The Astraia Capital Slave Market was a festering wound on the edge of the city, a place where the air was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, salted fish, and the metallic tang of rusted iron. Rows of wooden cages lined the muddy thoroughfare, their occupants huddled in the shadows to escape the biting wind that whipped off the northern mountains. The sound of heavy chains clinking against stone created a rhythmic, mournful percussion that underscored the shouting of the auctioneers. Constantine walked through the muck, his expensive leather boots becoming coated in grime, but his expression remained as cold as the marble in the palace.
"The smell here is a potent reminder of why empires eventually fall, My Lord," Seraphina whispered, her hand never straying far from the dagger hidde
