Mariejois doesn't have a red-light district. It has an auction house.
It's not where you go to buy pleasure. It's where you buy proof that you can.
Slaves. Exotic beasts. Weapons of ancient make. Sometimes even Devil Fruits, though those are handled with quiet discretion. But what truly makes the Celestial Dragons gather in droves is spectacle.
And this month, the spectacle was rare.
A fishman child—twelve, with gills from a long-dead royal line.
A long-lost Zoan fruit, reportedly Mythical.
And the final item: a giantess, shackled, freshly caught from Elbaf.
Winter and I attended, of course.
Not because we needed anything.
But because the true currency in Mariejois isn't beri.
It's attention.
The house was full.
Saint Charlos arrived in a floating chair, already bored. Saint Shalulia was wearing a necklace made from real seastone fragments, trying to prove she wasn't scared of pirates.
They saw me, whispered.
Good.
Winter stood behind me in formal black, head bowed, collar on, sword hidden in the folds of her sash. Her presence turned more heads than mine.
She was too beautiful to be ignored.
Too composed to be just another slave.
They didn't know what she was.
But they would learn.
The bidding began.
I didn't move.
Not when the fishman child sold for seven million.
Not when the Zoan fruit vanished into Saint Roswald's greedy hands for twelve.
But the giantess? Ah. That stirred something.
The auctioneer was nervous—sweating, stuttering. The woman on the stage was chained at wrists, ankles, neck, hips. Her hair hung like a broken banner, her body bruised from a fight she hadn't lost.
She looked at us with quiet, controlled hatred.
I liked her.
So I bid.
Just once.
Low. Almost insulting.
A few nobles snickered. One tried to outbid.
Winter leaned forward and whispered something to the usher.
The usher paled.
My opponent rescinded his offer.
Sold.
"Are you planning to breed her?" Saint Bloom asked during intermission, fanning himself with a diamond-inlaid fan.
"Not personally," I replied dryly.
He chuckled. "How droll. Still experimenting with your collection?"
"You could say that."
He sipped from his glass. "You've become... interesting, Figarland. Not likable. But interesting."
"Praise from you is like vomit from a cat. Warm, wet, and ultimately irrelevant."
He choked. Winter smiled behind her hand.
Good.
They were off balance.
And I liked it that way.
The giantess, whose name was Ingla, was not stupid.
She refused to speak the first two days. Winter brought her water, changed her bandages, cleaned her chains. Never asked questions. Never demanded submission.
Just patience.
And on the third day, Ingla spoke.
"Why haven't you tortured me yet?"
Winter raised an eyebrow. "Why would we?"
"I'm not going to serve you."
"Good," Winter said. "He doesn't need more servants. He needs tools."
Ingla looked confused.
Winter left the cell.
I watched through the camera, sipping tea.
Progress.
I didn't care if Ingla broke or didn't.
What mattered was that others believed she had.
So we staged it.
Two weeks later, she walked beside Winter during a banquet. In chains, yes, but polished ones. Clean. No blood. Head lowered in what looked like obedience.
People stared.
A slave breaking a giant?
Impossible.
Unless...
Unless I was exactly the kind of monster they feared I might be.
Let them think it.
It kept them polite.
Afterward, I had Ingla returned to her room.
Unlocked.
Unguarded.
Winter left a book beside her cot.
"Elbaf History: Volume II."
A test.
She read it.
Twice.
Then began correcting errors in the margins.
I moved her to the vault.
She would never love me.
But she would be useful.
One night, Winter approached me with blood on her hands.
Not her own.
"Saint Aldrico tried to grab me," she said calmly. "He lost two fingers."
I raised an eyebrow. "Anyone see?"
"He paid everyone off. Said he'd been bitten by his dog."
"Will he try again?"
"He won't breathe properly for weeks."
I nodded. "Good girl."
She bowed her head. "Do I displease you?"
I stood. Walked to her. Brushed the blood from her knuckles with a cloth.
"You've never pleased me more."
She exhaled, slow. Her eyes shimmered just slightly.
Not from pain.
From something else.
Something I would never name.
Not yet.
And in the shadows of Mariejois, beneath the stone, in the tunnels no one walked but us, I added another name to the list.
Saint Aldrico.
Not for vengeance.
For leverage.
Because nothing keeps a kingdom standing like secrets wrapped in chains.
And mine were just beginning to grow long.