𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

i. the auction house.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The chains wrapped around her forearms and shackles on her wrists leave behind blistering welts, a vile reaction from the blood that flows through her veins.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ To her, iron is poison.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She thought she could outwit them. The terrans, descendents of the earth. Their forms are weaker than any other bloodline, but they have the ability to grow in multitudes. With an army that size, the terrans overtook her home province of Reovell. Her family and people were all eradicated from the map. It's gone, absorbed by the terran province of Brecia.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ None of the other provinces batted an eye as the wyng fell from glory to the ashes below. The wyng are nothing more than a mere folk tale, and all that's left of it is Elowen.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ What a pitiful ending. One measly girl, living off the land in an isolated woodland at the edge of Old Reovell and Brecia, now found in fetters and on the brink of demise. She's locked in chains, alone, ready to be sold at auction to the highest bidder.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The wooden caravan warbles on the dirt road, jolting whenever it runs through a hole. Elowen grits her teeth as she gazes through the iron bars of a small window. Lanterns hang from the saddle of the horse, bobbing as the steed clomps down the road. She analyses the forms of her terran guides, her captors, knowing full well that if her limbs and wings weren't bound in this sickly iron, she'd be able to flee.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Alistair said to bring it to him, not the auctions," the terran aboard the horse says.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The second terran captor guides the horse with a rope. "We'll be rich if we do it this way."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "We'll be dead if we disobey."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Alistair won't kill us," the captor raises his eyes to the window of the caravan, catching Elowen's curious gaze. "Hey! Get your fucking head down!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen cowers back down into the caravan, out of sight from the terrans. At least here, she can hide. That seems to be all she's good at. Hiding. Fleeing. Surviving.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The caravan rounds a corner, coming to a complete halt. Through the iron bars that surround her, she once again manages to lift her shackled wrists to catch what lies beyond her cage. There's a mix of terrans and nautica—people and pirates of the sea. No signs of her brethren, not that she expects to see another wyng.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A guard tugs at the chain around her shackled wings.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Walk."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen clenches her fists, her nails digging crescent moons into her skin. They know the wyng prefer to fly rather than folly. Reovell was mountainous, elevated from the lands, and virtually untouchable—until the terrans forged their weapons to slaughter every city. They know the value of the air to the wyng, the way they fascinate themselves and worship every current of the wind. Sure, the wyng used their feet.