The pink-haired woman could hear the voices of people.
All of them.
The murmur of the crowd, the laughter intermingling, the whispers all reached her ears, each sound like an invisible needle pricking her skin. There were too many voices to distinguish individually, yet certain words still cut through the noise and lodged sharply in her mind.
"Royal blood…"
"A virgin…"
"I wonder how much she'll fetch."
The woman kept her head held high.
There was something she had learned during her years in the palace. Even if a princess was never officially acknowledged, a woman raised as one who carried royal blood must never show weakness before a crowd. The servants had taught her this since she was very young.
Her shoulders had to remain straight. Her chin slightly lifted. Her gaze steady.
But those rules she had learned in the palace had become a strange irony in the middle of a slave market. Because here, no one cared about her dignity.
Faces…
Dozens of them.
Some were dressed in rich silks. Others wore coarse but expensive armor. There were men with heavy rings on their fingers. Young aristocrats stood behind servants.
Yet there was one thing their gazes all shared.
The desire to possess.
Not the look of someone wishing to buy a person… but of someone wishing to purchase a thing.
The cold metal pressed against her skin, yet even that pressure was less unpleasant than the knot inside her chest. Once, while gazing out at the gardens from the palace's high windows, she had never imagined her life would fall to a place like this.
The palace of Dumanna…
For a moment, the image surfaced in her mind.
Long marble corridors. Gold inlays decorating the walls. White flowers blooming in the gardens. And the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
People had looked at her differently there. Some with respect. Some with distant curiosity. Others with quiet disdain. Because she was not an official princess.
She was the daughter of the king's concubine.
Yet she still carried royal blood.
Because of that, she had always stood in a strange place within the palace. Neither a fully acknowledged princess nor an ordinary servant.
But even that life… compared to where she stood now… felt almost like a dream.
Her breathing grew heavier, though it was barely noticeable.
Everything had happened so quickly.
Her father had died, and the crown prince had taken the throne. Her mother, once the favourite concubine of the late king, had been murdered because the new king's mother had always hated her.
But they could not touch herself. Royal law clearly forbade the spilling of the blood of anyone who carried royal lineage. So instead of killing her… they sold her to a slave trader.
The pink-haired woman's name was Rosavelle.
In the palace, that name had often been spoken in whispers. Sometimes with admiration, sometimes with contempt. But regardless of the tone, people always turned to look when they heard it.
Because the birth of a girl with pink hair in the palace of Dumanna had been considered an event in itself. Some of the older servants claimed it was a sign of the ancient royal bloodline. Others believed it was nothing more than a strange coincidence.
Rosavelle had never attached much meaning to any of those rumors.
But now, standing in the middle of a slave market with chains binding her, she found herself wondering whether even that name still truly belonged to her.
Rosavelle began studying the faces of the men in the crowd carefully. She wasn't even sure if this was a conscious decision. Perhaps her mind was trying to understand the fate approaching her.
One man had a thick neck and broad shoulders. His beard was uneven, and a crude grin sat on his face. His eyes roamed over Rosavelle's body without the slightest attempt to hide it.
Another was younger, with the delicate face of an aristocrat. Yet his gaze was no better. He swallowed as he stared at her, as though looking at an expensive bottle of wine.
An elderly noble standing at the edge slowly rotated the golden rings on his fingers. His gaze was measured, but his intent was not hidden. Rosavelle saw calculation in his eyes.
How much is she worth?
How long will she be useful?
Will I sell her once I grow bored?
Those thoughts settled inside Rosavelle like a heavy stone. The rings of the chains rubbed against her wrists. The metal was cold, but the truly chilling thing was the way people looked at her.
Of course, men had looked at her in the palace before. But even those gazes carried a boundary. Everyone knew the risk of approaching a woman who carried royal blood.
Here, there were no boundaries.
Here, there was only a price.
Rosavelle turned her head slightly.
Behind the crowd, several women were also watching. Most appeared to be merchants' wives or servants of nobles. Their gazes were not as openly greedy as the men's, but neither were they warm.
Some looked with curiosity. Others with a strange satisfaction. As if seeing a woman of royal blood reduced to this state secretly comforted them.
The murmur of the crowd grew louder.
The people competing in the auction for her body were becoming increasingly heated. The price had risen so high that ordinary merchants and minor nobles had already withdrawn.
The slave trader stood before the platform, raising his voice again. The cunning smile on his face was no longer hidden. He was clearly delighted with the direction the auction was taking.
"Four hundred gold coins!"
Several people in the crowd murmured. It was a fortune most people would never see in their entire lives. Yet the men still bidding showed not the slightest hesitation.
Most of the crowd had already stepped back. The eager merchants, minor nobles, and wealthy craftsmen who had leaned forward earlier had withdrawn one by one.
The auction had reached another level. Only a few people remained around the platform. Those who were truly wealthy. Truly powerful. And accustomed to getting what they wanted.
The thick-necked brute was still there. His arms were crossed over his chest, and a crude grin spread across his face as his eyes wandered over Rosavelle.
"Four hundred fifty."
His voice was heavy and confident. The slave trader nearly trembled with excitement and clapped his hands together.
"Four hundred fifty gold coins! Four hundred fifty! Any higher bids?"
Rosavelle's heart beat slowly in her chest. The numbers didn't feel real to her. The men who wanted to buy her spoke as though competing over an expensive horse or an exotic beast.
From the other side of the crowd, the elderly noble slowly raised his hand.
"Five hundred."
Rosavelle studied the man again.
He was old, but not frail. His clothes were expensive, his ring heavy, and two armed guards stood behind him. There was a strange coldness in his eyes. As though he were not evaluating Rosavelle… but merely an investment.
A chill spread through Rosavelle's chest. If that man won… What would the rest of her life be like? She didn't even want to imagine it. At that moment, the man with the thick neck laughed again, even louder than before.
"Five hundred?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"Five hundred fifty."
The slave trader practically jumped.
"Five hundred fifty gold coins!"
The auction had become a battle. And the prize of that battle… was her. For a moment, her eyes caught on a figure standing slightly farther back in the crowd. Unlike the others, he wasn't leaning forward.
He wasn't shouting.
He wasn't laughing.
He simply stood there in silence.
He was tall. His shoulders were broad, and it was clear his body had undergone rigorous training. His black hair and dark eyes made him stand out among the crowd.
But what caught Rosavelle's attention was not his appearance.
It was his gaze.
There was no greed in that man's eyes. At least, not the kind she had seen in the others. It was as though he were merely observing the crowd and the auction.
The bid of five hundred fifty gold coins seemed to hang over the market. It was a fortune beyond the dreams of most people, and now much of the crowd had become mere spectators. The auction had turned into a clash of egos among a handful of powerful men.
Rosavelle could feel it.
It was no longer simply about buying her.
It was about winning.
The thick-necked man still looked confident. He puffed out his broad chest and stared at the other bidders as though challenging them. A few men beside him grinned in encouragement.
The old noble, however, remained silent. But his eyes had sharpened. The man had money and he could wait if necessary. Meanwhile, the slave trader rubbed his hands together at the center of the platform. His voice rose again.
"Five hundred fifty gold coins! Five hundred fifty! Any higher bids?!"
A moment of silence followed.
The crowd waited.
"Five hundred fifty gold coins! Does anyone offer more?!"
At that moment, a calm voice sounded from the back of the crowd.
"Six hundred."
The voice was not loud but it was clear.
Many heads turned simultaneously to see who had spoken. Rosavelle turned her head slightly as well. It was the black-eyed man who had caught her attention earlier.
The tall man standing at the back of the crowd stepped forward. His clothes were fairly simple. He wore neither expensive silks nor elaborate noble embroidery. They are just sturdy, practical garments, the sort suited to an adventurer or a mercenary. Because of that, several nobles in the crowd immediately showed expressions of disdain.
The thick-necked man raised an eyebrow.
"Six hundred?"
Mockery was obvious in his voice.
One of the men beside him laughed.
"Who's this guy?"
The elderly noble also looked at Areth carefully. His eyes briefly scanned the man's clothes and then his posture, as if measuring him.
But the slave trader only cared about the number. The man's face was practically glowing.
"Six hundred gold coins!" he shouted.
The thick-necked man laughed derisively.
"Boy," he said in a heavy voice, "do you even know how to count the coins in your purse?"
A few people beside him burst into laughter. Areth's face didn't change in the slightest. His black eyes calmly looked at the platform. Then he spoke again.
"Six hundred."
This time his voice carried more clearly. An uneasy movement rippled through the crowd. The thick-necked man's smile hardened slightly.
"Six hundred fifty."
Rosavelle watched the exchange of glances between the two men. The energy of the crowd had changed. Now everyone was curious about this newcomer. Meanwhile, Areth remained as calm as if he were making an ordinary purchase at the market.
"Seven hundred."
This time the crowd truly erupted.
Many people were openly shocked.
"Seven hundred?!"
"Is this guy insane?"
For the first time, the old noble's face tightened noticeably. The thick-necked man stared at Areth for a long moment, as though trying to determine whether he actually possessed that kind of money.
At last, the thick-necked man clenched his teeth.
"Seven hundred fifty."
But his voice no longer carried the same ease as before.
The slave trader was nearly screaming with excitement.
"Seven hundred fifty gold coins!"
Areth remained quiet for a moment. Then he lightly touched his storage ring. After that, he lifted his head.
"Eight hundred."
The slave trader couldn't speak for several seconds.
Then he shouted with a trembling voice.
"Eight hundred gold coins! Eight hundred! Any higher bids?!"
The crowd waited eagerly for a response, but this time it seemed like there wouldn't be one.. The thick-necked man ground his teeth but said nothing more. The old noble also remained silent.
"Eight hundred gold coins! Once!"
"Twice!"
Several angry whispers rose from the crowd.
"Three!"
The sound of the wooden gavel echoed across the platform.
"Sold!"