A cold wind whispered through a desolate, shadowed street where the homeless, beggars, and lifeless bodies shared a grim resting place. The stillness of the night was broken by the distant clatter of hooves—four horses pulling a massive wooden wagon under the command of a lone driver.
The sidewalk dwellers barely lifted their heads as the driver's curses cut through the frigid air. His murderous glare swept over them, his breath clouding as he shivered uncontrollably—a sight almost comical, though no one dared laugh. His flickering lantern cast shifting shadows as he scanned the street, searching for a victim whose warmth he could "borrow."
But the night offered no salvation. The rags draped over the unfortunate were filthy, and the stench of death choked the air, driving the driver's temper further into the abyss.
"Filthy pigs," he muttered, spitting onto the cobblestones.
Those who accidentally met his eyes quickly looked away. His search proving futile, the driver gave up and refocused on his destination, his scowl deepening as the wagon creaked forward.
Some who dared glance at the wagon's rear gasped softly before turning away, resuming their silent vigil of survival. Draped over the back was a heavy fabric marked with a menacing black emblem: a skull pierced by a blade. Secured tightly against the wagon to resist the wind, the fabric served as a stark warning to onlookers.
Yet beneath its edge, four pairs of small, bare feet dangled—chained together and exposed to the cold. It required no imagination to discern their owners: children, no older than ten, trapped in the grip of slavery.
The emblem marked the wagon as property of the city's most infamous slave traders and bandits. This was Liberdade, a city whose name meant "freedom," though its true identity—"the city of bandits"—was etched in the hearts of all who lived there.
***
On the northern outskirts of Liberdade, a heavily fortified campsite loomed under the eerie glow of thinly spaced red magical lights. These columns of light shot into the night sky, encasing the area in a cage-like aura that warned off intruders. At its entrance, eight guards stood watch, their eyes sharp and their hands never far from their weapons.
Tension crackled in the air, heightened by the knowledge that their psychopathic boss was due to visit. When a wagon drawn by four weary horses appeared in the distance, relief washed over them. The pale, shivering driver was one of their own, returning from a weeks-long mission to capture fresh slaves.
The wagon creaked to a halt, and as seven guards conducted a routine search, the captain of the gate approached the driver.
"You look like hell," the captain remarked, suppressing a laugh as he observed the man's uncontrollable shivering.
"Yeah, try making this trip without blankets or warming spells," the driver snapped. His tone softened as he asked, "Boss picked up the cargo yet?"
"Not yet. Word is he'll be here by morning," the captain replied.
"Perfect," the driver said, a grim smile spreading across his face. "I've brought some fine merchandise this time."
The captain followed him to the wagon's rear, where the sight of fifteen young girls, their ages ranging from six to ten, drew a wicked grin across his face. Chained by their wrists and ankles, the children huddled in silence, their fear palpable.
One girl caught his eye. Unlike the others, her spirit hadn't been crushed—her fiery gaze met his with defiance.
"What's your name, little one?" he sneered, grabbing her hair roughly. When she spat in his face, he retaliated with a brutal punch that left her unconscious.
"Get these filthy rats inside!" he barked, wiping his face and swallowing his fury. Even as the others obeyed, the malice in his eyes betrayed the dark intentions festering in his mind.