their arms laden with silks, spices, and trinkets, completely unaware of the caged figures watching them from afar. Lanterns swayed gently overhead, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the market, their brass filigree glinting in the sun.

A boy darted through the crowd, his laughter carrying above the din as he clutched a stolen apple to his chest. A vendor’s shout followed him. Even in the chaos, there was a raw vitality to the bazaar, an unrelenting rhythm of life that almost distracted from the grim reality.

Almost.

Amara’s ears caught the haunting trill of a reed flute, the notes threading through the cacophony like a songbird’s call. For a fleeting moment, the melody pulled her away from her surroundings, softening the edges of her desperation. Her mother used to play the flute during their scavenging trips. She remembered the smell of fire, unbearably bright light of stars above and light as the wind sound of mothers flute. Amara tried to learn how to play, but she was always too impatient.

The vibrant chaos of the bazaar faded as Amara was led away, the warm sunlight and noisy crowds giving way to the cold, damp silence of an underground passage. The air grew heavier with each step, the flickering light of torches casting jagged shadows on the rough stone walls. The laughter, music, and life above seemed a world away, as if swallowed by the earth itself.

Amara’s captors walked in silence, their boots echoing hollowly against the uneven ground. The passage grew narrower, the ceiling lower, until they emerged into a cavernous hall. It was dimly lit, the air thick with the metallic tang of damp stone and the faint, acrid scent of sweat and smoke.

Rows of gas lamps flickered against the walls, their flames casting long, shifting shadows across the faces of the gathered crowd. Unlike the bright and boisterous bazaar above, this place was cloaked in secrecy. The buyers whispered among themselves, their voices low, their faces half-hidden by hoods or masks. The atmosphere buzzed with a quiet, predatory energy, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Amara was pushed toward a heavy wooden cage at the edge of the hall, its iron bars blackened and worn with use. From inside, she had a clear view of the platform at the center of the room, elevated slightly. It was surrounded by a sea of shadowed faces, some seated at round tables scattered haphazardly around the room, some standing and watching the scene.

The wooden stage creaked as the auctioneer strode onto it, his movements as theatrical as ever. It was a short, round man whose presence was as gaudy and overbearing as the bazaar. His bright, oversized tunic was woven with gold threads that shimmered obnoxiously in the spotlights, each intricate pattern seemingly designed to catch the eye and hold it hostage. The deep crimson fabric beneath the gold gave him the appearance of a walking jewel box, his outfit loud enough to rival the liveliest stalls of the market.

A thick belt cinched his round middle, adorned with dangling trinkets—coins, miniature charms, and amulets—that jingled with every exaggerated movement he made. His sleeves were voluminous, fluttering like banners as he gestured theatrically to the crowd, his voice carrying over the din of the market like a bell announcing a spectacle. A meticulously groomed triangle beard framed his round chin, tapering sharply into a pointed end that he stroked absently whenever he paused for effect. It was as though he believed the beard alone lent him an air of refinement, despite his otherwise clownish demeanor.

His eyes were sharp and calculating, dark beads that darted across the crowd, assessing every potential bidder with a predator’s instinct. A gold earring in the shape of a crescent moon dangled from one ear, catching the light as he tilted his head in mock sympathy while gesturing. The man’s bright appearance was almost jarring in the gloom, glittering like a mismatched jewel in the dank cavern. His voice, loud and booming, cut through the oppressive quiet like a blade.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, spreading his arms wide, his jewels catching the dim torchlight. “Welcome, welcome to the Hall of Shadows! Tonight, we have treasures more valuable than gold, rarities you won’t find even in the most exclusive corners of the world above.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd, his teeth flashing in a grin that was more wolfish than welcoming. “And now, without further ado, let us begin!”

The first lot was brought to the stage. Young girl, maybe 14 at most, her chains clinking softly in the hush. She was trembling, her eyes downcast as the auctioneer began his pitch. “From the wild eastern plains, a delicate flower plucked from the untouched wilderness. Strong bloodlines, impeccable health, and unmatched beauty! Starting bid: ten silver marks!”

Another poor soul dragged into this wretched trade, bought and sold like cattle. In the hierarchy of most societies, Omegas were generally considered the lowest rung, even lower than Sigmas, who performed the heaviest manual labor. They basically served all the other classes, and were practically equated with powerless tools or furniture. However, a slave Omega... Oh, that's even lower than the dirt under the claws of a stray dog. Slaves were tortured, beaten, raped, starved and served only to please the twisted desires of the one who paid for their life.

Everyone knew — if you ever get into the cage, you are never out of it.

The bidding began in earnest, voices sharp and clipped as numbers rose. The tension in the room thickened with every shouted bid, the buyers competing with an almost feral intensity.

“Fifteen!” called one voice, sharp and eager.

“Twenty!” another countered, the tone gruff and impatient.

The bidding escalated quickly, numbers exchanged like weapons in a battle. The Omega stood still, her head bowed, her expression hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. Amara could see the faint tremble in her shoulders, though she made no sound.

“Thirty-five!” barked a richly dressed man near the front, his voice loud and smug.

Amara thought to herself: if only she was strong enough, all of this wouldn’t be happening. From her vantage point, the bazaar was a tapestry of life—vivid, chaotic, and unrelenting. Yet here she was, caged and waiting for her turn.

The crowd rippled with approval, and for a moment, the bidding paused. But then, from the back, another voice rose, deep and assertive. “Forty!”

All eyes turned toward the new bidder, a towering man with an air of authority. The tension in the air grew thick, the onlookers leaning in as the auctioneer’s gaze darted between the two rivals.

“Forty-five!” snapped the first man, his face reddening as he gestured toward the platform.

The taller man hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line before he shook his head slightly and stepped back into the crowd.

“Going once! Going twice!” The auctioneer’s voice rang out, paused, his dramatic cadence cutting through the tension.

She thought that somewhere in the chaos of the bazaar has to be an opportunity—a spark waiting to ignite. She only had to find it. And when she did, the cage wouldn’t hold her for long. She would show her fury and rage, and bury this putrid city in flames.

“Sold!” the auctioneer barked, slamming his gavel onto the platform. The finality of the word echoed in her mind, louder than the murmurs of the dispersing crowd. The guards pulled the poor creature up and led her away, her small figure swallowed by the mass of people and stalls as the winning bidder followed. The murmurs of the crowd returned to idle chatter, the tension dissipating as quickly as it had formed. Amara couldn’t see what happened to her next. But she knew that this is what was going to happen to her too.

The auctioneer snapped his fingers and waved his hand at the guards at the right and left ends of the room. The guard right next to Amara’s cage stood up and started opening the cage. Amara’s stomach twisted.

She was next.