Kael'Tun shimmered in the morning like a freshly shaken snow globe - all dusted stone, sunlit spires, and bustling bazaars full of color and chaos. It was the kind of city that seduced you with smells of sweet spice bread and drifting music from flute-sellers and street performers - the kind that promised magic in every shadow.
And Lavender was utterly enchanted.
She had three trinkets already:
- A whistling compass that only pointed toward "the most exciting direction."
- A scroll that screamed when opened.
- And a glittering eyeball in a jar that insisted it once belonged to a cyclops (although it was suspiciously fond of winking at passersby).
"Why is everything in this city alive?" she whispered dramatically as they passed a stall where enchanted belts hissed and snapped at each other like gossiping serpents.
Vashir walked a step behind, ever the watchful shadow, but there was a softness to his silence today. A tolerance. A quiet bemusement reserved only for her.
"You'll get used to it," he said.
But Lavender, as always, did not do "used to it."
She did wonder. She did more. And she certainly did not stay on the guided path.
Which was why, five turns and three distractions later, she was not where she was supposed to be.
---
It began innocently enough: a side alley with strange music.
Then the sight of tall iron gates and banners bearing old tribal symbols.
And then-voices. Heavy. Loud. Barking numbers.
Lavender slipped through a crowd like silk through fingers.
And found herself in the Slave Market.
Her breath caught.
Gone were the colors of Kael'Tun's glittering façades. Here, the palette was ash and rust. Cages. Chains. Glass platforms where beastmen stood displayed like living artifacts - some with shackles, others bound by magic seals glowing on their skins.
Most of them stared blankly. Others snarled like caged wolves.
But it was their eyes that shattered her.
They were warriors.
Tribal marks still adorned their bodies, some smudged with blood. They were not criminals. They were captives. Prisoners of some war she hadn't yet heard about. Discarded like broken toys and auctioned like curiosities.
And here she was - Lavender, the Mad Collector - suddenly, achingly aware that not all collections were treasures.
"This isn't right," she whispered.
A beastman with pale fur and golden chains locked eyes with her from behind a tall iron grate. He had the unmistakable bearing of a prince, though his hands were dirtied with callouses and blood. He watched her not with pleading-but knowing.
As if he recognized something dangerous behind her silken dress and soft laugh.
Lavender stepped forward.
"Don't," came Vashir's voice behind her. Quiet. Firm. There.
She turned, startled. "You followed me."
"I always follow you."
She didn't smile. "They're prisoners."
"Yes."
"From the tribal wars."
"Yes."
"Your people."
Vashir's jaw tightened. "And if you speak too loudly, you'll be caged too."
She looked back at the market - at the gleaming sign that said RARE STOCK - LIMITED BLOODLINES. Her skin crawled.
This was no ordinary market. This was commerce masked as culture. This was how the victors celebrated: by binding the conquered with gold and calling it glory.
Lavender's hands curled into fists.
She didn't shout. She didn't weep.
But something inside her collected this moment - tucked it into her heart with the same reverence she gave her rarest items.
A new obsession was being born.
Not of things.
But of justice. Of liberation. Of change.
Vashir saw the fire in her eyes and sighed. "Lavender..."
"No," she said softly. "Don't try to tame me now."
She turned on her heel, her skirts swirling like storm clouds. And with that, the Mad Collector began walking away from the market-
But not before meeting the golden-eyed prince's gaze one last time.
He bowed his head.
Not in surrender.
But in recognition.